Page 107 of Still Yours
Mrs. Stalinski’s funeral is exactly how she would have wanted it.
The entire town came together, all of Falcon Haven closing down for the memorial. Mrs. Stalinski didn’t want to be buried in the cemetery. She asked that her ashes be spread on the nearby shores of the Atlantic Ocean. Stone planned on pouring her ashes privately and spending his last moments with her. Until then, Mrs. Stalinski asked for a memorial brimming with food and an open bar for the residents of Falcon Haven, courtesy of the Tipsy Falcon.
The one thing she couldn’t plan for was the season she’d die. Although, with the seasonal flowers she chose and her pick of a gathering in the warmth of the Merc as opposed to the park she used to love daily walks in makes me believe she had a good idea as time ticked down.
Maisy had her baker prepare over one hundred Falcon’s Talons, Mrs. Stalinski’s favorite sweet treat, and she handed them out on the house as everyone trickled in that morning, no black clothing allowed.
I’m sipping on a coffee in the corner, dressed in Mrs. Stalinski’s favorite color, red, my hair down and in waves and with heavy makeup. My eyes required extra attention since they’re so swollen from crying. My cheeks, too, since they’ve lost all color.
The parallels between my mother and Stone’s are almost too much to bear. My mom also opted for a memorial, but since she died in the summer, they held hers at the gazebo in the middle of Haven Park, with tulips and chocolate truffles as her favors to the crowd. I don’t like to ponder that time—I’m adept at shutting that part of my brain off—but as I watch Mrs. Stalinski’sneighbors and friends trickle into the Merc, faces somber with bright dresses and suits, my throat thickens, and I’m convinced I’ll break down crying. Again.
In a fit of desperation, I scan the crowd for Stone’s tall presence. I didn’t have him when my mom passed, and to have him now, to be both a pillar of grief and support, causes mixed emotions in me I don’t yet know how to interpret.
After Mrs. Stalinski’s passing, he and I are both left without family. Adrift. Needing each other.
I’m not ashamed to admit I’m drawn to him like a magnet.
We’ve spoken little since the hospital. We haven’t touched on the media leak or the source behind revealing the loss of my baby, but the very press that enjoyed making my life hell wait outside the Merc, eager to use their expensive cameras up against the windows and catch Stone’s last moments with his mother.
Maisy, bless her, predicted their evil plans and has covered her windows in all the bed sheets she could get her hands on. Maroon, hunter green, and navy blue king-sized sheets block every window, a strange but loving ode to her friend, and in keeping with Christmas.
My phone buzzes and I look at the screen. Marigold, my boss, is calling me.
The funeral hasn’t started yet, so I answer with a croaky, “Hi, Marigold.”
“Noa, it’s so good to hear your voice. I wanted to send my condolences and make sure you don’t need anything today.”
“It’s all taken care of. Thank you for your concern.”
“You’re my best nurse. And you need to be taken care of, too. Please know I’m here for you and take all the time you need.”
“I’ll be okay,” I lie.
“There’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about…”
I lower my head, drawing away from the crowd and pressing the phone closer to my ear. “Yes?”
“I wanted to thank you for your donation.”
“My … what?”
“The donation to the new wing in the hospital for at-home care services. And the proposal for a scholarship fund to any Falcon Haven resident who wishes to pursue nursing or healthcare careers.”
My mouth drops open.
“The money didn’t come from you, of course, but you must have had a hand in this! It’s all in your name. And it couldn’t come at a better time. We’re so pressed in our budget, this will change lives, sweetie. Oh, my goodness, how you continue to change lives.”
“When did this happen?” I breathe.
“About a month ago. We’ve been so busy that I wasn’t able to give you a proper thanks, but you are a true angel.”
“I—”
A tinkling sound runs through the crowd, people hitting their spoons against their coffee cups and drink glasses.
I say goodbye to Marigold, my head spinning. A donation like that would be hundreds of thousands of dollars. Only one person I know could afford that kind of gift…
Heads turn, and at last, I catch Stone, using the small podium Maisy constructed in the middle of the cafe and a microphone stand on loan from the Tipsy Falcon.
