Jenny
He kissed me.
He kissed me.
After the ball dropped.
At midnight.
On New Year's Eve.
It was practically the stuff of a fairy tales.
But fairy tales, I had learned as a little girl, all had villains. And in this one, that was my own damn head. It was the ugly, insecure, defeated part of me that screamed that I could never have anything like that, anything resembling a fairy tales.
Women like me, beaten down to dust, we didn't get happily ever afters. We didn't get men who wanted to get down on their hands and knees, gather us up, piece us back together.
Why would any man want to put that much work in when there were hundreds, thousands, millions of other girls out there who hadn't been ground into a fine dust.
As I sat there after, my lips still tingling, my chin and cheeks warm from the brush of his beard, my heart skittering around in my chest - a wild animal caught in a trap, the reality came down on me hard, slamming into my shoulders so hard I would swear I lost a whole inch of height.
Pity.
It was a pity kiss.
Because he felt bad for me.
Because I gave him my sob story about my lonely New Year's Eve tradition.
Because Smith was a good man. And good men tried to make sad women feel better.
Tears stung relentlessly at my eyes as I sipped champagne, feeling the bubbles tickle up into my nose, something I would normally smile about, maybe say something about, but I was too focused on slow blinking the wetness away.
I didn't cry when I was sad.
I didn't let the world at large get another chunk of me like that.
I fought the tears back. I hoarded them. Saved them for when I was alone. In the shower. Water steaming up, some music playing through my Bluetooth speaker. Then I sat on the cold stone seat built within. And I purged. Salt and fresh water combined as I drained it all, then washed it all away.
And after popping the confetti all over my floor, not even feeling a moment of satisfaction over the idea of Maritza having to get on her hands and knees to pick out the pieces when she came back the day after New Year's Day, that was exactly what I did.
I got in my shower.
I purged it all.
Then I did what years of doing so taught me to do. I cold compressed my eyes until there wasn't going to be any swelling or redness in the morning.
Then finally, finally, I got into bed.
I started my New Year crying in my shower.
Yeah, that seemed about right.
Even if Teddy was gone.
Even if I was technically free.
It sounded about right that crying alone where no one could hear me would be my fate.
I woke up feeling sorry for myself, tossing and turning in bed with the hopes that sleep would claim me again, wash me off into a wave of oblivion for a few more hours.
But I had no such luck.
So I did the next best thing.
I did what I had been doing for almost fifteen years.
I got up, washed, dried, styled my hair. I put on some mascara. I put on high waisted gray slacks and a gray and white striped blouse.
If I couldn't actually be happy and put together, well, I damn sure could fake it. I had been doing it for so long that I could almost believe it.
Almost.
But not quite.
I slipped into boots and made my way downstairs, wondering if Smith would see through it, if he would care enough even to try.
But a wrench was thrown in the works when my foot met the top stair and I heard a voice inside my house, talking with Smith's much more welcome one.
Bertram.
As if I needed one more thing...
Oh, well, I decided, taking a deep breath, forcing myself to start down the stairs. I had to deal with what I had to deal with.
"Jennifer," Bertram's voice called, cooler even than usual. Which was really saying something. "I should wish you a Happy New Year."
He should.
But if you paid really close attention, he actually didn't.
And I couldn't quite muster the level of fakeness it would take to wish him one either.
"Thank you. Is something wrong? Have they found Teddy's killer?" I asked, letting my voice get breathless, hopeful.
"Unfortunately, no," he said, shaking his head. "I am afraid, my dear, we may need to resign ourselves to the fact that we may never know who - or why - this person was or why this happened. I know that is hard to hear, but we are just going to need to be strong. No hysterics over something we can't change."
By we he meant me.
And every feminist in a five-mile radius was stiffening at the suggestion that I may get hysterical.
"We will find a way past this," I agreed, giving him a nod. "Did you need something?" I asked when he had yet to explain his presence. Because, to him, this was his home to come and go in and out of as he pleased.
"I am just here to discuss the funeral," he told me.
The funeral.
Granted, I didn't want the responsibility of handling it, but it still bothered me that he overstepped, he took control yet again.
Maren had been right. I wouldn't actually be free until he no longer had a grip on anything in my life.
This funeral was one of the few things left.
Then I needed to set up meetings with the lawyers and the financial consultant - two men I had only ever met when they needed my signature on something or another.
Once all that was settled, then I could maybe start making some changes.
Maybe.
"I wasn't aware they had even released Teddy's body," I told him, the words pointed, but the tone a mix of confused and sad. The sad, at least, I didn't have to fake. It just wasn't for the reason it appeared to be.
