Every funeral was sad, but this had to be just about the saddest one that Parish had ever attended. To think, in her prime, when Melissa was one of the most successful young lawyers in the city, she had so many friends, so many colleagues, and so many hangers-on: salespeople in high-end shops who would call her weekly about the latest fashion that was “perfect” for her—some would even come to the office when she was working nights and weekends; jewellers who would do the same; hair stylists, masseuses, makeup specialists. There was even a woman who gave Melissa a facial every month.
That wasn’t all. There were personal health consultants; personal trainers and nutritionists; a concierge who took care of her travel arrangements and front-row tickets to shows, and even had her dry cleaning and laundry picked up and delivered to her, and had her shoes repaired. When Karl stopped coming to the office with Britt, her personal chef would bring in meals for her almost every night.
Then there were her law partners, who marvelled at her energy, her commitment, and her firm-leading billable hours. Year after year she brought in a river of money they were all happy to dip into.
Where were they all now? Parish thought as she looked around the near-empty little West End church where Karl had chosen to hold the funeral. He’d told her that they wanted to do it quickly for Britt’s sake.
The only person here from their old law firm was Isolina Marciano, the older Italian receptionist who had been there forever. The year the Three Amigas began as articling students and were working insane hours, Marciano would bring them all large lattes at five o’clock when her shift ended. “Go, you girls, go,” she’d say, often in a half whisper. “My papa would never let me go to law school, so you show them.”
As for all the lawyers at the firm whom Melissa had worked with, mentored, made money for, not one of them had the nerve to show up. Or perhaps they didn’t want to sacrifice their precious billable hours. Cowards.
Isolina saw Parish and rushed up to greet her.
“Oh, Nancy, Nancy,” she said, embracing her in a firm hug. “You three girls were my most favourite, all so smart, so beautiful. And our Melissa.”
She shook her head. “Every year on my birthday. Even this year. She would come. Draw me a card. I would buy her a latte.”
“I never knew that.”
“I would save up for months. Give her a package with socks and underwear and bras and well, you know, ladies’ things. She still wore those stylish clothes but now they all looked like rags.”
“I know.”
“Melissa, she said to me so many times that you were her only true friend.”
Parish spotted one more person she recognized. Violet, the kind Vietnamese woman who used to give Melissa her facials.
“Thanks for coming,” Parish said to Violet.
“Of course, love. Melissa was one of my oldest clients.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Two days before she died, love.”
“Really?”
“She was going to court with you the next day. We did it all. Facial. Nails. Eyebrows. Mani. Pedi. She sure needed it. She was rougher than usual.”
“How often did you see her?”
“First Wednesday of every month.”
“Still. Even when—”
“Never missed.”
“And, if you don’t mind, how did she pay—”
“She didn’t. Karl paid. He’d give me an envelope with cash for her.”
“He did?”
“He still cared for her, you know that, love.”
Parish shouldn’t have been so surprised. Melissa always seemed to have enough money when she needed it, and over the years, any time she saw Karl, he’d ask Parish if she’d seen Melissa and how was she doing. And her skin. Well, that explained why despite her living rough it always looked so good.
The rest of the pews were filled with a smattering of people Parish didn’t know. Many of them looked like homeless people who were doing their best to look proper. She suspected at least one or two of them were undercover cops. There was a police security detail outside the church, and thankfully they’d kept the horde of reporters and TV cameras at bay. She saw Detective Greene join Detective Kennicott, who was already seated in a back row.
As the service was about to begin, a handsome young man with longish blond hair approached her. He looked familiar but she wasn’t sure why.
“Excuse me, you’re Nancy Parish, aren’t you? Melissa’s friend, her lawyer.”
“I am,” she said.
“I’m Dr. Burns, from the People on the Street Health Care Clinic.”
That’s where she recognized him from. He was the doctor on TV who was leading all the protests.
“I’ve seen you on TV,” she said.
“Melissa would come to the clinic and give the women legal advice. Landlord-tenant, fights with welfare about their benefits, disability claims, child welfare when the CAS would try to grab a woman’s kids.”
Parish remembered how from time to time Melissa would call her from the clinic and ask her to help some homeless woman facing minor criminal charges, such as shoplifting, mischief, and fraud. She hadn’t made the connection between the clinic and the doctor.
“She spoke highly of you,” he said. “Thank you for the pro bono work you’ve done for many of our people.”
“You’re welcome,” Parish said. She took a seat alone in the second-row pew and shook her head. So many things she was learning about Melissa only after she was gone.
The preacher came in from a side door, followed by Karl, Lydia, and Britt. Britt saw Parish and rushed over. They held on to each other tight, like two overboard passengers stranded on a lifeboat in frigid, turbulent waters.