Girls of Brackenhill(25)
Which was why when Wyatt kissed Hannah against the back of the concession stand in her new pink bikini, the lifted wood of the weathered boards digging into her bare back, the straps of her bathing suit snagging on the splinters, and he pulled her against him until their midsections met and she felt his skin against hers, a feeling wholly new and terrifying and exhilarating, and it took her breath away to feel the dampness of his sweat mixing with hers in the hot August sun, she vowed to never, ever live without this. Without the dizzying breathlessness of world-rocking lust. That if she was going to clean up blood from the bathroom floor, it was going to be for someone who made her vision swim, who made her feel like the earth was tilted, ever so slightly, off its axis and only they could feel it, wrong footed and off balance with love. She’d never do that for Wes, whom she’d never seen her mother look at with anything other than disgust.
Years later, when she met Huck, when she called the number on the business card, he made her laugh. They went to a chain restaurant for their first date (practical, quick, and no, not PJ Whelihan’s). He made her feel like an adult. She’d been looking for a job in marketing, a real job, not a bartending or waitressing job, and striking out. She had felt despair at falling behind, at having no real income, no career, while all her friends pursued advanced degrees, coveted externships. Huck offered a glimpse of adulthood—with a side of kindness, laughter. Later, after they moved in together (practical, like a trial marriage!), they talked about money, shared goals, starting a family. They talked about whether the carpeting in the living room needed to be replaced and whether the water heater had another year. He never made her dizzy with lust. He was a proper grown-up in the way men almost never were. After all, Hannah and Julia had a biological father they’d never met, a stepfather who was nothing but a drain. Huck felt like a relief. She’d never have to clean the mess from a gushing forehead off the bathroom floor. He looked out for her, a comfort she’d never known. Or hadn’t known in seventeen years.
Wyatt had the power to upend everything. If the remains in the woods were Julia, what did that mean? If Aunt Fae’s accident hadn’t been an accident at all but a deliberate act, what would that do to her life, her future? And who would do such a thing?
And now her worlds were colliding: her safety, her desires, her buried secrets threatening to spill over into her real life, threatening to topple her carefully constructed facade of a young woman who had her shit together. She had a career she liked, a fiancé she loved, a house they were renting to own, aligned visions for the future that included joint vacation accounts and 401Ks.
Hannah didn’t trust her own feelings around Wyatt. The way, even now, when she’d opened the door and he’d stood there, unexpected, looking the same as he did at eighteen, her heart had hammered in a startlingly different way. She couldn’t help but remember the summers, the rush of freedom, a free-flying happiness she hadn’t known before or since and had spent the last seventeen years pretending she never wanted back.
Hannah now stood rooted to her bedroom floor, watching from the turret window as the two men retreated, figures growing distant down the forest path, Huck’s hands in his pockets, Wyatt’s gesturing, Huck nodding, and all she could do was squeeze her eyes tight and think fervently, like a wish, Please, please leave us alone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Now
Aunt Fae’s memorial service was tomorrow. She’d been cremated, and Hannah was going to spread half her ashes in the courtyard garden; the other half she’d bury in a plot that Fae would share with Uncle Stuart when the time came. Hannah had never heard of burying ashes before. The lawyer was specific: they were to be together. Hannah thought it was rather nice to want to be tied in death that way.
The business of death was dry, almost callous. Meetings with lawyers, phone calls where Hannah sat on hold for an hour waiting to talk to Uncle Stuart’s insurance company, discussion with funeral homes that centered around whether the urn would be moisture tolerant or moisture proof and what the difference was. The payment for grave opening and closing. It was all so clinical, which was jarring but also felt like a relief.
She planned the service for a nondenominational church down in Rockwell. The Websters weren’t religious and apparently had never attended church, but Hannah finally found a pastor in town willing to give Aunt Fae a memorial that didn’t focus on Bible verses. She’d sat with him the previous day and talked to him about Aunt Fae, the way Hannah remembered her: kind, giving, reserved and perhaps a bit nervous, but warmhearted. The man—Pastor Jim, he’d said to call him—had listened and asked questions, taken notes, and promised to deliver a eulogy befitting Hannah’s aunt. She wondered, briefly, who in town would come. Whether Aunt Fae had died with friends or not. Conspicuously, no one had come to Brackenhill, and there had been no flower deliveries.
Alice would come. And then a name floated into her consciousness: Jinny Fekete. Oh my God, Jinny. Hannah closed her eyes and remembered the wild black hair, the purple glasses hanging off a chain around her neck. The arms stacked with Bakelite: tones of red, amber, and gold. The hats! Pillboxes and wool shell caps with bowknots, Juliet caps and berets, and sometimes one oversize white straw hat. Jinny Fekete was Aunt Fae’s best friend, her only friend as far as Hannah knew. She’d only met her a handful of times; she rarely came to Brackenhill. She smelled like sage and something smoky, like she’d just come from a bonfire. Sometimes she smoked from a cigarette holder. Hannah had forgotten all about Jinny and had no idea if she was even alive.