“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Mom said, grinning at her only grandchild.
Chloe executed a spin. “Thank you and I know.”
The pudgy, grumpy cat I’d inherited along with the house slunk onto the porch looking judgmental as always. The half-feral fleabag had been given the regal name Lady Mildred Meowington. Over time, it had been shortened to Milly Meow Meow. Nowadays, when I had to yell at her for the eighteenth time not to claw the back of the couch, it was just Meow Meow or Hey, Asshole.
“Go inside, Meow Meow, or you’ll be left out all day,” I warned.
The cat didn’t dignify my warning with a response. Instead she brushed against Chloe’s black tights and then sat at her feet to lavish her feline butthole with attention.
“Gross,” Maeve noted.
“Great. Now I have to de-fur my tights,” Chloe complained with a stamp of one booted foot.
“I’ll find the lint roller,” I volunteered, rising from the swing and nudging the cat with my foot until she flopped over on her back to bare her tubby tummy. “Who wants breakfast wine?”
“You know what they say,” Mom said, tugging my sister to her feet. “Chardonnay is the most important meal of the day.”
The warm, fuzzy, alcohol blur began to wane around hour two of the visitation. I didn’t want to be here standing in front of a stainless-steel urn in a room with moody peacock wallpaper, accepting condolences and listening to stories of what a great man Simon Walton was.
There would be no new stories now, I realized. My sweet, brilliant, kindhearted, uncoordinated dad was gone. And all we were left with were memories that would never come close to filling the hole his absence left behind.
“I just don’t know what we’re going to do without Uncle Simon,” my cousin Nessa said, juggling a chubby baby on her hip while her husband wrangled their bow tie–wearing three-year-old. My dad had always worn bow ties. “He and your mom came over once a month to babysit so Will and I could have a date night.”
“He loved spending time with your kids,” I assured her.
My parents had made no secret about wanting a house full of family. That was the reason they’d bought an eighteen-room rambling Victorian with a formal dining room big enough to seat twenty. Maeve had dutifully coughed up one grandkid, but divorce and a high-powered legal career had temporarily shuttered plans for a second.
And then there was me. I was head librarian of the best damn public library in the tricounty area, working my ass off to expand our catalog, programs, and services. But I was no closer to marriage and babies now than I’d been at thirty. Which was…hell. A while ago.
Nessa’s baby blew a raspberry at me and looked exceedingly pleased with herself.
“Uh-oh,” my cousin said.
I followed her gaze to the toddler who was evading his father by running circles around the urn’s pedestal.
“Hold this,” Nessa said, handing me the baby. “Mama needs to quietly and gracefully save the day.”
“You know,” I said to the baby, “my dad would probably love it if your brother accidentally dumped his ashes today. He’d think it was hilarious.”
She looked at me with owlish curiosity from the biggest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen. She was mostly bald with wispy blond hair carefully tucked under a sassy pink bow. One drool-soaked fist reached out, and she traced her finger over my cheek.
The gummy smile took me by surprise as did the delighted giggle that emanated somewhere from her round belly. Happiness—the effervescent kind—bubbled up inside me.
“Crisis averted,” Nessa said, reappearing. “Aww, she likes you!”
My cousin took her daughter from me, and I was surprised when I instantly missed the warm, giggly weight in my arms. Feeling dazed, I watched the little family move down the line to greet my mother and sister.
I’d heard of women’s biological clocks kicking in with one whiff of a baby’s head, but a countdown kicked off at a funeral? That had to be a first.
Of course I wanted a family. I’d always assumed I’d make time…after college, then after I landed my first job, then after I landed my dream job in my hometown, then after I got the library moved into its new building.
I wasn’t getting younger. My eggs weren’t miraculously getting fresher. If I wanted a family of my own, I needed to start now.
Well, shit.
Evolutionary instincts took over, and I sized up Bud Nickelbee as he stepped in front of me and offered his condolences. Bud’s thin, reedy frame was always clad in overalls. A glasses wearer myself, I didn’t mind his Lennon-style spectacles. But the long, silver ponytail and his plans to retire and build an off-the-grid bunker in Montana were deal-breakers.
I needed a man young enough to want to suffer through babies with me. Preferably here, with a Costco and Target nearby.
My biological clock epiphany was interrupted by the arrival of Knox and Naomi Morgan. The bearded bad boy of Knockemout had fallen hard for the runaway bride when she’d swept into town last year. Together, they’d managed to build the kind of swoony happily ever after I’d devoured on the page as a teen…and a young adult…and as recently as last week.
Speaking of evolutionary instincts, the grumpy Knox in a suit—tie askew as if he couldn’t be bothered to tie it correctly—was definitely fatherhood material. His broad-shouldered brother, Nash, appeared in full police uniform behind him. He possessively gripped the hand of his fiancée, the beautiful and fashionable Lina. Both men were stellar sperm material.
I shook myself out of my reproductive reverie. “Thank you guys for coming,” I said.
Naomi looked feminine and soft in a navy wool dress, her hair styled in bouncy brunette waves. Her hug smelled vaguely of lemon Pledge, which made me smile. When she was stressed or bored or happy, Naomi cleaned. It was her love language. The library had never been cleaner since she took on the role of community outreach coordinator.
“We’re so sorry about Simon. He was such a wonderful man,” she said. “I’m glad I got to meet him at Thanksgiving.”
“Me too,” I agreed.
It had been the last official Walton holiday in the family home. The house had been bursting at the seams with friends and family and food. So. Much. Food. Despite his illness, Dad had been deliriously happy.
The memory had a fresh wave of grief slamming into me, and it took everything I had not to give in to the ugly cry that I managed to disguise as a hiccup as I pulled free of Naomi’s embrace.
“Sorry. Too much breakfast wine,” I fibbed.
Our friend Lina stepped up. She was long-legged and edgy even in a sexy pantsuit and mouth-watering stilettos. She grimaced, then leaned in for an awkward hug. Lina wasn’t the touchy-feely type with anyone other than Nash. It made me appreciate the gesture even more.
Although if people didn’t stop being nice to me, the dam holding back the endless reservoir of grief was going to crack.
“This sucks,” she whispered before releasing me.
“Yeah. It really does,” I agreed, clearing my throat and forcing the emotions back down. I could do anger. Anger was easy and clean and transformative, powerful even. But the messier emotions I wasn’t comfortable sharing with others.