The Funeral Singer (22 page)

Dad turned to Patrick. “Call my wife and tell her to keep the family at the graveside. Then contact the police and tell them to get these people out of here.” He turned back toward Andrea. The cameras were rolling. “I am in the middle of conducting a service,” he said, his voice much calmer. I could tell he was channeling his inner funeral director. “This is not an appropriate time for an interview. I have to ask you to leave.”

Andrea refused to back down. No doubt she wanted to rile him, trick him into saying something he’d later regret. “I understand a number of families have canceled their contracts with your funeral home in the past few days,” she said. “Clearly your daughter’s lack of sensitivity toward that young man’s death has hurt your business.”

My stomach turned. Was that true? He was losing business because of me? Were people really taking this out on my father?

I stepped forward. “Andrea, please keep him out of this. I’ll talk to you. I’ll answer any questions you have.”

Dad put his arm around me. “Not today.” He glared at Andrea. “Today we are at a funeral, and we are not conducting interviews.” He started to steer me away, but then he turned back toward the camera. “But for the record, this is my daughter, and I love her, and no amount of business gained or lost will ever change that.”

I stared at him, and for the millionth time in the past few days, my eyes blurred with tears. I kissed him lightly on the cheek.

We walked arm-in-arm toward the service tent. Lana stood with her mother at the side of the grave, watching as the vault was lowered into the ground. She and her mom each clasped a handful of dirt and threw it onto the grave. The backhoe would do the rest after we’d left.

I scanned the crowd and spotted Pete toward the back. Oh, no. He was talking to Bruno. I hadn’t expected him to be here. Had he attended the funeral as well?

Pete waved me over. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Bruno since our silent ride home from the hospital the other night. He’d had three days to think about what I’d done, not to mention all the other awful things I’d said to him that night. No doubt he hated me more than ever. At least I knew he wouldn’t blow up at me here, in the cemetery.

“Hi,” I said to them.

Bruno looked away. The hurt in his eyes stabbed at my heart.

“Glad you made it,” Pete said. “Lana will appreciate it.”

“Will she? I’m not so sure.”

“Of course she will. Come on. Let’s go offer our condolences.”

I shook my head. “You two go ahead.” I hung back as Bruno and Pete walked over to her. I watched as Lana gave Bruno a hug and then leaned against Pete. She looked frail and a little lost. I wasn’t used to seeing her like that. She was always the strong one, so sure of herself and her place in the world. Usually I was the one who needed her. Could I be the strong one now? I wasn’t sure, especially after all that had happened over the past few days, but I had to try.

I walked over slowly. She glanced up as I approached, and I could tell she was surprised to see me.

I gave her a light hug. “I’m so sorry.”

Lana nodded. “Thanks for the singing. It meant a lot.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you after … I just … I wasn’t sure you’d want to talk to me. I thought about you a lot, though.”

Lana asked Pete and Bruno to meet us in the parking lot and then grabbed my hand. We sat down in the last row of chairs under the tent.

“You screwed up,” she said.

“I know, and—”

“But if there’s one thing the last couple of months has taught me, it’s that life is too short for grudges.”

I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. “You have to know, I did not mean it the way it sounded. No way do I think Mick’s death—”

“Mel, stop.” Lana sounded tired. “I don’t want to get into it now.”

I nodded. She was right. Today wasn’t about me. How had I managed to make this about me already? Bruno had said I made everything about me, everywhere, all the time. Maybe he was right. “I apologize. Let me start over: How are you feeling?”

Lana shrugged. “Not great. With Grandma there was mostly guilt. We’d been out of her life for so long, I felt like I barely knew her anymore. But with this … ” She gestured toward Milton’s grave and her voice became strained. “It’s so hard.”

I bit my lip and wrapped my hand around the edge of my seat. The cool feel of the plastic grounded me, helped me focus. “At least you had a couple of months with him.” Oh, man. That sounded bad, even to me. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. When I opened them, Lana was slumped over, crying. I looked around for my mom and dad, but they were both busy. What should I say? Why was I so horrible at this?

Wait a minute. I was doing it again—making this about me when it should be about Lana. I’d come here for her. What had Pete said?
Sometimes just being there for someone is enough.

