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Last Autumn
“How do you talk about a man’s life after it’s over?”
Brittany Keating Radley stood at the pulpit at the downtown Bar Harbor funeral home, her heart torn in two and her eyes still, miraculously dry. It was as though her body dared her not to show the significance of its trauma until after everyone went home and left her in peace. Off to the right of the front row, her daughter, Valerie, wept softly, dotting a Kleenex against the corner of her left eye, which was already stained black from her affection for too much eyeliner. Her brother, Thomas, sat on the other side of Conner, whose muscular arms curved around his chest, latched tight. Thomas was the spitting image of his father at that age, all dark hair and intelligent eyes and broad shoulders. Conner looked like he had somewhere else to be that day.
“When Dad first told me he was dying,” Brittany continued after a brief hiatus, “I wanted to call his bluff. Joseph Keating wasn’t the kind of man who wanted to leave any party early. Whether it was your BBQ, your child’s birthday, or your retirement party, Joseph Keating usually arrived with a bag of ice, extra food, and a helping hand. He was normally in the kitchen cleaning up long after everyone else left for the night— up to his elbows in soap suds, talking up a storm to whoever would listen. That was my Daddy.”
Uh oh. The first of what would be many tears fell from the corners of her eyes. Brittany swiped them away and pushed herself through the remainder of her speech, which she’d rewritten five times the previous night. When Conner had asked if she wanted someone to edit it, she resisted, whipping the paper out between his hands. What could Conner Radley possibly know about Joseph Keating that she didn’t? And hadn’t the two men spent the previous twenty years at-odds with each other, barking out insults at the occasional family function when they couldn’t all-out avoid one another?
After the ceremony, Brittany, Valerie, and Thomas stood near the casket to greet mourners and thank them for their attendance. Those invited were told to head to Brittany’s place for the wake. She and Valerie had set aside over one-hundred tiny turkey sandwiches, spinach and artichoke dip, plenty of finger foods, and a large collection of red wine.
Mid-way through the line, Brittany’s cousins, Nicole and Heather Harvey appeared. Nicole’s face was blotchy, her eyes downcast with sorrow. Over the previous two years or so, Nicole had latched onto Joseph Keating like a lost puppy. She’d followed him around the Keating Inn and Acadia Eatery, asking him questions about the hospitality business, and often helping out in the kitchen as she cooked up vibrant and inventive recipes, ones she created herself.
“That Nicole is really something!” Joe had said more than once.
“He was so grateful you came to Bar Harbor,” Brittany whispered into Nicole’s ear now, as Nicole fell against her with a shivering hug. “He needed someone to fall in love with the Keating Inn the way he and Adam had. I never managed to, and I think it was one of his greatest sorrows.”
“He loved you and was ridiculously proud of you,” Nicole told her firmly. “Your antique shop was always his number one thing to brag about.”
“He was so resistant at first,” Brittany explained, swiping away new tears that rolled down her cheeks. “But he was instrumental in getting it all started. I’ll never forget that he set aside his pride for me.”
“Because he loved you,” Nicole said. “And if there’s anyone who knew how to love and love well... it was Uncle Joe.”
Brittany greeted the hollowed-out Heather, who’d only just arrived at Bar Harbor for the first time. Heather’s husband, Max, had recently died in a terrible accident out on the ocean. In the midst of a horrendous depression she couldn’t shake, she’d come to Bar Harbor for answers about the Harvey sisters’ past— a past that had always been Brittany’s only reality.
In fact, having cousins for the first time had been something of a whirlwind. Brittany prayed they would stick around, lured in by the beauty of the sleepy little town on the coast, rather than return to their “real” homes in Portland. But she knew there was no controlling what anyone did. You just had to take the here and now and be grateful for it.
**
PERHAPS AS JOSEPH KEATING’S final joke to his daughter, Brittany was on full-scale hospitality duty at the wake. She was reminded of her long-ago days at the Keating Inn and Acadia Eatery, anticipating everyone’s needs, cleaning up little messes, and finding empathy and goodwill in even the most banal conversations. It was only when she stalled at the kitchen counter and her knees knocked together that she remembered the depth of her fatigue.
