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“I’m sorry I made funeral jokes, Kevin. Though they were pretty funny.”
I smiled a little, though, knowing his humor. He would’ve laughed if he had the chance to do so. Crazy how deeply you could miss a person’s laughter. If I had a chance, I would’ve gathered more laughs to keep locked within my memories.
I arrivedhome at the property to attend the repass and took on the role of making sure everyone was okay and looked after. And of course, the man who had taken center stage in my day—after Kevin, of course—was there, taking in the surroundings of the home. He was looking at all the photographs sitting against the wall beside the spiral staircase.
Kevin was a photographer when he was younger, and it was how he made his first millions. Sure, his success in the stock market and his family’s generational wealth was a big part of his multimillionaire lifestyle, but he was very passionate about his artwork.
Maybe that was why we connected so well. Sure, I used acrylics and paintbrushes, but creatives of all sorts seemed to be drawn toward one another. We shared a certain level of pride.
“All his work,” I commented, walking over to him.
He glanced my way, then turned back to the photos, not speaking a word.
I smoothed my hands over my dress. “Do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
I waited for him to share it. He didn’t. “Well…?”
“Am I bothering you?” he yipped.
“No. Why do you say that?”
“Because you are going out of your way to communicate with me when there is no reason whatsoever for us to be entangled in conversation. It is clear I’m not interested in speaking to you, yet you still find the need to conversate. You’re exhausting.”
“Gosh. You’re so… grumpy and rude for no reason.”
“Am I supposed to be happy at a funeral?”
“No, but like, you don’t have to be a dick.”
He pushed out a sarcastic grin. “Thanks for the funeral tips.”
“Screw you.”
“Not interested.”
“I’m so glad I’m never going to have to cross paths with a person like you again, Mr. ‘I attend funerals of strangers because I have no life of my own’ guy.”
“And I’m glad I’m never going to have to cross paths with a person like you again, Ms. ‘I tell stupid-ass jokes at a dead person’s funeral and cry over blueberry scones’ girl.”
“You’re an asshole!”
“How many times are you going to tell me that before you leave me the hell alone?”
“I—”
“Talk too much. That’s what you do. You talk too much.”
“Are you really Kevin’s son?” I blurted out.
“I don’t know. How about you try asking him? Oh wait. You can’t, because he’s dead,” he replied. I blankly stared at him. He shrugged. “I was trying a funeral joke like you.”
“Yes, well, your comedic timing is a bit off.”
“I guess I’ll retire from stand-up.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Blackstone, I think we are going to get started any moment now,” a gentleman said, walking up beside us. He looked over at me and smiled brightly. “Stella! It’s so good to see you,” he greeted. Joe Tipton was Kevin’s longtime attorney and dear friend. I’d known him as long as I’ve known Kevin—which meant my whole life.