"Yes, well. After your ordeal, I decided to take over. To ease your burden," he specified. And by 'ease your burden' he absolutely meant 'wanted to make sure your trailer trash self didn't embarrass me.' "I have been handling the arrangements. The announcements are going out as we speak. The day after tomorrow. At the family plot." The family plot that I didn't have a space in. Not even after fifteen years of marriage. Three generations of Ericssons - and their wives - were buried there. There was room for three more generations. Except me. It shouldn't have - since I had no interest in being buried there. Or buried at all. But it still bothered me. The way I was always an outsider. That no one actually ever accepted me no matter how much I learned, how hard I tried, how much I bettered myself.
"Of course. What time?"
"Ten in the morning. Followed by a service at the club. I decided against a wake," he added, shrugging off the idea that I may have wanted one. "You will need appropriate attire," he told me, making my spine stiffen. I may not have grown up in his world, but everyone - even girls so poor they didn't ever have wrapping paper if they did manage to get presents on birthdays - knew how to dress for a funeral.
"That was our plan today, sir," Smith cut in, seeming to sense my inability to mark my tone. Or even find any words at all to say. "We were going to go get Mrs. Ericsson something for the service."
"Yes, good. I'm sure, by now, you know what kind of dress is expected." Humiliation, unwelcome but unstoppable because while this was nothing new for me, it was the first time Smith was here to witness the way the people in this world could shame me for not being born one of them. "And, please, Jennifer, see about getting your hair done. A facial. And those nails are a disgrace as well. You don't want people seeing you this way."
And that was the wind that blew away most of the dust that was left of me, just leaving a tiny speck, nearly nothing. I certainly felt like nothing.
"We will make sure everything is as it should be," Smith cut in when I continued to stand there, mute, embarrassed, damn near close to crying.
"Make sure of it," he said to both of us before excusing himself.
It wasn't until the car started and backed out of the driveway that the silence between us was broken.
"That mother fucking asshole," Smith growled, his voice vehement. Then, turning to me, "Are you alright?"
"Oh, just another drive-by ego-deflating," I said, trying to shrug it off, trying not to let it be obvious just how much that bothered me.
"Sweetheart, you deserve a fucking award for your self-control. It must have taken everything in you not to haul off and punch him."
"You... get used to it," I told him, shrugging, making my way to the kitchen for tea. If I hadn't already brushed my teeth, I would probably go hard on those leftovers. Stress eating. I had never been allowed to before, but I finally understood the compulsion. Even if my top button on pants that had fit me just fine two weeks before was suddenly pressing into my belly a bit uncomfortably. "I'm surprised he didn't make a comment about me Taking care of myself."
"Isn't that what he said? About your hair and skin and nails?"
"Oh, no. That is just basic maintenance in his eyes. Like shaving legs or brushing teeth. When people in this circle say Taking care of yourself they mean dieting and working out."
"Why would he make a comment about that?"
"Because I'm getting fat."
So unprepared for the scoff, I jumped, turning back from where I had been reaching to put the kettle on. Seeing the confusion in my drawn-together brows, he cursed. Rather savagely. "Okay. First, you're not getting fat. Someone could snap your arm with two fingers. Second, you're going to need to try to stop letting your late husband's words come out of your mouth. You're not fat. You know you're not fat. You probably couldn't even get fat. Unless you start double-fisting bacon cheeseburgers day and night. See yourself through your own eyes. Not his."
"I know I'm not fat," I agreed, cringing that I had even said that. I hated it. When women who were clearly very in shape said they were fat just to get people to tell them they weren't. In fact, I hated the word in general. Fat was something people had, not something they were. "But my pants are getting tighter," I added, giving him a smile because it felt safe to joke about this with him. "My button is pressing in."
"Good."
"What?" I asked, shaking my head. Going up a size was almost never a good thing. At least not in the female world.
"I said good. I'm no doctor, but I think your late husband kept you underweight. It's good you are getting a little more padding on."
"If it keeps up, I'm going to need to get... foundation garments," I told him in a faux grave whisper.
"I am going to assume that would be really funny. If I knew what the fuck a foundation garment was."
"Ever hear of Spanx?"
"Those fucking things. Lincoln has a great story about needing to cut a woman out of them. It's hilarious. Make sure he tells you it sometime."
"Now I have to hear it," I agreed, feeling a weight lift, moving to make my tea. And, while I was at it, putting a pod into the Keurig for him.
"So we know where we want to shop today. But where do we need to shop? I figure maybe we could get that out of the way first."
