At least she had heard from Lulu.
Popcorn had slept on the floor beside Sam, but now he was bouncing up and down next to Kate, paws on the mattress, down on the floor, his tongue giving her cheek one big wet slurp.
“Okay,” she said. “I know. Time to go out.”
Kate was wearing a gray T-shirt and white cotton pajama bottoms printed with blue starfish, and she didn’t even pull on a robe when she walked Popcorn down the stairs and onto the street. The sun was rising above the buildings across the river. The beauty of it hurt her heart.
Popcorn was probably disappointed by the short walk, but Kate had things she had to do. He dragged, climbing the stairs to the loft. Kate stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the Cuisinart coffee maker as if she’d never seen it before. She went through the motions of spooning French roast into the basket, measuring the right amount of water. She heard and smelled it dripping into the pot, then walked away without drinking any.
She dressed in jeans, thought better of it, and changed into navy-blue slacks and a white blouse. She walked to her sleeping niece and stood looking down. This would be her first full day without her mother.
“Sam,” Kate said. “Time to get up.”
“Runnggh,” Sam said into the pillow.
Kate touched her shoulder, and Sam opened her eyes and moaned at the light. “Just a little longer,” she said.
“Not this morning,” Kate said. “We’re doing this for your mother.”
They had to make funeral arrangements. Eventually the medical examiner would release Beth’s body, and they had to be ready. Sam forced herself up. She walked into the bathroom, and Kate heard the shower start. When Sam came into the kitchen wearing a white dress printed with red cherries, Kate handed her a cup of coffee.
“You’re not going to tell me this is inappropriate?” Sam asked, touching her skirt.
“You want me to?”
“Well, Dad will.”
“That might be true,” Kate said.
“Mom gave it to me before I left for camp. This year’s summer dress.”
Kate nodded. She knew, because she’d been with Beth just three weeks ago when she’d bought it at a boutique in Watch Hill, after a barefoot walk along Napatree Point’s tide line and lunch at the Olympia Tearoom. Their mother had always gotten them each one special dress per summer, and Beth had kept the tradition going. They had sat at their sidewalk table on Bay Street, drinking fresh-squeezed limeade, and toasted their mother.
“We’ll keep it up,” Kate said now. “A new dress every June.”
“No more,” Sam said. “Not with Mom gone.”
Kate opened her mouth to say she’d carry it on, buy next summer’s dress, but the words caught in her throat. It wouldn’t be the same, an aunt trying to do what Sam’s mother had always done.
“We should leave,” Kate said. “Your dad wants us there by 10:00.”
“I’m afraid to see him,” Sam said.
“Why?” Kate said.
“Because it’s just him and me now. Our family is too small. We were always supposed to be three, and she’s not here anymore.”
Kate searched for something to say, but every word seemed trite.
Sam turned away and rinsed out her coffee cup. Kate tried to see if she was crying, but when Sam turned around, her eyes were dry, and she walked out to the car as if hypnotized. If she was upset that Pete hadn’t asked her to come home, hadn’t seen her yet, she hadn’t shown it.
The Bryer Funeral Home was a pale-gray Victorian house with white shutters, located improbably, and too beautifully, on the southern bank of Black Hall’s twisting Pequot River. Marsh grass rippled in the light breeze, and when Kate slammed her car door, she flushed a great blue heron, ungainly wings unfolding as it flew around the bend into deeper shadows. The last time Kate had been here, it had been for their mother. She and Beth had come together.
Pete had already arrived. Kate waited for Sam, but she was busy texting and said she’d meet them inside. Kate walked in the front door into a parlor that seemed designed for a tea party, with maroon velvet chesterfield sofas, burled yellow birch tables, a rosewood sideboard with crystal candlesticks at either end. The paintings on the walls were of cows and gardens, purchased from the gallery a generation ago by the first Edward Bryer—the current owner’s grandfather.
Kate thought of Mathilda, who had once owned these paintings, and she tried to feel her presence. It would have given her strength, steadied her. But before she could channel her grandmother, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Kate, why did this terrible thing happen?”