I put my arm around her and said nothing. I didn’t try to find the right words or figure out how to make her feel better. I simply sat there and held her while she cried.

After what seemed like a long time, she straightened and began wiping at her eyes. I fished a packet of tissues out of my purse and handed them to her.

“Thanks,” she said. “I know this isn’t really your thing.”

I shook my head. “Being your best friend is totally my thing.”

She gave me a teary smile and stood. “Let’s go.”

We walked slowly down toward the parking lot. Neither of us said a word, but it wasn’t awkward. It was nice. As we neared the cremation garden, I stopped and gave Lana a hug. “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

I hadn’t intended to visit Mick’s grave, but it seemed right. I ducked into the garden and found his marker. “In loving memory of Michael Edward Nolan III.” Sitting on top was a fresh spray of violets that I was sure came from his grandmother’s yard. I scooped them up and breathed in their sweet, slightly mossy scent.

“I’m so sorry, Mick. You didn’t deserve what I said.” I closed my eyes as I recalled his burial service. It was just two months ago, but it felt like a lifetime. I could see it all so clearly—the huge crowd, the twenty-one roses Mrs. Nolan dropped into the grave and the single tear that fell onto her cheek as I sang.

My eyes flew open. Of course. Mrs. Nolan knew I sang “Amazing Grace” for her that day. She knew there was more to me than one bad decision, just as there was more to Mick than his drug addiction. My legacy might be that of a spoiled, failed starlet, but Mrs. Nolan knew that deep down there was more to me than that. So did my dad, and Lana, and Pete, and probably almost everyone who really mattered to me. Almost.

I placed the violets back on Mick’s grave. “Rest in peace,” I whispered.

When I reached the parking lot, Bruno, Lana, and Pete were admiring Pete’s Impala.

“Sweet ride,” Bruno said.

Pete tried to shrug it off, but I could tell he was pleased.

Lana grabbed his hand. “Come on. We need to go.” She looked back and forth between Bruno and me. “Mom’s having some people over to the house if you guys want to come.”

Bruno stiffened, whether because he was uncomfortable at the thought of going to Lana’s or because he didn’t want to be left here with me, I wasn’t sure. “Thanks. I’ll try,” he said.

I hugged Lana and assured her I’d be there. As she climbed into the passenger’s seat, I grabbed Pete’s arm. “Thanks for convincing me to come,” I said. “You were right.”

Pete nodded. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Actually, it was. But it was worth it.”

Bruno and I stood in silence and watched them pull away.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I should go.” He turned and walked toward his car.

I followed him. “Bruno, I know I don’t deserve it, but please give me a chance to apologize.”

He leaned against the trunk of the Viper. For the first time all day, he looked straight at me. His stare was cold and hard. In the falling light of dusk, his eyes took on a dark blue tone, the same shade as the violets on Mick’s grave. “Go ahead.”

I leaned one hip against the car to steady my shaking legs. Where to start? How could I possibly tell him everything that was in my heart? I began to cry, and the words came tumbling out. “I know I’ve apologized a million times, and I know it sounds like a lot of empty words. But please believe me, I didn’t mean it. Any of it. Especially not the part about Mick, but also not the parts about you. It’s just that I was so afraid of you, how I felt about you, and … ” Oh, man. Did I just say that? My cheeks burned, but I forced myself to meet Bruno’s eyes. “I said you don’t know the first thing about me, but the fact is, you do. You know the first thing, but not everything. You were right. I’ve been a major brat. But that’s not who I am, not really. Not deep down.”

Bruno said nothing. He broke my gaze and rubbed at an imaginary scratch in his paint job.

So that was it. I’d had my say. I didn’t deserve more. “Thank you for hearing me out.” I turned to go, but his voice, soft and low, stopped me.

“Anyone who could sing ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ like that … ” He looked up. “I’m not excusing what you did, but I said some pretty cruel things myself that night. Much as I hate to admit it, Zed was right. I pushed you. I was pissed off, and I pushed, and maybe if I hadn’t, things would be different.”

I shook my head. “Don’t blame yourself. This is on me. And anyway, I started the whole thing with my stupid drunken rant about your supposed flaws.”

“Yes, that. Clearly you find me … extremely interesting.”

I blushed. “I do, actually.”

