Now,I stood at the table, to survey the crowd of friends, family, and neighbors whohad gathered to celebrate her life. It was the party she had always wanted,something close to the wedding she never had, and I smiled, knowing she wouldhave been happy. I hoped that she was.
“Mom,do youwannaeat something?” TJ asked me, standing upfrom his seat to graze at the buffet table.
Ishook my head, unsure I’d be able to stomach anything at themoment,andsmiled. “Nah, I’m okay. Thanks, though.”
Heshrugged and wandered off, and I sat down to listen to Devin play with hisband. I stared ahead at one of the many picture collages, showcasing a lifetimeof memories between Gracie and me. The adventures had by two young girls, thefun they had as teens, the growing up they did as adults. Years of experiences,all compiled into a few dozen pictures.
Witha forlorn sigh, my eyes bounced to another collage, this one of Gracie and TJ.Then, to another, of her and our parents. This was all we had of her. Herapartment was gone now, after my parents, TJ, and I had cleaned it out a fewmonths ago. Now, the only evidence of her existence was held within thosepictures, and that’s all there was. There would never be any more.
“God,Gracie,” I whispered, clasping myhandsand pressingmy forehead to them.
Iclosed my eyes and imagined I could hear her voice.
Loveyou, Rosie.
Iwas grateful that I had held onto that, even after all this time. I hoped Ialways would, even as the black cloud of time loomed over me, with its reminderthat everything fades. Even the most vivid of memories.
“Yeall right, lass?”
Thetrauma of my time in Scotland had lingered for months, and even now, I couldn’tgo a week without wondering if Stirling Sharp wasreally dead.And along with my desperation to forget the horrors I’dexperienced,I had also forced my mind to block any and all thoughts of Alec Brodie. Notbecause I wanted to forget our brief time together, but because with those fondmemories came the realization that he was out there somewhere, living his lifeand forgetting about me. I lived with enough pain as it was, and I had learnedthat the pain of becoming a memory wasn’t one I could tolerate. Not when itcame to him.
Butnow, looking over my shoulder, I found a ghost I had desperately tried to forceinto the past, and damn him for not staying there.
“Whatare you doing here?” I asked, dropping my hands to the table with anunceremonious clatter of silverware.
Istared in dumbfounded wonder as he pulled out a chair from beside me. Dressedin a gorgeous grey, tweed suit likely too warm for the day we were having, hesat down, and helped himself to the rest of my glass of champagne.
“Um,I wasn’t done—”
“Yeken what I’ve found to be a problem?” he asked, smacking hislipsand lowering the glass to the table with an audible clink.
“W-what’sthat?”
Hecrossed his arms against the table and looked out toward the crowd, while mybrain still struggled to come to terms with him being here. It seemedimpossible, when I had become so accustomed to him being over three thousandmiles away, across an ocean, and in an entirely separate country.
“Rememberall of that shite ye said, about notwantin’ tobecome a memory?”
Mypoor gut twisted into a thousand tiny knots, as I nodded and said, “Yeah …”
“Well,I found it’s impossible for ye to become a memory at all, when Icannaeget ye out of my fuckin’ head.” He sighed, windedand breathless, as if he’d spent the past six months running toward me, andsaid, “Ye’re all I think about. What ye’redoin’, whoye’reseein’, how ye’rehandlin’…everythin’ we went through andeverythin’else … Icannaedo a damn thing with my life, whenthoughts of you are takin’ all my time.”
Mycheeks flushed, as my eyes volleyed to the crowd of chatting and dancingguests. “Oh …”
Hesnorted, slapping the table with a palm. “And that’s all ye have to say? I cameall the way here, said all of that, just for ye to say,oh?” he mocked,then shook his head as he laughed. “Unbelievable.”
Iturned to him, utterlygobsmacked, and exclaimed,“What do you want me to say?”
“Idunno,” he said with a shrug. “Somethin’… more, I guess.”
“Okay,then how about this?” I leveled him with a stern, hard glare. “I can’t stopthinking about you either. I can’t stop thinking about all we went through, andhow you saved my life, and the fact that I know I’ll never find another manlike you. But what is the point to saying any of it, when I know I can’t haveyou?”
“Rosie,d—”
“Whatareyoudoing here?”
Atthe sound of my son's voice, I turned and saw him standing there in his dressshirt and pants. A scowl painted his face against a happy backdrop of freshflowers, lively music, and his father coming to stand over his shoulder withcurious intent. After months of listening to my incessant commentary aboutAlec's whereabouts, I expected Tom would have strong feelings against himshowing up at my sister's memorial, and I dreaded his backlash more than thatof my son.
“InspectorBrodie,” he greeted Alec with a cordial nod of his head. “I'm glad you couldmake it.”