“How are you holding up, Mom?” Valerie appeared beside her with a stack of plates and a bundle of dirty forks in her hand.
“Oh, honey. Thank you for picking those up.” Brittany grabbed the stack and began to shuffle them into the dishwasher. “Have you seen your father?”
“I saw him in the backyard a little while ago,” Valerie said testily. “Thomas asked him if he was planning on coming in.”
Brittany dabbed the pad of her hand against the top of her forehead. She didn’t have time to feel the devastation of her husband’s lack of care for her father’s death. In truth, Conner had hardly sniffed at Joe’s illness; he’d hardly visited in the hospital when he’d been on the dramatic decline; he’d hardly held Brittany while she cried.
“Are you really happy, Brittany?” These were the words her father had whispered to her several months before, during a particularly heinous health spell that had latched him to a hospital bed for more than two weeks.
Brittany’s voice had scratched with doubt. She’d wanted to ask him if happiness was a necessity or if it mattered at all. She’d wanted to say that her children were well-fed and intelligent and empathetic, that they had all the mechanisms to be incredible future people in the world.
Instead, she’d said, “I don’t know. I think so.”
The words had simmered with self-doubt.
“I’ve said this to you before,” her father had whispered then, hardly able to get the words out. “But you can do whatever you need to do. You’re a survivor. And if that means...”
Brittany had cut him off after that. The violence of hearing the words “leave him” only seemed to darken the bruise that had seemed, continually, to grow harsher over the previous twenty-some years. Brittany had noticed Conner’s “true” self that very first evening with her father. And since then, Conner hadn’t been too shy to let his true personality fly free. Cruelty lined many of their conversations, and his actions always seemed manipulative, especially those that were spontaneously kind.
Joseph Keating had taken one look at Conner and had known precisely what kind of man he was.
And Brittany had always been just a little too proud to admit how wrong she’d been.
That, and she’d loved him. God, she’d loved him. There had been a strange push-pull dynamic within their relationship. His kindness gave her fuel to keep going; when he reeled back, growing cold again, she fought tooth and nail to give him whatever he needed to smile again.
After over two decades, a flourishing business, and now, a father’s funeral, Brittany felt herself nearing the end of her rope.
A few minutes later, as Brittany whipped out of the kitchen again to inspect the food table and greet several other Bar Harbor residents, Conner popped back inside from the backyard. On cue, he flashed that all-American smile at the nearest victim, who greeted him warmly and smacked him on the back.
“I’m just so sorry for your loss,” the man said.
“It’s been hard on us,” Conner returned. “Joe was just such a great guy.”
“It must have been a real pleasure, being his son-in-law.”
“One of the greatest honors,” Conner told him.
A shiver raced down Brittany’s spine. Pausing at the corner table, she poured herself an extra-large serving of Cabernet Sauvignon, closed her eyes, and sucked down a quarter of it. She then turned with a flash on her back heel, slammed her shoulder into the nearest person, and threw half of the wine across his chest.
It was Conner. Of course, she’d done this to Conner. When it came to luck, she had none.
“Oh no!” Family and friends gasped around them. Someone rushed off to grab a towel.
Conner’s face was a funny thing to read. Any other onlooker might have said that instantly. Conner’s smile made everyone know that it was fine, that if anything, a spill at a funeral was something to laugh at. But Brittany caught the fire behind his pupils, proof that someday, and someday soon, Conner would make her pay for this. In his mind, she’d just embarrassed both herself and him, as he was her husband and therefore an extension of her. After twenty-four years together, she knew how his mind worked.
“Come on, Conner,” Brittany whispered as coaxingly as possible. “Let’s go to the kitchen and clean this up.”
Conner wrapped his hand around hers, looking like the perfect picture of a husband. They then headed for the kitchen as Conner nodded down toward his shirt, making jokes. “She’s a clumsy one. Don’t know what to do with her some days.”
