THE NEXT DAY, Isabel crouched over a cardboard box in her father’s attic. She’d come to gather those few items from the house her father had promised her. Britney wouldn’t have any use for these things—they were from the family before Britney, and while this house was legally Britney’s now, she’d always be the interloper here. Somehow, now that her father had passed, Isabel’s parents’ memory—the two of them together—seemed stronger, and Isabel wondered if Britney felt it. Probably not.
The attic was dim, a dirty window letting in a little natural light, but Isabel was relying on a hanging bulb overhead to see. She glanced back. Britney’s head emerged through the opening in the attic floor.
“Are you almost done up here?” Britney asked.
The attic was filled with mementos from Isabel’s childhood—items she remembered from days gone by. Her mother’s box of yearbooks was still up here, her father’s clothes from the eighties that he refused to toss out, Isabel’s old high chair, her first bike…
She didn’t have room in her home to bring it all back with her, and for the first time since arriving, her tiny, immaculate space wasn’t enough. She felt the need to gather all these memories in one place, cradle them, keep them together. There was no one left to share the memories with her. Both her parents were gone now, and it was up to her to keep those memories of their family life alive somewhere…proof that they’d been something, the three of them.
Britney climbed all the way up and came to the streaky window. She looked outside, the natural light that reflected off her face revealing puffy eyes and colorless cheeks.
“He used to love the garden,” Britney said after a moment.
Isabel’s mother had created that garden, and it was only after she died that George started spending time in it. It was his way of remembering Stella, working the soil that his late wife had loved. Isabel used to watch him garden. There was a landscaping company that came by and took care of the bulk of the work, but he’d still putter and pull up a weed here and there. He’d stand there in the cool of a summer morning eating fresh peas out of their pods. Isabel remembered the sight of his steaming coffee mug sitting on top of an overturned bucket while he stood in his bathrobe and a pair of clogs, his back to the house so that she couldn’t see his face. Had he known that she’d watched those private moments? Maybe not. That he’d continued his silent vigil even after his marriage was comforting somehow.
But Isabel wouldn’t share that—and it wasn’t out of sympathy, either.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Britney ran her hand over her belly. “This wasn’t exactly the plan.”
Of course it wasn’t. But how long would it have taken for Britney to realize that lounging around a house and trying to be helpful to a man who didn’t want a woman’s help wasn’t going to fulfill her?
“Did you want to work…ever?” Isabel asked.
“No.” Britney shrugged weakly and shot Isabel a small smile. “I wanted babies, kids. I wanted to be a mom. He liked that idea, too.”
So if her father had lived, there would have been a whole new generation of Baxter siblings to go bankrupt together. Her father always had liked the idea of a woman at home with the kids. Not that there was anything wrong with that life. Her mother had loved it, and it was the future he’d had in mind for Isabel, too.
“Did you know that I’m having a girl?” Britney turned to face Isabel, and her expression was serious, sad—the most honest that Isabel had ever seen her. She’d dropped the “little girl” act and finally looked like a grown woman, an equal. Isabel wasn’t sure if she was annoyed or intimidated. Maybe a little of both.
“No,” Isabel admitted.
“We just found out.” Tears welled in Britney’s eyes. “Your dad was thrilled. He said girls were wonderful, because he’d always be Daddy. He said with a little girl, they never outgrew that.”
Yet, for being thrilled, he hadn’t told Isabel. He’d been her “Daddy,” and he’d pushed her right out of the nest. Was this baby her father’s second chance? Or did he still have hopes of making them one big, happy family after all?
“He liked his secrets.” Bitterness tinged Britney’s tone. “If he’d told me about the money problems…”
“You’d have done what?” Isabel asked icily. “Gotten a job?”
Britney’s eyes flashed. “Been able to comfort him. I wasn’t here for the money, Isabel. I loved your father, whether you believe that or not.” They were silent for a few beats, and then Britney added, her voice quavering, “You’re like him in the worst ways, you know.”
So now her true feelings were coming out.
“I thought you said you loved him,” Isabel retorted.
