“It was nothing,” she said, shooing me with her hand. “She let her emotions get the best of her.”
“We all know Marlowe can hold a grudge,” Constance said, fiddling with her napkin. Her eyes raised to Ava. “You were a little harsh.”
“She’ll get over it,” Ava said, flipping the pages of her notebook. “Let’s talk rehearsal dinner.”
I barely paid attention for the rest of lunch. My thoughts were still on Danielle. Her funeral was being held that afternoon at High Street Cathedral only a few blocks over.
After brunch, I ended up walking in the direction of the church. Part of me wondered if Oliver would attend. If maybe he was bothered by her passing more than he let on. I was hoping for that. I craved a level of emotion he wasn’t giving and thought maybe it was because he wanted to spare my own feelings.
The church was one I’d passed dozens of times before. I’d heard the donging of the bells too many times to count. It was smaller than some of the other churches in the city, and the wrought iron gates were open, leading to a cobblestone walkway lined with dying shrubbery. The structure itself was made of gray stone and mortar, plain. It was the bright stained-glass windows that brought the building to life. Various reimagined scenes from the Bible, sunlight filtering through ruby reds and emerald greens.
Old churches often reminded me of Marmee’s house; they shared the same beauty and mystery. From inside, an organ began to play, the despondent melody inviting me in.
Without thinking, I walked closer to the church entrance, peeringinside at the massive space filled with pews and Bibles and altars. People were noticeably absent. Fewer than a dozen sat at the front of the church, where I could see a shiny black casket, a sprawling lavender flower arrangement covering the top.
Beside that display sat a framed picture of Danielle. She looked younger in the photograph, happier. I felt myself overcome with loss, sadness for this woman I barely knew.
“Are you a friend?” asked a woman standing at the back of the church.
She appeared younger than Marmee, and in better physical health. She had an upright posture and wore a dark fur coat. Her hair was pinned back with a clip. She clenched a napkin between her fingers.
I realized how odd it was for me to be hanging about at the funeral of my fiancé’s ex-wife. I had no business being here, around the few people who loved and mourned her, but I couldn’t explain that to this woman without sounding like a lunatic.
“Yes,” I lied, “although we’d lost touch.” A kernel of truth came next. “I read her obituary and haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.”
“We appreciate you coming,” the woman said, looking at the nearly empty room up ahead. “Receiving of friends seems an outdated concept for this generation, but it means a lot to the family.”
“Are you related to Danielle?” The sound of her name leaving my lips made it sound as though she were still here with us.
“I’m her mother.”
Shame filled me. I had no business being here, talking to Danielle’s mother, of all people. My eyes darted around the church, once again looking for Oliver, but this time, I hoped he was nowhere in sight. I hoped he’d never know how seedy I’d been in coming here.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” I told the woman, cringing at the clichéd phrase. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“It’s just so unexpected. I can’t bear to walk all the way up there,” the woman said, staring ahead. “As I’m sure you know, Danielle was always careful with her medication. She’d been diabetic since she was a child. She counted her carb intake meticulously. I never would have imagined she’d die from a miscalculation.”
Oliver had said Danielle took her own life. He’d said that’s what her mother had told him. “She died from a complication with her medicine?”
“An insulin overdose. She lost consciousness before she was able to get help, and too much time passed,” she said. “If she hadn’t been living alone, it could have been avoided.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, lost for what else to say.
“And she was just starting to get her life back together, after that awful divorce.”
Divorce. She was talking about Oliver.
“Like I said, we’d lost touch—”
“She was broken after that,” her mother continued, determined to release the words from inside her. “He took everything from her. Was determined to leave her penniless, but she’d finally started to rebound. She made plans to open a new business, started dating again.”
That’s not what Oliver had said. In his version, it was the other way around. The demise of his marriage left him in a position to start over from scratch and emotionally recover from the psychological abuse she’d put him through.
“Have you talked to him?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking. “The ex?”
“Not in years,” she said coldly. “He probably wouldn’t even care that she died.”
Another inconsistency in Oliver’s story. He’d told me Danielle’s mother had called him. He’d spoken with her only days ago. Could she be so overwhelmed with grief she’d forgotten?
