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Then finally, finally, I got into bed.
I started my New Year crying in my shower.
Yeah, that seemed about right.
Even if Teddy was gone.
Even if I was technically free.
It sounded about right that crying alone where no one could hear me would be my fate.
I woke up feeling sorry for myself, tossing and turning in bed with the hopes that sleep would claim me again, wash me off into a wave of oblivion for a few more hours.
But I had no such luck.
So I did the next best thing.
I did what I had been doing for almost fifteen years.
I got up, washed, dried, styled my hair. I put on some mascara. I put on high waisted gray slacks and a gray and white striped blouse.
If I couldn’t actually be happy and put together, well, I damn sure could fake it. I had been doing it for so long that I could almost believe it.
Almost.
But not quite.
I slipped into boots and made my way downstairs, wondering if Smith would see through it, if he would care enough even to try.
But a wrench was thrown in the works when my foot met the top stair and I heard a voice inside my house, talking with Smith’s much more welcome one.
Bertram.
As if I needed one more thing…
Oh, well, I decided, taking a deep breath, forcing myself to start down the stairs. I had to deal with what I had to deal with.
“Jennifer,” Bertram’s voice called, cooler even than usual. Which was really saying something. “I should wish you a Happy New Year.”
He should.
But if you paid really close attention, he actually didn’t.
And I couldn’t quite muster the level of fakeness it would take to wish him one either.
“Thank you. Is something wrong? Have they found Teddy’s killer?” I asked, letting my voice get breathless, hopeful.
“Unfortunately, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I am afraid, my dear, we may need to resign ourselves to the fact that we may never know who – or why – this person was or why this happened. I know that is hard to hear, but we are just going to need to be strong. No hysterics over something we can’t change.”
By we he meant me.
And every feminist in a five-mile radius was stiffening at the suggestion that I may get hysterical.
“We will find a way past this,” I agreed, giving him a nod. “Did you need something?” I asked when he had yet to explain his presence. Because, to him, this was his home to come and go in and out of as he pleased.
“I am just here to discuss the funeral,” he told me.
The funeral.
Granted, I didn’t want the responsibility of handling it, but it still bothered me that he overstepped, he took control yet again.
Maren had been right. I wouldn’t actually be free until he no longer had a grip on anything in my life.
This funeral was one of the few things left.
Then I needed to set up meetings with the lawyers and the financial consultant – two men I had only ever met when they needed my signature on something or another.
Once all that was settled, then I could maybe start making some changes.
Maybe.
“I wasn’t aware they had even released Teddy’s body,” I told him, the words pointed, but the tone a mix of confused and sad. The sad, at least, I didn’t have to fake. It just wasn’t for the reason it appeared to be.
“Yes, well. After your ordeal, I decided to take over. To ease your burden,” he specified. And by ‘ease your burden’ he absolutely meant ‘wanted to make sure your trailer trash self didn’t embarrass me.’ “I have been handling the arrangements. The announcements are going out as we speak. The day after tomorrow. At the family plot.” The family plot that I didn’t have a space in. Not even after fifteen years of marriage. Three generations of Ericssons – and their wives – were buried there. There was room for three more generations. Except me. It shouldn’t have – since I had no interest in being buried there. Or buried at all. But it still bothered me. The way I was always an outsider. That no one actually ever accepted me no matter how much I learned, how hard I tried, how much I bettered myself.
“Of course. What time?”
“Ten in the morning. Followed by a service at the club. I decided against a wake,” he added, shrugging off the idea that I may have wanted one. “You will need appropriate attire,” he told me, making my spine stiffen. I may not have grown up in his world, but everyone – even girls so poor they didn’t ever have wrapping paper if they did manage to get presents on birthdays – knew how to dress for a funeral.
“That was our plan today, sir,” Smith cut in, seeming to sense my inability to mark my tone. Or even find any words at all to say. “We were going to go get Mrs. Ericsson something for the service.”
