Patchwork Paradise(36)

Because I wanted to clean up the headstone, I arrived at one so I could remove moss stains and trim the grass a little bit. He’d been cremated and his parents had dusted his ashes in their backyard where he’d played as a boy, so I knew he wasn’t even remotely there. And still I felt him with me, like a warm presence at my back.

“Hey,” I murmured as I pulled a daffodil from the grass. “Is it good where you are now? Is it warm and light, and do you get to stay up late and eat to your heart’s content and never gain a pound?” I sat on my heels and smiled. “Or in your case, do they have the latest Hugo Boss suits, and do you get to drink the best cocktails without ever having a hangover?”

No response, obviously. But the warmth was there and the peaceful feeling in my stomach didn’t leave.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered and tugged the gloves from my hands. “I’m so, so sorry this happened to you. It wasn’t fair, and I shouldn’t have . . . I should’ve stayed at the gallery with you. I tell myself that all the time. I know it makes no difference, that it does you no good now. But I want you to know I’ll always be sorry for that. Part of me will always wonder what it would’ve been like to grow old with you. To be married to you. I think that hurts the most. That I never got to be your husband. I miss you.” I touched the smooth marble of the gravestone. “I think I always will. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore as it did in the beginning, so I guess that means I’m . . . moving on. I listened to your voice mail this morning, and it didn’t make me cry anymore. I think I’m finally ready to delete it. I’ll forget what your voice sounds like, and that makes me sad. But I think I’m supposed to forget, aren’t I? That it’s okay to? I’m twenty-seven. I can’t hang on to you like a crutch forever.”

The wind stirred my hair.

“I love you, Samuel,” I whispered. I tucked the gloves back into the small canvas bag I’d brought, arranged a bouquet of roses next to his name, and climbed to my feet.

I wanted to get rid of the bag before the others arrived. I had turned around to make my way down the path when I saw Thomas standing there. Tall and handsome and carefully smiling. I laughed. Laughed and threw myself at him. He caught me and hugged me and I finally cried.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay.” He held me for a long time. I closed my eyes and listened to the easy rhythm of his heart. I was so happy to see him, I couldn’t stop smiling, and he gently rocked me side to side.

When I finally straightened, I noticed other people slowly walking up the path. I took a step back and quickly dried my face.

“You look great,” I told him. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I wouldn’t miss this,” he said. “I wanted to be here for you, and for Sam. Are you doing okay? Is it . . . very bad?”

“No. It’s not so bad. I’m sad for him, but I’m doing all right.”

“Good. I’m really glad to hear it. Do you . . .” He ducked his head and blushed. My heartbeat picked up speed. “Do you want to meet Stephen? He’s here too. I told him about Sam, and he wanted to come. I hope you don’t mind.”

And just like that my stomach sank to my feet, but I tried to keep my brave face on. If I failed, I hoped he’d ascribe it to the crying I’d been doing.

“Sure. I’d love to meet him.”



Stephen was as American as he looked in the photographs, and the worst thing was, he was really nice.

He hugged me nearly as hard as Thomas had. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he drawled, and oh God, was that a Texas accent? Was he a cowboy? “Thomas told me so much about you. I feel like I know you.”

“Um, well.” I awkwardly patted his back until he let me go. “It’s nice to meet you. And thank you.”

He nodded, and his baby blues shimmered in the June sun.

“Come meet the others,” Thomas said. I watched them go. Stephen even had a swagger, like he’d just stepped off a horse. I waited to see what emotions would bubble to the surface, but all I could think was, I hope you’re happy, Thomas. I’d have to tell him that later.

Now I just had to deal with being overwhelmed by all the people showing up. Cleo and Imran were there, of course. My mom, Sam’s parents. Beyond that were Sam’s boss, some of his coworkers I’d met what felt like a lifetime ago, my own boss, distant friends. I couldn’t believe it.

We stood around his grave, and everyone had something nice to say. A few of the stories were so funny we laughed too loudly, and I was worried security would come and throw us out of the cemetery. Instead other mourners came to stand close and listen, and they too smiled, like they could find hope in this picture. Like there was a future after loss. Life. Love.

It took so long there was no time for most people to join us for coffee, so instead the usual gang, plus Stephen and my mom, came back to my house. I saw Martine and Simon have a tense discussion by their car, until Simon shook his head sharply and yanked the driver’s side door open. Martine, looking over her shoulder at me, quickly climbed in too.

I did feel a vague sort of sadness, because I realized the death of a lover was something you carried with you for life, but it became a bearable sort of weight after some time. Whereas the death of a child was a burden that never lightened, an ache that never eased, a loss that was beyond healing.