"Um, do you know the boutique stre..."
"Yep. Got it," he cut me off.
"I promise it won't be long. I am just going to grab something off a shelf."
I had a couple staple black dresses. But they were either cocktail or evening types. I needed something a little in between. Black, A-line, with a high bodice and long hem.
"Doesn't matter if it takes a while," he told me, accepting his coffee as he went to make us both oatmeal. He did it from scratch since Lydia kept plain oatmeal stocked. He threw it in a pot with water, cinnamon, and little chunks of apple. As someone who grew up on instant apple cinnamon oatmeal, I had to say, this was infinitely better.
"We will do something positively blasphemous for lunch," he told me, eyes full of mischief. "Something your silver spoon people would gasp about."
"You mean fast food, don't you?"
"I bet you haven't had a drive-through burger since you were a kid either."
"Chicken," I corrected, "not burgers. But no. I want onion rings too."
"You'll have them," he agreed as we finished out oatmeal, rinsing the bowls, leaving them for later. Or for Maritza. Whichever. "Go grab a jacket," he told me, putting the ingredients away - oats back in the pantry, cut up apples in a plastic container for the next morning. "Oh, thank God," he said when I walked back in a moment later.
"What?" I asked, looking down at the simple black ankle-skirting jacket. It wasn't super warm, but it was lined at least.
"I was half-worried you'd come back in fur."
"Drew my line there," I said, wrinkling my nose. "Teddy used to tease me about it at events. His bleeding heart wife who didn't like the idea of little foxes being skinned. As if anyone on Earth should ever be okay with that except in survival situations."
"Good for you. It is a ridiculous industry."
"Are we taking your car or mine?" I asked, thinking of my Porsche sitting in the garage unused for weeks."
"Mine is out," he said, shrugging into his dressier jacket. When he'd first arrived, it had been the leather one. But that wouldn't work with a suit. So he had on a black peacoat instead. I preferred the old, loved leather one even if it did make a mockery of my argument against furs. I also preferred him in the clothes he liked instead of the ones Bertram made him wear.
Half an hour later, we were walking down the street toward the shop. This was a part of town that never got deserted, not even in the blistering cold. The parking was in the center of the town, leaving everyone walking to the restaurants, shops, and maybe most especially, the Starbucks. But we had She's Bean Around in hand which was a thousand times better than any Starbucks in my opinion. And because the town was never dead, people were milling around. Many of them female. And all of them eyeing Smith.
It almost made me want to link my arm through his, claim him. But he wasn't mine.
One pity kiss did not a relationship make. No matter what my body had been screaming since he first touched my chin at midnight.
"This next one," I told him, using the excuse to touch his arm as two women approached from the opposite direction. I would swear they sighed when he touched my hip, holding me back so he could reach for the door.
Hell, I almost sighed too.
"Oh, Mrs. Ericsson," Jayne, the woman who had worked at the shop since as long as I remembered greeted me as we walked inside. "I'm so sorry to hear about your husband."
"Thank you, Jayne. I'm actually here for a black dress. You know... for the..."
"Of course," she said, tone hushed as her hand pressed into her heart. "I have three options I think would be appropriate. Do you or your..."
"Personal security," I supplied, a little annoyed at her suspicious look even if I had just been thinking about more close contact with Smith. "Smith. Smith, this is Jayne."
"Oh, of course. Yes. The police never had any leads. You poor thing. You must be terrified to be in that house. Or go anywhere. But let's not talk about that. Would you like a glass of wine?"
"No, thank you, Jayne. I have errands to run after this. If I could just look at your choices."
It went as I promised Smith it would. I checked out the three dresses, chose the one most like the one I imagined in my head, Jayne wrapped it, I paid, and we were done with one dreadful errand.
"Did you want to do any of the things the senator suggested?" Smith asked as we hustled our way back to his truck.
"No. I hate strangers touching my face," I admitted. I had suffered through far too many spa dates with the women from the club. I was done. "And I can just file my nails. No one is expecting me to have a perfect manicure at a funeral, right?"
"Right," he agreed, coming around the truck to my side like he had back at the house, opening the door, then offering me his hand so I could get my footing on the slippery rail thing to help me up. His hand touched my thigh, pushing it further onto the seat so he could close the door.
And then, oh, and then, he took me shopping. For fun. It was a new, novel thing - walking down endless aisles at a big box store, each of us pushing a cart after the organizers for under my desk took up almost the whole one I had grabbed on the way in. By the time we got back up to the registers, I had picked up new sheets, throw blankets, a pair of sneakers, a book that looked good, pajamas, floating shelves that Smith said he would install for me, new curtains for my bedroom so it wouldn't be so damn dark in there all the time, and bath products. And still managed to spend less with two carts full than I did on the funeral dress.
