Wish You Were Gone(11)
Then, she remembered the bag. When the people from the funeral home had delivered James’s urn, they had also delivered a large, plastic Ziploc bag with his clothing and shoes neatly stashed inside. The bag had been sitting on the mudroom bench for days. Emma hadn’t been able to look at it, but she went to it now, the tie clutched in one hand as she picked up the bag and turned it over. Bloody shirt. Torn pants. Folded socks. Shiny shoes. His wedding band. His heavy Gucci watch.
No tie.
GRAY
It was 7:45 a.m., and Gray Garrison had already had a full day. She had gotten out of bed at 4:30, run three miles in the dark, dodging fallen leaves, cracked sidewalks, and shredded power lines, then made a green smoothie and answered emails while she stopped sweating. She always reserved the hour from 5:00 to 6:00 a.m. for personal and family emails, which this morning included the preliminary Thanksgiving email, canvassing her four brothers and their wives and partners to find out how many of them were planning on making the trip this year, and writing back to her son Derek, who was concerned about his father’s stress level. Nothing from his twin brother, Dante, of course, who had his head so far up his butt he could see past his molars, but one out of two kids having empathy wasn’t bad. She then reviewed the agenda for tonight’s town council meeting, put in her order at Whole Foods, paid a few bills, and ordered Italian to be delivered to Emma’s this evening for dinner. Who knew what those kids would be eating otherwise?
At six, she took a shower, and she was in full hair and makeup by seven, sitting in the kitchen with Darnell’s scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, and coffee ready. Gray wasn’t generally a breakfast person, which meant Darnell usually ordered in once he got to the office, but she wanted to show her support and Darnell was pleasantly surprised.
“I thought I smelled bacon,” he said, smiling as he strode into the kitchen. Score one for Gray—she hadn’t seen him smile in well over a week. He leaned in for a kiss, his musky aftershave enveloping her, then grabbed the orange juice out of the fridge and sat down. “To what do I owe the surprise?”
Gray sipped her coffee and refolded the Wall Street Journal. “I thought you could use a little something positive heading into this week.”
“Tell me about it.” He dashed pepper onto his eggs, his broad shoulder muscles flexing beneath his crisp, white shirt. She’d always loved the way he looked in a white oxford. It contrasted with his dark skin and brought out the bright white of the teeth they’d paid through the nose for after the two front ones were knocked out during his last season in the NFL. “It’s gonna take a while to clean up after last week’s shit storm.” He took a bite and shook his head. “Fucking James. He couldn’t have just died like a normal person with a heart attack or something?”
Leave it to James Walsh to trash the reputation of his own PR company by creating a mess of bad PR, and then not even being there to deal with the fallout.
“It was an accident, hon. He didn’t do it on purpose.”
He gave her a loaded look. They both knew that this was a gray area. After all, he did have to get himself wasted enough to drive his own car through a wall.
“Well, today you can start turning over a new leaf,” she said, standing to rinse out her drained coffee mug. “All you have to do is talk to your people, make sure everyone’s on the same page going forward, and everything will be just—”
Darnell slammed his mug down on the kitchen island so hard Gray flinched. When she turned away from the sink, she half expected to see him keeling over of his own heart attack. But no. He simply sat there, posture straight, glaring at her.
“Do you have to be such a goddamned cheerleader all the time?” he snapped. “I mean turn off the relentless positivity for one fucking second, Gray, and actually listen!”
Gray gripped the edge of the countertop behind her. She felt as if she had suddenly been thrust into the room with a stranger. A raging, six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound stranger.
“Darnell?” she said quietly, because she could think of nothing else to do.
Like a switch had flipped, the ire drained out of his eyes and his face slackened. He looked down at the splatter of coffee on the marble and released the mug as if it were on fire. Clearly embarrassed, possibly confused, he averted his eyes and grabbed a few napkins from the center of the island to clean up his mess.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.”
Gray released her death grip on the counter. “It’s okay,” she said, her heart still hammering. “It’s a stressful time.”
Darnell slid past her to dump the wet napkins in the garbage, then reached for her. She allowed him to pull her into his arms, where, for the last half of her life, she had felt safer and more secure than anywhere else on the planet. He kissed the top of her head and she let out a breath. It was just a blip. He was just on edge. All thanks to James Walsh. A pain in the ass in life and a pain in the ass in death.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” she said, leaning back to look up at him, but keeping her arms clasped around his waist. “Just get through this week. You’ll see.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said, then ventured a smile. “You always are.”
He kissed her firmly on the lips, then stepped from her grasp and grabbed his suit jacket off the stool where he’d tossed it. “I’d better go. Love you.”