Page 34 of Dying to Meet You
After grabbing my handbag, I switch off the desk lamp, plunging the library into gloomy shadows. This room made me uncomfortablebeforeTim’s death, so I don’t waste time as I propel myself out of the office suite and through the atrium. The echo makes it sound as if ghosts are on my heels.
When I reach the door, I pause for a moment and put my hand on the lion’s head that’s artfully carved in walnut above the brass mail slot. Sometimes tourists poke open the mail slot to get a peek inside.
Not two weeks ago I’d told Tim all about this door. How the craftsmen used four different kinds of wood, to prevent warping. How it was one of the only things in the house that actually came from Maine. The sandstone cladding came from Connecticut, but almost everything else was shipped from Europe—marble from Italy. Rugs from France.
“All that trouble just to show off,” Tim said.
I shiver, remembering exactly how he smiled at me after he said it. Like we were in on the same secret.
I hear a creak, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck. I turn around sharply. But there’s nothing behind me.
Get moving, Gallagher. I grasp the iron handle and open the door. The new security system gives a low beep, and I immediately realize my error. The news trucks are finally gone, but the gawkers aren’t. A handful of people linger on the other side of the boxwood hedge, scanning the police tape that’s still blocking off the gravel parking lot. They look up at me as I step outside.
Dropping my chin, I close the door and test the new lock to be sure that it holds. Then, without making any eye contact, I cross the porch and hurry down the steps.
Tim’s car is gone now, thank God. There’s literally nothing to see. I’ve never understood why death and violence always draw a crowd, but until Thursday night, I don’t think I understood that someone close to me could be murdered. I’d felt immune.
I don’t anymore.
The funeral home is on State Street, so I walk inland. The wind kicks up, and a seagull flies past overhead, casting a mournful cry.
I take a different route than we took earlier, just so I can avoid passing the coffee shop. So there’s no chance of running into Davey the barista.
His story bothers me. The day Tim had introduced himself used to be a happy memory. I just don’t buy the idea that he staked me out beforehand. Tim didn’t have a creepy vibe at all.
Beatrice called him a bore, but it was more accurate to say that he was a little old-fashioned. He read a lot of books and favored older music. He had old-school manners, too, like pulling out my chair at restaurants and texting in full sentences. With punctuation.
That’s what I’d liked best about him. I’ve already had a lifetime’s worth of bad-boy antics. (See: Natalie’s father.) The whole reason I dated Tim was that he seemed settled. Rational.
And I still believe that. The barista’s story just doesn’t add up.
It’s getting close to five thirty, so I pick up my pace to the funeralhome. It’s a stately old mansion in the Federal style with five Ionic columns lined up on the porch. They’re painted in a crisp white. Mourners in tasteful clothing stream past them toward the entrance.
I recognize no one.
On the porch, one of the heavy paneled doors is propped open. Inside, I see a large foyer, decorated to look tasteful, but solemn. My shoes sink into the thick carpet. The wooden furniture gleams. Bach plays softly on the sound system.
There must be a style guide somewhere for funeral homes. Architecture for Bereavement: Sad people require classical lines, heavy moldings, gently creaking floors. Nothing too rococo—that’s gauche. But nothing too sunny. Danish modern or mid-century furnishings are disrespectful to the dead.
Even as I’m having this slightly unhinged thought, it occurs to me that Tim would find it funny. He liked my nerdy observations about architecture. At least, he said he did.
The parade of people in front of me slowly filters through a set of double doors. Beyond, I get a glimpse of a big room heaving with people.
I’m just about to step inside when I hear, “Mom, wait!”
I spin around, surprised to see Natalie hurrying toward me. For one terrible moment, I assume that something is wrong. But then I notice her outfit—black jeans plus a black blouse from my closet.
“Am I dressed okay for a funeral?” she asks.
“Of course,” I sputter. “But I didn’t expect to see you here.” I hadn’t even told her where it was.
“Don’t you want me to come?” She looks stricken. “I was trying to be supportive.”
“Oh, Ido.” My voice almost breaks. “Sorry.” I reach out and hug her, which she allows. “Thank you. But are you sure?” I glance at the crowded room full of somber faces. “Don’t you have an exam tomorrow?”
She gives me a look that implies I’m insane. “It’s only Spanish. Let’s get seats. If there are any.”
The regular chairs are taken, so we end up on a bench against the paneled back wall. This suits me fine. I don’t need a direct line of sight to the coffin at the front of the room.
