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I’m going to finish it all.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“I’ll see you later. I’m going to Kane’s,” Cam says and leans over to kiss my cheek. “Call me when you’re done.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Heather echoes.
“I don’t have a car,” I announce after Cameron leaves.
“I do,” she says. “I’ll drive. You give directions.”
“Deal.”
“We have to park here and then walk the rest of the way,” I tell Heather as I point to the best space for her to pull off the single-lane road that winds through the cemetery. “He’s just over there.”
We get out of the car, and I breathe in the clean spring air. I love springtime on the island. The worst days of clouds and rain are starting to dissipate, and I’ve been promised at least a couple of months of sunshine.
Today is one of those sunny days. The sky is clear, and we can even smell the salt water from here. I lead Heather through the gravestones toward the plot that I haven’t visited since the day of Joey’s funeral.
But if I’m going to wrap this all up today, this is a good way to do it. I’d thought yesterday was the last of it, but I was wrong.
And, as horrified as I was when I realized who Heather was, I’m not sorry that she’s here. It’s one more thing to wrap up.
Hopefully, and I’ve got my fingers crossed, this is the very last thing.
“Some of these stones are beautiful,” Heather says as she drags her fingertips over the top of a grave.
“Joey’s parents went all out,” I inform Heather as we approach the grave we’re looking for.
“Whoa,” Heather says.
The headstone is at least five feet tall, with a photo of Joey inlaid in it. His full name, birth date, and death date are engraved, and below that is a damn long epitaph.
“Why does it look like they worshiped him?” Heather asks.
“Because they did,” I confirm. “They hated me and blamed me for his death. He was an only child.”
“He told me that his parents were long dead,” Heather confides. “I asked him if Constance should meet his parents, and he said they died when he was a kid.”
“Ever the storyteller,” I say, shaking my head. “His parents are very much alive. Last I heard, they moved off the island, though. And if you want my advice—”
“I do.”
“I wouldn’t tell them about Constance. They’re controlling, and I think they would try to interfere in your life in ways that you wouldn’t welcome.”
“But she’s their granddaughter.” Heather scrunches up her nose. “It feels wrong to keep her from them.”
“Your call,” I reply, my hands up in surrender. “But they raised Joey, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong. I’ll think about it, do some research. I don’t usually make rash decisions.”
Heather squats next to the stone, just inches from Joey’s picture.
“You were a son of a bitch, Joey Lemon. I’m not sorry you’re dead, and that makes me feel guilty because I was taught better than that. You didn’t deserve Constance. She’s so much better without you, and Rob is going to be an awesome father to her. The father you never could be.”
Heather stands and takes a couple of steps back.
“I don’t know if he can hear me, but it feels good to say the words.”
“I’ve told him off…I don’t know how many times since he died. It does feel good.”
To my utter surprise, Heather reaches out and takes my hand. We stand, side by side, staring down at what’s left of the man we both loved once.
“I know it’s weird, but I’d like to stay in touch,” she says.
“It’s a little weird,” I admit. “But I think I like you.”
Heather laughs, and I join her. Before long, we’re laughing so hard, we’re both wiping away tears. My side aches. I might pee myself.
But, damn, it feels so good.
“My family has a habit of adopting people,” I say when I can breathe again and am wiping at the tears on my cheeks. “I know that you and Constance would be welcome here any time.”
“Thank you.”
Heather turns away from Joey, and I think turning her back to the man is symbolic.
Yeah, I like her.
“Maybe I’ll bring Connie here someday. When she’s a little older. She asks about Joey. Not often, but sometimes it’s like she’ll have a memory of something and ask questions. When she’s older, I’ll bring her here and tell her the story.”
“When she’s much older,” I advise as we walk back to the car. “Because I’m twenty-eight, and I don’t fully understand it.”
“You’re only twenty-eight?” Heather asks and then laughs again. “That’s right, I was way more of a cradle robber than I thought I was. Just another part of the story. At least, he was of age, and I didn’t break any laws—in that respect, anyway.”
