Incendiary (41 page)

I’m my father’s son. An unfeeling fucker, who cares not one way or the other about Cassandra’s suicide, other than to worry about the effect on Georgie’s recovery. Her mother’s death devastates her. My intention that she remain in the hospital and not attend the funeral leads to an argument between us. To keep her calm, I allow her to check herself out
if
she allows Bryn to stay in Hortensia. It’s a hard-won compromise, but Cash and Josh side with me, so she gives in.

She skypes with Abby and talks to Bryn three times a day, which helps. A week after her shooting, I escort Georgie into the church where her mother’s services are being held.

Reporters are amassed a small distance away. The story of my life and now a reality for Georgie, too. The family statement claims Cassandra’s death was due to a brief illness. Undoubtedly, Helen will throw her weight around so the truth won’t get out.

Georgie stops when we enter the sanctuary. Down the aisle, near the altar, is her mother’s closed casket. A huge bouquet of yellow roses adorn the gleaming mahogany. Bouquets and funereal wreaths surround the casket and line the floor.

Georgie turns, as if she intends to walk out, then faces forward again. Her shoulders shake and I wrap my arms around her, careful of her wounds.

“If you want to leave, we can. We’ll go to the cemetery and wait. Whatever you want, I’ll see that it happens.”

“Okay,” she murmurs.

Parnell stands and catches sight of us before going to Cassandra’s casket and touching it, ignoring Helen next to him until she whispers something in his ear. Whatever she tells him makes him hang his head and back away. Seeing her dad and grandmother return to their seats, Georgie squeezes my hand and I drop my arms from around her waist, allowing her to move forward, but staying close to her.

Before Georgie reaches her, Helen goes rigid. I already know she’s preparing to light into my wife, thanks to Cassandra’s text. Parnell senses the same thing. Instead of allowing Georgie to suffer her grandmother’s cruelty, he gets up again and takes his daughter’s hand.

Georgie falls against him. “I can’t believe Mom’s dead,” she sobs.

I want to grab her and tuck her away, so she’ll never have to face such grief or heartache again. She’s breaking my heart, though I don’t interfere when she and her dad go to the casket. They sob together, finally united in their grief.

Once Parnell releases Georgie, I don’t wait for him to lead her to a seat. There’s one space between him and Helen and another on the other side of him. For Josh, I suppose. On Helen’s left are several seats. Knowing Georgie won’t sit on the opposite side of the aisle on the first row, I seat myself next to Helen and situate Georgie beside me.

Helen glares at me, transferring it just beyond to Georgie. Staring at her mother’s coffin, she doesn’t notice. As organ music begins, I rub Georgie’s back. I paste a smile on my face and nod as someone brushes by, sidling an order. “If you can’t say anything nice to my wife, Helen, shut the fuck up.”

Her face flushes and she tears up, but she looks away and doesn’t acknowledge me or Georgie for the rest of the service.

At the gravesite, Helen stands alone. I’ve never seen her as she is now—almost human, mourning the loss of a daughter clearly beyond help. Her own selfishness led to her death. It doesn’t matter how I feel about any of these people—Parnell, Helen, or Josh—they have survivors’ guilt, worsened because of the argument they had with Cassandra. I don’t want to be here, but I refuse to let Georgie out of my sight. Based on conversations with Josh, I know Helen firmly believes
she
was the reason her daughter committed suicide.

As the minister finishes his graveside prayer, a bagpiper plays
Amazing Grace
. Sad, lonely chords for a dark day. The services finally end and Georgie glances over her shoulder, blinking back tears.

Taking her hand, I signal for Cash and Kiln. Cash and his five friends aren’t in suits, but full leathers. As we head to my car, they half-circle Georgie while Kiln, Pres, Jason, and two other men from my security detail do the same for me. Once we’re at the Aston, I guide Georgie into the passenger seat, before hurrying to my side and heading to Helen’s house for the private repast she has planned.

“Can you excuse us?” I interrupt Helen’s conversation, two hours later.

She narrows her eyes. “No,” she hisses, and returns to her circle of old biddies. They listen to her tearfully relay a story about her daughter, but don’t say a fucking thing about the way she’s treating Georgie.

“We do this in private, Helen. Or we do this here.” I’m not up for her bullshit.

