Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(10)

"I can see myself in. I'm not sitting up front with her."

Beau hesitates. "You sure?"

I nod once. Decisively. "Let's catch up after the service."

The phone in my pocket buzzes again once more. I pull it out.

Emmy: I'm sorry for your loss.

I quickly type out That makes one of us, then I delete it and write a simple Thank you. Just then the hearse pulls up.

I tense, watching, sizing up the suited men who come to help bear the coffin. In a parallel life perhaps I'd be one of the six.

With Beau is his father, my uncle; he's smaller than I remember. In my memories he's large and mean. Now he looks older, flaccid and unkempt. Weak.

I blow out a breath and hurry toward the entrance, watching as they and four other men ease the coffin of glossy dark wood out of the hearse and heft it up to their shoulders.

Some last stragglers scurry inside to get their seats. I follow them in.



* * *



Standing in the dim, cool church at the back, I feel none of the expected emotions. Not that I know what I should be feeling. My eyes glide down each row, noting coiffed hair and black hats, until I get to the front. The stiff neck and shoulders of the Montgomery matriarch holds her head high. Her gray hair is tied tight in an elegant chignon. I presume the small hat she wears hangs a tasteful veil over her eyes.

I do feel a spark of something then. The prick of a little boy's fear rushing back at me through the years as if I hadn't grown up the last two decades. The dread of being a disappointment. The shame of it. The utterly helpless feeling of how I couldn't change to be what they wanted so they could love me. But with all these emotions, anger emerges too. Anger at how one woman could so utterly destroy lives she didn't feel worthy of fitting into to her social order. And hatred. With every fiber of my being, I hate Isabel Montgomery.

Maybe I really should consider a shrink.

I don't know what makes me do it. But I pull the phone out of my pocket.



* * *



Talk to me, I type. I need a distraction. Is Trystan really your favorite name?



* * *



I slink into a pew at the back, nodding to an elderly couple I don't recognize. She hands me a hymnal. "Thanks," I whisper, and she nods, facing forward again. As soon as I look down at the phone, though, I feel her staring daggers at the side of my face. I look up and stare right back at her until she drops her eyes and looks forward. Her husband glances at me, and I nod, looking away.



* * *



Emmy: It really is. Tristan was a knight of Author's roundtable. But mostly, it reminds me of a movie I adore. Stardust. Have you seen it?



* * *



Me: I don't watch a lot of movies. Don't have a whole lot of time.



* * *



Emmy: Well, if you ever find yourself at a loose end with two hours free, I highly recommend it. There's comedy, romance, murder, family feuds, gay pirates, and witchcraft.



* * *



Me: That sounds like something I'd avoid at all costs. There's enough of that in real life.



* * *



Emmy: Color me intrigued with your life! Which part, the murder, the gay pirates, or the witchcraft?

Emmy: Hold up. My cab just pulled up at my destination. Bit of a dodgy neighborhood so have to keep my wits about me. Text u later.



* * *



It bothers me Emmy is not safe. She has my phone, of course I want her to be safe. I want my phone back.

Sighing, annoyed that I no longer have her texting as a distraction, I put my phone away just as Beau and the other pallbearers turn from the front to find their places. My gaze tracks down the aisle toward them and passes Isabel Montgomery again. She turns her head then and looks right at me as if she'd known exactly where I was sitting. The years have taken their toll. She looks weary, and so, so sad.

Something heavy and uncomfortable turns over inside me.

I blink and look away.





6





Trystan





We sing hymns, ones I'm yanking the tunes for from the bottom of my childhood memories. Because of course I haven't been in church since I left this cradle of the South.

People I don't know eulogize about what a wonderful man my grandfather was. I try not to focus too hard on why we're here, but the long buried anger is clawing its way out of me. I loved him. But, no, he wasn't a wonderful man. He wasn't strong enough to stand up to his dragon wife. He wasn't strong enough to stop his daughter and grandson being kicked out. Perhaps he did give away lots of money to charities, but what does that really mean? I let out a harsh breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. Does it make you a better person if you give money to your church but don't take care of the emotional well-being of your own flesh and blood? My hand itches to go to my pocket to grab the phone and distract myself, instead I start running through the financials of my deal with MacMillen to keep my mood neutral. I think about my call with Mac, and how he reminded me I built my company from nothing. Nothing. I don't want anything from this family. They didn't want me, and now I've been fine without them. Whatever last ditch attempt my grandfather has made by including me in the will, I don't want. I promise myself I'll sign whatever it is over to my cousin Beau if he wants it.