“I did. I do. But everyone has flaws, and your father could be heartless. Don’t get me wrong—he could be generous to a fault when he wanted to. He’d do anything for me. Anything. He loved me like no one ever has, and he could accept me for my faults, too. When he loved, it was like the sun shining down. But his shade was a very cold place. I could accept him for his faults, because I was in his sunshine. But when he couldn’t personally identify with someone, they were like scenery to him. Empathy didn’t even occur to him. People were there to get him his way.”
“And I treat people like scenery?” Isabel demanded. “What do you know about my relationships?”
“You treat me like scenery!” Britney’s voice rose, and Isabel blinked, surprised at the directness of her outburst.
A retort came to mind, something about Britney being not much better than youthful scenery around here, but she bit it back. This was the shark in her coming out. Her father’s death wasn’t Britney’s fault, and she was going to try to hurt his widow for no other reason than because she was feeling hurt herself. Isabel sighed. “What did you want from me?”
“To be friends.” Britney swallowed hard. “I don’t have many left.”
“With all the money—” Isabel stopped. There wasn’t any money. It was hard to remember that. She started again. “What about your friends around town?”
“The ones who stayed didn’t have anything in common with me anymore,” Britney said. “I was married to a man twice their age, and I wasn’t willing to go partying anymore. Your dad was my life, and they didn’t get it. Even Carmella didn’t really understand. Since you loved him, too, I thought you might.”
Isabel hadn’t realized that. Mind you, she hadn’t stopped to think about it, either. It hadn’t occurred to her.
“I suppose I could have been…kinder.” Isabel sighed.
They faced each other without speaking for minute or so, then Isabel pulled an old curtain off a picture nearby. It was the portrait of her parents. Her father looked young, and her mother was slim and beautiful. Her father sat, her mother behind him, a hand on his shoulder. This was how she remembered her parents—united, happy, attractive.
Of all the items in this attic, this one couldn’t stay here. It was the one thing that pulled their family back together again.
“I’m taking this,” Isabel said.
“Okay.” Britney’s eyes were pinned to the painting, then she looked away.
“I’ll get a storage locker somewhere and come get the rest of this stuff after the funeral,” Isabel added. “I’m sure you don’t want it.”
“No, it’s yours,” Britney said with a nod. “I’ll see you at the funeral.”
Where they would say goodbye to the man they’d both loved, and who had lied to them both. Yet, he’d still wanted to make something out of them—the Baxter family 2.0. Except that this blended family was no Brady Bunch.
* * *
JAMES STOOD AT the graveside of George Baxter. The day was warm—too warm for his black suit, and a trickle of sweat meandered down his spine. Isabel wore the same knee-length black dress from the party, lace covering her arms and peeking over the edge of the underskirt to tickle her knees. She looked appropriate, somber, modest. She hadn’t worn makeup—or if she had, it had all been wiped off by now. She swiped at a tear on her scarred cheek, but she didn’t look at James even once. She stood with her ankles together and her gaze directed at the suspended coffin.
James was listening to the minister intone some words about heaven and a life away from sickness, sadness and pain. He read a few familiar Bible passages, and James allowed the words to flow over him. He’d never been a terribly religious man, but he believed well enough to find comfort in the ritual. Did Isabel? He wished he knew.
May George find some peace…
It was half prayer, half wish. The old man hadn’t been at peace for as long as James had known him. He was always pent up, wound up, ready to conquer…until he’d been undone by something as common as a heart attack. It seemed wrong somehow that George Baxter should go down in such an ordinary way. He was the sort of man who should have been gored by a bull or something more in line with his boulder-like personality. But that was life for you—no one ever seeming to get the poetic ending they deserved.
The last funeral James had attended had been his cousin’s, and Andrew had gotten a slightly more heroic end to his life, but it was too early. Andrew had deserved more living first.
Don’t take the shade for granted… Wasn’t that what Andrew had told him? Life was short. It could be over in an instant, as he and George had found out.
George Baxter’s funeral was stately and stoic, much like the man. The whole town turned out for the funeral service at the church, or just about. Jenny had wanted to come, too—Mr. Baxter had provided her a home, after all—but James had convinced her to stay home with her roommates. He needed to say his goodbyes with some privacy. George had been a client, but he’d somehow slid closer than that, and this death had hit him more personally than he anticipated.