Georgie hasn’t eaten and I think she has a low-grade fever. Her grandmother’s treatment is crushing. I have no clue why. Maybe, she’s under the same idiotic belief Helen might actually embrace her, as I was when I believed Cassandra would put aside her feelings for Georgie after her shooting. The trauma of the moment affected the reality of these bitches.

She wants to go straight from her grandmother’s house to the airport so we can get to Bryn, but that isn’t happening. I’ll deal with that argument at Abby’s condo.

“I’ve just lost my daughter, Mr. Mason,” Helen spits, her eyes bright with tears.

A tiny shred of sympathy hits me because I can relate to what she’s feeling. If it had to do with anyone else but Georgie, I’d back off. “I’m sorry for her death,” I say politely. “But you have a granddaughter who’s very much alive and who needs your comfort.”

Her mouth tightens and she draws herself up, catching people’s attention.

“I’d prefer—”

“You comfort her. That’s what she has you for. My hands are washed. Let me mourn my daughter in peace.”

Lost in her grief, Helen doesn’t realize she’s just bellowed those words to me. This is a calm, collected woman, who keeps family matters private.

From her seat on a wingback chair, Georgie shakes her head, her eyes wide with mortification. Dad narrows his eyes. Confronting a grieving old woman isn’t respectful. If I do it, we know what will happen, especially to my already tarnished reputation.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I tell her again. “An unexpected death in the family is never easy.” I glare at Dad, unable not to. He flushes and looks away. “But Georgie isn’t responsible for her mother’s death.” Cassandra did it as a
fuck you
to all of them, but especially my wife.

Helen got the same fucking text as Parnell, Josh, and Georgie. We’ve agreed to not show it to her until she’s a little stronger. The message sent to her phone has been deleted though I forwarded a copy to my mobile. This may be something Georgie never needs to know. I don’t know yet.

She pushes away from the women. “Cassandra was ill, Mr. Mason,” she hisses to me quietly. “Who in their right mind would take their own lives out of some sort of revenge?”

“It’s Georgie’s fault that her mother was sick?”

“It’s my fault for taking Georgiana’s side and flaunting it in Cassandra’s face.” Bowing her head, she starts to sob again. “I would never have left her…I never thought she’d hurt herself.”

This isn’t something that will be overcome in a day, or a month, or a year. Or a lifetime.

“Does it matter to you?” she snarls. “Did you care that much about my daughter that you’re comforting me?”

“No,” I say without hesitation and without flinching. “She was a miserable excuse for a mother, a sad excuse for a wife, and a pathetic excuse for a daughter.” Harsh words, I know, but honest.

The room is pin-drop silent. Helen’s shoulders shake at the force of her tears, and she covers her mouth. I glance at Georgie, who is white as a sheet. Cash has his hand on her shoulder and stares at me while Josh and Parnell hover near Helen.

“I hold you partly responsible, sir,” she tells me once she’s in control of herself.

“I’m sure you do, except I take none. So your words are meaningless to me. On the other hand, if you hold Georgie responsible it’ll break her heart, and she’s already been through enough. Tell her, her mother’s death isn’t on her shoulders and we’ll leave.” That’s all I want. It won’t take away Georgie’s grief, but it’ll lift some of her burden.

She huffs out a breath, but nods. “Georgiana,” she calls tonelessly.

Georgie’s steps are hesitant. She wears no makeup and her skin is flushed. When she stops in front of Helen, I stand directly behind her and encircle my arm around her waist.

“Georgiana,” Helen repeats and her mouth trembles. She stares at Georgie, then lays a hand against her cheek. “My beautiful, beautiful, Georgie,” she whispers. “Live your life with a clear conscience.” Her brows draw together, but she thumbs away Georgie’s tears, ignoring her own. “You did nothing but love your mother. I don’t blame you in the least. I admire your spirit, child. You’re my granddaughter and Mr. Mason’s wife. Hold your head up and follow your heart.”

The vehemence of her words stuns me into speechlessness, as does her fierce embrace of Georgie. She sobs against her grandmother’s chest and Helen allows it, threading her fingers through Georgie’s hair and whispering to her.

When Helen and Georgie release one another, she allows me a small smile. As Georgie turns to me, I do the unthinkable—I hug Helen, too.

“Mr. Mason?” she calls, as I escort Georgie toward the entrance hall. Kiln and the others are already surrounding us. She lifts her chin. “Don’t get used to being in charge in our dealings.”

Even stricken with grief, Helen is a controlling, old bitch. Despite the solemnity of the room, I smirk at her and guide Georgie out.