Mr. Slader looked deflated. Sylvie ran her tongue across her teeth and glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. It was 5:55, and the viewing was set to begin in five minutes. An hour of viewing followed by an hour of funeral followed by the burial. All that before unlimited drinks and food at Hannigan’s. Would this day ever end? The man in the casket looked to be taunting her.
Suddenly, the door to the foyer opened. Mr. Slader turned to say, “Oh, I’m sorry. We still need another few minutes.”
But the man in the foyer, standing there in a dark gray suit, his hair in wild curls and his eyes fiery, was no stranger to Sylvie. Her knees nearly gave out.
It was Graham Ellis. Twenty-three years had gone by since she’d last seen him, but there could be no mistaking it.
“He can stay,” Sylvie said. She hated how small her voice sounded.
Mr. Slader stepped back, perhaps sensing the intensity between them. “Of course, Miss Bruckson.”
He left them alone at the back of the room—twenty feet from her father’s casket.
Graham stepped closer. Sylvie studied his face, the wrinkles, the coiled gray hairs near his temples, the sturdy jawline, and the beard that made him look even more handsome andseasoned. He removed his hands from his pants pockets, and they were dark and worn. They were the hands of a man rather than a boy. Sylvie blinked back tears.
It wasn’t hard for her to remember the first time she’d held those hands.
1998. She’d been thirteen years old and out of her mind with the flu.Indiana Joneson VHS. Chocolate chip cookies. The day raced back to her and then receded just as fast. Graham Ellis. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But hadn’t she read somewhere he’d gotten married?
People get divorced all the time,she thought.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said finally.
Graham blinked. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to be.”
“I mean, I didn’t even know you were on the island,” Sylvie stuttered.
“I wasn’t till recently.”
Sylvie’s heart thudded. What he said seemed to contain multitudes. It seemed to suggest an entire backstory, one that hadn’t involved her. But whose fault was that?
“When did you get in?” Graham asked.
“Yesterday,” she said. “I didn’t plan any of this. The funeral, or anything else.”
“I heard about the party at Hannigan’s.”
Sylvie let out a soft laugh. “He’s always a surprise, isn’t he?”
“My mom’s on her way in,” Graham offered, his eyes lowering. There was something softer and more broken about him than Sylvie remembered, but she guessed he’d say the same about her.
On cue, Valerie swooped into the foyer, her hair a wild gray bush behind her. When she saw Sylvie, she nearly melted. Sylvie found herself tucked into the safe arms of a woman she’d once loved like a mother, a woman she’d missed almost as much as Graham when she’d gone away. Sylvie began to cry again, butbecause she didn’t want anyone to accuse her of crying over her father, she hurried to brush her tears aside.
“My darling, look at you!” Valerie cried, stepping back. “You’re just the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Sylvie knew this was the kind of thing mothers were supposed to say, that they echoed with empathy and love and needed you to feel it. But even still, she couldn’t remember the last time someone had called her pretty. Not even Mike had done that. Not any of her other New York boyfriends, either. She blushed and tried her hardest not to look at Graham.
“This is not easy for you,” Valerie said, a firm statement of fact that made Sylvie nod, grateful to be taken care of, at least for a moment. “But we’ll be right here the whole time. Won’t we, Graham?”
“Of course,” Graham said. But he looked tentative, as though he half expected Sylvie to tell him to go.
But Sylvie didn’t have time to fall into the chaos of Graham Ellis’s eyes. Guests were arriving, filling up the foyer, removing spring jackets and walking up to the casket to pay their respects. Through the speakers, Mr. Slader put on light jazz music, some of her father’s favorite songs, songs he’d played late at night in his study. People were commenting on James Bruckson’s death party, which was what the flyer called the affair at Hannigan’s. One after another, her father’s friends, enemies, and acquaintances, people she’d known since she was a girl, approached her, telling her how sorry they were and how much they’d missed her. It was a surprise for Sylvie to realize she knew everyone’s names. She hadn’t forgotten a thing.
But when the funeral began, when the pastor got up to say a few words about James Bruckson and all he’d done for the community, all he’d done for his daughter, Sylvie couldn’t take it. Already leaning against the far wall, as far as she could get from James Bruckson, she ducked out of the main room, walkedthrough the foyer, and found herself outside on the sidewalk. It was spitting a freezing, late-April rain. She didn’t want to go back in for her jacket. She stood in quiet misery, tears draining from her eyes. She thought,I have to get out of here.
“Sylvie?”
Sylvie turned around to find Graham. Already, the rain flattened out his curls and made him look sorrowful and cold.