Once in the kitchen, Conner unbuttoned his shirt as all the color drained from his cheeks. He then scrunched the shirt into a tight ball and flung it into the sink, where it toiled against a number of dirty dishes. If he hadn’t been the most terrifying creature in Brittany’s life, a part of her might have found this scene attractive— a powerful, handsome man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair and toned muscles, wearing only an undershirt.
“You know that a number of my clients are out there,” he breathed. “You know that if I come off like some kind of fool...”
“Conner,” Brittany muttered. “The only person who comes off like a fool is me.”
Conner leaped for her, nearly pinning her against the counter. Brittany turned her head swiftly and blinked out the side window. This was the house they’d purchased after they’d been married for a year, the house they’d raised both Valerie and Thomas in. Perhaps it was the house where he’d murder her in cold blood.
Not that he’d gotten physically violent.
Yet.
“Just tell me you understand what position you’ve put me in,” Conner hissed. “Tell me you get it.”
Brittany’s voice wavered strangely. “I get it.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Brittany forced herself to lift her eyes to Conner’s. With her jaw set, she listened to the mumbles of conversation outside, the squeals of babies, the swaps of funny stories about Joseph Keating, a man she would never see again.
“I’m sorry, Conner. I’m really sorry.”
Brittany knew she’d been saying sorry for as long as she could remember. But it was the fastest way out of such an idiotic mess.
“There are clean shirts already ironed and hanging on the bedroom door,” she told him, half-pleading with him to leave her alone. “Otherwise, you don’t have to stay here any longer. You can just watch TV in the bedroom. Me and the kids will clean up here.”
“Now, why would I want to leave so soon?” Conner asked, his face crumpling. “He was my father-in-law. And I want to be here. To support you. To support the kids.”
Brittany held her breath until finally, Conner walked up the back staircase and headed for their bedroom. She then scrambled to pour herself a large glass of water, which she sucked down quickly. She knew she was in full-blown panic mode but hadn’t any idea how to get out of it.
Brittany removed Conner’s shirt from the sink and began to wash the plates and forks and sharp knives as tears rushed down her cheeks. She felt out of her mind, trying to draw up the courage to re-enter the wake and associate again with Bar Harbor residents and Joe’s dearest friends.
“Need any help?” Nicole Harvey’s voice rang out from the doorway.
Brittany jumped, startled, then turned the water off. She slowly turned, frightened to meet Nicole’s eyes. Nicole wore a look that told Brittany she had a hunch about what had just occurred, even if she hadn’t seen it up close. Had Joe told her about his opinions of Conner? Or was it something Nicole could already sense, as though Brittany was molding in the fridge?
“Naw. I’m just trying to keep up with everything,” Brittany told her. “So much to do, so little time.”
Nicole rolled up her sleeves and began to dry the dishes Brittany had just finished washing.
“Did Conner just go upstairs to change?” Nicole asked.
“I guess so. Not sure.”
They shared the swell of silence. Nicole collected the plates in a stack and then began to dry out the knives and forks. She cleared her throat before she spoke.
“My husband, Michael... He wasn’t kind to me.”
Brittany’s heart nearly stopped. She turned her eyes toward Nicole’s as her brows furrowed. This wasn’t the conversation she wanted to have at the wake of her father. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have ever.
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” Brittany told her firmly.
“I’m just saying,” Nicole continued. “That one of the best things that happened to me was him leaving me for someone else. I was allowed to start over. I was allowed to be exactly myself...”
Brittany stiffened. Who did Nicole think she was, storming in there to make Brittany believe she “knew just what she was going through?”
Had Nicole even loved her husband? Did she know what it meant to love someone through the highs and lows of life?
“Thank you,” Brittany told her, her voice high-pitched. “I have to go check on the snacks. Do you need anything? You let me know. Anything at all.”
Brittany sprinted toward the table that held bowls of half-eaten snacks, her breath held tightly in her lungs. Two mourners stopped her to tell her what a marvelous man her father had been. She couldn’t hear her voice as she told them whatever it was she’d said. Somewhere in the house, Conner waited for her. And somehow, Nicole had seen the very dynamic between them that Brittany had struggled to hide away for the previous twenty-four years of her life.