The church service had been packed to overflowing, people standing along the walls and huddled into the hot, sweaty foyer. The minister had said some kind words about a man who loved his community and left a mark upon this sod, or something like that. It was a little overdone, but appropriate, considering the man it honored. Isabel and Britney had sat at the front of the church in the first pew—several feet apart. James knew his place, or at the least the place he felt most comfortable, and he’d stayed toward the back, his forehead moist with sweat.
His client was dead. Job complete, right? Except nothing felt complete about George’s life and family.
James hadn’t gone to view the body. Britney and Isabel had looked generally overwhelmed by all the people filing past them, speaking a few words, shaking hands. He wasn’t going to add to that. Besides, he didn’t belong in the throng. His relationship to both George and his daughter had been unique.
But standing here, several feet away from Isabel—Britney being opposite them across the grave, flanked by her parents—he wondered if she even wanted anything more from him. Maybe his usefulness was at an end. That wouldn’t surprise him, either.
When the minister said his last prayer, that was the cue for people to disband and leave. Isabel dabbed her nose with a tissue, came over to where James stood and gave him a small smile.
“Thanks for being here, James,” she said.
“How are you holding up?” he asked. She looked petite and younger with her lack of makeup. She wiped her nose once more and tucked the tissue away. He found himself yearning to touch her, slip an arm around her. He restrained himself. That wasn’t where this relationship was going.
“Not too badly, all things considered.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and he pressed her hand against his side—the closest he could come to holding her. “Walk with me? I want to avoid condolences for a bit. It’s really tiring.”
“Sure.”
They moved together across the graveyard, bright June sunlight toasting his shoulders through his suit jacket, and he realized how relieved he was to be this close to her. That wasn’t smart—she wasn’t the kind of woman he needed—but somehow Isabel still had a way of softening him against his better judgment.
“I have a favor to ask,” Isabel asked after a moment.
He sighed. There it was. She didn’t want his physical comfort, she wanted him to do something for her.
“What do you need?” he asked.
She seemed to sense the reticence in his tone, because she blushed slightly. “I’ll pay you for your time, of course. It’s just…” She pulled her hand out of the crook of his arm and opened her purse. She pulled out a small photo and passed it to him. “I found that behind a picture of my parents together that my mom had really cherished. That’s her holding the baby. I just need to know who the baby is.”
James took the picture by one corner and looked closer.
“Why does it matter?” he asked.
“It might not,” she said quietly. “I know that. It’s just that when I asked my father about it, he got so guarded. He kept so many secrets, and I want to know who this child is, and why my father cared so much. And if my mother tucked it away like that…”
This was personal, obviously. And she was right about George and his secrets. He thought women were to be protected, and men should shoulder the burdens. While James agreed that men shouldn’t heave unnecessary burdens onto the women they loved, he believed it should go both ways. He didn’t want a woman to idolize; he wanted a woman to share his life, his worries, his goals. He wanted a partner, not a trophy.
“I would pay you,” Isabel repeated. “I’m not asking for something for free.”
No, she wasn’t, but she did want something from him besides his company. That shouldn’t bother him, but somehow it did, because he’d felt relieved at just being next to her, her hand pressed against his arm.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll look into it.”
He asked a few more details about where her parents had lived during their marriage. Apparently, they’d landed in Haggerston only just before Isabel was born. He had somewhere to start, at least. Isabel suspected the baby was maybe a cousin or a godchild. But he agreed that her mother’s attempt to protect and hide the photo was interesting. And if she had someone else in her family, it would be good for Isabel to find them. As it was, she had a stepmother and an unborn sibling.
“Thank you.” Isabel’s eyes misted again, and she met his gaze. “I really mean it, James. Thank you. You’ve been so…so…” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
She nodded. “Most definitely.”
He was smarter than Andrew in this respect. He’d accept friendship and leave the rest alone—no matter how much he wanted more right now. Those were feelings, and he knew better than to be led by them, especially with Isabel Baxter. But he was reluctantly grateful, too, because she’d given him something to do for her, an excuse to see her again. He wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye, even though he knew it was coming. Isabel was special. She could make a favor feel like his idea. And as long as he could keep that line carefully drawn, that could be his own personal vice. For now. A man didn’t build his life on being a woman’s hero. Life was too complicated for that.