“Are you Tubbs’ executor?”I asked, honestly curious.“Doesn’t he have an attorney or family or something to handle it?”
Gwendolyn’s expression quirked between amused and annoyed.“I mean the speeches for the memorial, dear.And the absolutelyunendinglist of interview requests we’ve been fielding.”
“You and your agent?”
“Hm?”
“You saidwe’ve been fielding.You and your agent, I’m guessing?Rory, when I have to deal with interviews that is, is absolutely venomous with some of those pubs, you know?He’s always got an eye out for which ones are trying to make me look bad.”I paused, offering a small, wry smile.“Well,worse.”
“Pamela and I,” she offered stiffly.“We’re the ones fielding them.This is our duty as...Well, as people who’ve had Gerald in our lives for so long.It’s not for publicity.”
Liar.Everything was for publicity.It’s one of the first things you figure out in the business.If it can be commodified, packaged, labelled, it would be.You didn’t just go get a coffee, you gotthisbrand and made sure the logo was visible.You didn’t just go on a grocery run, you went on one with designer clothes gifted by stylists to grocery stories with ridiculous prices and purchased ingredients you definitely couldn’t eat on your strict diet.But it sold aspirations.It sold glam.And so would interviews about the tragic death of a dear old friend—how to grieveclassy, how to be the right kind of sad.And the articles would all have a little footnote about what Gwendolyn and Pamela were wearing in the curated photos used for the publications, down to the cream they put on their faces.“Of course," I said, then amped my smile up to a thousand watts."I'll let you get on with your day.How long are you in town again?"
She bared her teeth."Long enough."
I didn't sprint down the walk but I may have speed walked a bit.
Chapter 12
Gwendolyn’s glare wason my back until I reached the end of the road and, in a burst of nervousness, turned left instead of right, still speeding along like she was suddenly going to leap at me from a quarter mile away and take me down.
My brisk walk took me to the tiny slice of nature on Clarendon Road, sandwiched between two Cape style homes, one gray and white and the other white and gray.Amais Lester Memorial Park was smaller than Mariner’s Rest, where I usually ended up on walks with Muffin.Lester Memorial was barely larger than a standard driveway, just enough room for some blowsy native flowers valiantly hanging on despite the cooler weather, and carefully trimmed privet hedges.In the center was a birdbath that had been turned into a sort of tiny garden, most likely unintentionally since the contents leaned heavily on mossy and wet rather than sculpted and intentional.Few people came here, thinking it was some extension of one of the yards on either side of the park.Really, though, it had a hidden feature that Ben had showed me a few weeks after I moved to Witte House.
Amais Lester.He’s the hidden feature.At the far end of the park (well, far being subjective) where the wrought iron fence buts up against the low stone wall demarcating the start of the slope towards the shore, Amais Lester’s grave was hidden under heavy plants and overhanging willow limbs.Twice a year, a citizen’s group came out to clean it off, but the rest of the time, Mr.Lester remained hidden from the world in his little corner.The rest of his family was in the Old Burial Grounds, down the slope a bit further and fenced off with more serious hardware than heavy shrubs and nosy neighbors.For the moment, though, I was grateful for whatever had occurred that led him to be buried in what had become the Historic District of Lester Cove rather than the cemetery because it gave me a place to hide for a little bit
“Excuse me!Hello?Excuse me!Sir!”
A very little bit.
I turned towards the shrill voice to find a man wearing a gardening apron and brandishing a rake striding towards me from the gray and white Cape.“Hi!Lovely weather today!”
He narrowed his eyes.“It’s about to rain!”
“Well.Yeah.Rain’s nice.Isn’t it?Objectively speaking, I mean.”And I hadn’t brought a raincoat.Or umbrella.Because, well, I’d been in SoCal for years and I couldn’t remember the last time I seriously needed any rain protection before coming to Lester Cove.A tiny voice in my ear whispered I’d need to get myself something since I’d moved to Maine now, but that made me feel all kinds of uncomfortable.I hadn’t moved to Maine.I was just...visiting.For a bit.I still had my apartment in LA.I still paid rent on it and the utilities were still being taken out of my account.
So totally no need for a raincoat.
