“Mrs. Bruckson.” Mr. Slader stepped into the foyer wearing a navy blue sweater and a pair of black slacks. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and regarded her with an air of somber empathy.
“It’s Miss, actually,” she said, thrown off by the use of Mrs. so soon after she’d wanted Mike to propose.
“Oh, Miss Bruckson. I’m terribly sorry.” Mr. Sadler folded his lips. “I should have known.”
“It’s all right.” Sylvie’s cheeks were hot with embarrassment, but she didn’t know why.
Mr. Slader took a moment to fix his nervous face, then said, “Can I offer you something? Tea? Cookies?”
Although she hadn’t managed to choke down anything for breakfast except a cup of black coffee, Sylvie couldn’t imagine eating anything. Filled with acid, her stomach was gnawing at itself, but it felt distracting. Like something to focus on that didn’t involve her father’s beyond-the-grave manipulation and the fact that now, she was alone in the world.
“You don’t have to feel bad,” she said suddenly. “My father and I weren’t close. We haven’t spoken in twenty-three years, in fact. We’re basically strangers. Or we were.”
Mr. Slader bent his head. “This must be a complicated time for you.”
Sylvie hadn’t expected that response. She’d half expected him to reprimand her for not reaching out to her father beforehis death—to remind her that life is all we have. But she remembered that Mr. Slader wasn’t a priest or a pastor. He wasn’t here to sit on some moral high ground, judging her. He was here to make money off people who had died and, hopefully, make the grieving of those they’d left behind easier. He was also, it seemed, pretty kind.
“It is,” Sylvie said.
“Would you like to see him?”
Sylvie couldn’t breathe. But she nodded because she didn’t want to stand around, making small talk with Mr. Slader.
Beyond Mr. Slader was the room where her father lay in his casket, looking gentle and soft and as though he’d recently been told a joke he really liked. This sort of half smile on James Bruckson’s face had been a rare thing indeed. Sylvie approached on quaking legs but stopped about five feet away. From here, she could make out how old he’d gotten in the previous few years—how his hair had become white, and his face had freckled and wrinkled. He’d been thirty when she was born. That made him seventy now, an age she felt was far too young. He should have had another ten years, at least. Ten years to do whatever it was he’d gotten up to the past two decades.
Dead at seventy. Cancer. Which meant he’d known it was coming, and he hadn’t reached out.
But would Sylvie have even answered the phone?
There was still so much Sylvie didn’t know. And last night, she hadn’t dared return to her father’s house or The House on Nantucket. She’d gotten a little room in a hotel downtown, where she’d called her editor and made notes regarding her upcoming trip to Alabama.I have to maintain normalcy, she’d told herself as she’d tossed and turned all night.I have to cling to the life I’ve built, or else I’ll have nothing.
But normal had flown out the window the moment her mother had died. Maybe Sylvie had been chasing normal all her adult life. She’d never found it.
Now, Sylvie twisted away from the casket and put her hand over her mouth, biting her fingers to keep from crying. Mr. Slader was in the doorway, waiting to see if she needed him.
She cleaned herself up as quickly as she could.
“Any idea of how many people are coming?” she asked.
“That’s a good question. But I assume you remember what Nantucket is like,” Mr. Slader said. “Everyone knows everyone else, and absolutely everyone knew your father. He was a pillar of the community. I imagine they’ll want to pay their respects.”
Sylvie’s heart began to pound. What was she doing here? Maybe she should take this opportunity to leave, to jump in her car and let the money from the sale of her father’s inn go wherever he wanted it to. But just that morning, she’d read up about another three luxury resort construction sites on Nantucket alone, all with plans to be finished in two years or less. It made her irate to think of that money lining the pockets of the already wealthy idiots who were eager to destroy the once quaint and glorious island. Didn’t they see that in boosting tourism, they were destroying the very beauty that brought people to the island in the first place?
What would be left when all the beauty was gone?
It was difficult to know her father’s stance on the big builders. After all, he’d made his money in tourism, profiting from the getaways of moderately wealthy Midwesterners who’d driven fifteen-plus hours to get there, taking photographs and saying it was paradise.
“As you know,” Mr. Slader said, “your father arranged for a party at Hannigan’s after the burial. Food, drinks, everything. He wanted the islanders to enjoy themselves before the big season began. And…” Mr. Slader squinted at Sylvie. “I seemto remember him mentioning that you’d be involved in that season. That you might be sticking around for the summertime tourists?”
Sylvie snorted with surprise.
Mr. Slader’s face was shadowed. “I’m sorry. You just said that you hadn’t spoken in twenty-three years.”
“Right.”
“But before he died, your father mentioned to me,” Mr. Slader said, “that you’d be taking over the family business. I suppose that confused me.”
“I want to sell the inn,” Sylvie said. “I want to get out of here.”
