Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3)(19)

There were some old acquaintances from the diner, too, and my mother’s stalwart clients from the city. A few of her closest friends had made it, the ones who had stuck around after my father went to prison.

I recognized most of the faces, and could guess at the ones that didn’t immediately register. That’s how small her circle had become after my father went to jail. That’s how easy it was to corral everyone she cared about into the same space. They parted in a sea of drawn faces, each one offering renewed sympathies as I passed through them. Millie linked arms with me, and I leant against her, finding comfort in the faces of those who had known my mother as I did – as someone who was happy and bright and beautiful. This was how she would be remembered. These were the people she loved most in the world.

I tried not to think about my dad. The last time I had spoken to him I had smashed our house phone against the wall. Michael Gracewell was a lie – Vince Marino Jr was the truth, and he never had the guts to tell me. Above all the other heinous things he had done – the murders and the lies – that was the cherry on top. I could never forgive him for that. For taking away my identity before I had a chance to learn it for myself.

‘What a lovely idea this is, Persephone.’ Mrs Bailey was in front of me. She removed the netted veil from her face and smoothed it back over her hair. Her eyes were rimmed in black. ‘To give your mother this beautiful send-off. It’s what she would have wanted after such a tragic … well …’ She trailed off, and I silently dared her to mention my uncle. The fugitive. They all suspected his involvement, but they had no idea.

‘Nice coat,’ I said, steering the conversation to a safer topic. ‘Where did you get it?’ A Titanic survivor?

‘Oh, this?’ She brushed her hands along the front of it. ‘It’s just something I had in the back of the closet.’

‘Well, it goes very nicely with the veil.’ Speaking of the veil, are you fucking serious right now?

‘I remember when you were younger …’ She looked past me, to the trees over my shoulder, as though they were whispering to her. ‘I would often see you and your mother here. It seems like a lifetime ago now.’

My mind sailed back through those memories. To ham sandwiches and smoothies underneath the trees, to watching the river meander into town, to blowing dandelion wishes over the hill and listening to the sound of my mother laughing. ‘This was a happy place for us. For her.’

‘I’m sure it always will be.’ She touched my arm, her long fingernails pressing grooves into my skin. ‘And, well, there’s something else.’ Mrs Bailey cleared her throat. ‘We, as a community – I mean, well, with the short notice, not everyone could make it, but we wanted to do something nice for your mother, to show how much we cared about her, and how wonderful she was. We had a few donations …’

Mrs Bailey shuffled backwards, and that’s when I saw it properly for the first time. A wooden bench had been set into a new granite slab on the edge of the grassy hill. A bench right where we used to sit when I was younger, where we would search underneath the trees and collect pine cones for Christmas wreaths. I edged forward, the short heels of my boots sticking and unsticking in the grass. I ran my fingers along the wood. I could still smell the varnish. A gold plaque had been set into the middle of the bench:

In loving memory of Celine Gracewell. May she rest in peace.

‘Oh.’ My voice was just a squeak in my chest. ‘That’s lovely.’ In truth, it was the loveliest thing I could have imagined.

Someone had even tied a purple ribbon around each arm – an ode to my mother’s love of creativity. Here she would be, in nature, remembered for ever in one of her favourite places. Somewhere other mothers could sit with their daughters, and laugh while blowing dandelion wishes over the hill.

‘Thank you,’ I said, gazing across the small puddle of mourners, wondering just how much they had given from their Christmas funds or their savings to make this happen. ‘She would have loved it.’

I stood in front of everyone with the river at my back, and cleared my throat. I wasn’t sure how to go about this, and part of me regretted the absence of a formal officiate, but my mother had never really been a fan of organized religion. Or organized anything, in fact.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ I said, not sure where to rest my gaze. That’s the most awkward thing about public speaking – not staring at anyone in particular, but not looking at the ceiling either in case people think you’re an idiot. Focus. I fixed my eyes on Mrs Bailey’s veil. Too ridiculous. Ursula’s beady eyes. Too suspicious. Finally I found Millie’s reassuring smile in the small crowd. ‘This isn’t going to be a formal ceremony because my mom wasn’t really a formal person. She loved spontaneity and chaos, she loved nature and being outdoors, but most of all, she loved being around her family and friends – the people who lit up her life. I think it’s fair to say she lit up ours too.’

Murmurs of approval filtered through the group, nodding heads and knowing smiles. And then the huddle was moving, just a little, and someone was slipping between the shoulders of Mrs Bailey and Millie. He stopped between them, and they let him stay there, shoulder to shoulder, his head above theirs as he stood directly across from me. And suddenly I knew exactly where to rest my surprised gaze. Luca was standing right there in front of me.