We stood in silence for a few moments. Finally, Bruno slid down off the car and took my hands in his. “How about we start over?”

I wanted to. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to lean into him and pretend the last few days had never happened, but instead I pulled away. “We can’t.” I pointed toward the cemetery entrance. “There are two television crews on the other side of that gate waiting to pounce the second I leave. They’re going to follow me around for days, maybe weeks, recording my every move.”

“And?”

“Come on, Bruno. Don’t pretend you don’t get it. You still have a chance to bring back The Grime, to put out the new album and go on tour. You and the rest of the guys haven’t done anything wrong. But getting involved with me … that would be the end for you.”

Bruno leaned forward and touched my face, his eyes staring deep into mine. “I’m not Zed. I’m not interested in managing my image. I’m interested in you—Melanie Martin. And not Melanie Martin, the famous Funeral Singer, but Melanie Martin, the girl who’s standing here in front of me.”

I smiled. That sounded so good. Perfect, actually.

Bruno pulled me toward him and kissed me. It started off as a slow, gentle kiss, his fingertips roaming idly down my back, past my waist and around my hips. I leaned into him, and he kissed me harder, with an intensity I’d never felt before. I once again had the sensation of tumbling through space, only this time I wasn’t falling. I was soaring.

I had no idea how long we kissed, but when at last my feet landed back on solid ground, I caught my breath, and the cool evening air sent a shiver up my spine.

“Bruno?”

“Yes?”

“Lana showed me something the other night, something you wrote.” I suddenly felt self-conscious. That crumpled sheet had been private. I wasn’t supposed to have seen it, and it might not even have been about me. But I wanted to know, needed to know. “‘
With you I can breathe. With you I believe
… ’”

Bruno’s eyes widened in surprise. “‘
Sink or swim just like him, but your smile reels me in.’
Yeah. I know the one.”

“I was just wondering. Was that … ?”

“About anyone in particular? Maybe.” Bruno’s eyes teased, and he gave me another long, sweet kiss that left no doubt as to who the song was about. We stood for a while in each other’s arms as dusk fell around us. The cemetery was so quiet, so peaceful.

Finally I straightened and broke the silence. “I should probably head over to Lana’s. She’ll wonder what’s happened to me.”

Bruno nodded. “Of course.”

“You want to come?”

He shook his head. “No. You go. She needs you.”

My stomach clenched at the idea, but I knew he was right. And I knew now I could handle it.

Bruno walked me to my car. I opened the door and turned to him. “See you soon?”

“Is tomorrow night soon enough?”

I grinned. “That works.”

As I climbed into the driver’s seat, I gazed up toward Milton and Eleanor’s graves. A light fog had settled around the tent. I imagined the two of them, together again, a forever love.

Would I ever have what they had? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure I even deserved it, but for now, just knowing such a thing existed was enough. As I put the car into reverse, I caught my breath. Because there, just above their headstones, the clouds parted ever so briefly to reveal the golden sliver of a new moon.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

In writing, as in life, I have been blessed with many wonderful friends, family, and supporters. I am thankful to all of you, and especially:

To the Swoon Romance team—with special thanks to Georgia McBride, Amy Garvey, Mandy Schoen, and Emily Sims—who’ve made this book a reality. And to the designers at Morgan Media for creating a gorgeous cover.

To my agent, Andrea Somberg, who is smart and savvy and supportive. I am lucky to have you on my side.

To mentors Ellen Braaf, without whom this book would not exist, and Erica Chapman and Alisha Niehaus Berger, without whom this book would exist only in a drawer.

To author T.A. Barron, whose work and words inspired me to write Mel’s story.

To the Cudas—Lisa Amowitz, Heidi Ayarbe, Pippa Bayliss, Dhonielle Clayton, Trish Eklund, Lindsay Eland, Cathy Giordiano, Cyndy Henzel, Christine Johnson, and Kate Milford. You make the heartbreaks less heart breaking and the celebrations more celebratory.

To the Writer’s Center, with special thanks to my fellow WC-Leesburg Committee members, Ellen Braaf, Khris Baxter, Louise Baxter, Brad Holzwart, Jeff Kleinman, and Val Patterson.

To fellow writers and all-around amazing, talented people Tom Angleberger, Kathy Chappell, Jessica Martinez, and Noreen Wald.