"Craft store or Marshall's?" he asked as we loaded up the bed of his truck, him pulling a cover over it all to ensure everything would make it home safely.
"Marshall's," I decided solely because it was on the same side of the highway. I found I was equally excited about all the options. And as each moment passed, the tension of the morning and the uncertainty of the night before lessened, became background noise.
"They have teacups," I announced loudly, making a few women in the housewares section turn, brows raised, lips only quirking when Smith called back from two aisles over. "With saucers," I added with emphasis, finding myself unusually charmed by their delicate design and feminine patterns. They were something Teddy never would have allowed in the house. And I suddenly found myself wanting to fill it with. The sheets I bought for the bed earlier had flowers on them. Pink and yellow flowers.
"Well, then you have to get some, right?" Smith called back, and maybe it was crazy to say, but I could have sworn I could hear the smile he had on right then.
"That man right there is a keeper," an older woman in the same aisle as me declared with a firm nod, like she knew from experience what it was like to have a man veto everything you wanted. And, well, I knew how that felt too. And Smith's amusement over all my little selections did, indeed, make him a keeper.
Just not for me.
It wasn't like that.
Even if I wanted it to be.
"Indeed," I agreed, giving her a smile because I wanted to sell her the fantasy. Sometimes, that was the kindest thing you could do for someone else. It was probably why I picked up that book with the happy couple on the cover. The fantasy. The happily ever after. The things life had pounded into me that I simply could not have.
"What's with the dark cloud?" Smith asked, finding me a moment later, the cup still perched in my hand, but I was looking through it, lost in my own head again - a land so barren and empty of promises that I wasn't sure why I was so adamant about visiting as often as I did.
"I can't pick," I said instead of answering, picking up the pink, white, and gold floral cup that didn't have the saucer, but was equally as cute. "This one without the saucer probably holds more tea though."
"Sweetheart, it's not like you don't have the space to store two extra cups. Get both."
And it really was that simple.
We left when my cart was full of jeans, yoga pants, sweatpants, socks, t-shirts, long sleeve tees, sweatshirts. Comfortable clothes. The kind I wore as a girl. Clothes that would be a little more forgiving at my newfound appetite.
The only section I skipped was the intimates. Because, quite plainly, I liked that one indulgence. Overpriced lingerie. Priced so high because it felt buttery smooth on the skin, because they were actual works of art in the painstaking, flawless details.
The back of Smith's truck was near to bursting after we took a trip to the drive-through, then finally made it to the craft store.
I'd been inside countless times, picking up little things I could get back in the house in my purse, not wanting Teddy to say anything, not wanting the staff to report it.
Seeming to sense this mental process, whenever Smith saw my eyes land on anything for longer than a passing glance, he pulled it off the shelf and threw it into my cart. When I'd tried to object, he had reminded me that if I was going to try to start my business, that I needed all my supplies on hand. I needed to be efficient and organized. And a whole bunch of other B.S. that I just stopped fighting it. He made it sound like I was going to be selling thousands of pieces of jewelry a month. I didn't tell him, but I would be over the moon if I sold a dozen total. Or got rid of the stock I already had. I didn't have any high expectations, but I also had no reason to nitpick over a couple of dollars either.
It wasn't until we got back to the house and he handed me the garment bag holding my dress that I felt pulled out of this dream - a floaty fake reality we had been inside for the afternoon.
"It's just a day, Jenny," he reminded me, seeing the way my smile fell as the bag lay over my arm. "Just one more day of putting on a show. Then this is all over."
I wanted to say there was no just about a funeral, that I had no idea how I was going to fake tears yet again, that I had no idea what I was supposed to say to people offering me their condolences, how I was going to find a single happy story to say at the service afterward like everyone else likely could.
Maybe I could get away with it. Feign depression. Maybe I could just fall back behind Bertram, let him carry the conversation. He was good at it.
"I just want it over," I admitted, reaching to help him with some of the bags.
"It will be. You will get through it. And this will be the last time you will have to be around these people if you don't want to be. And Maren will be there, right? At least that is someone you don't hate."
That was true.
Smith would be there, but I couldn't exactly cozy up and talk with him. I could, however, cling to Maren instead. And because no one else could quite figure out how to relate - and therefore converse - with her, we would likely be left alone. And, from the outside, it would simply look like I was leaning on a close friend.
"I hope Bertram had her invited," I mumbled as I washed my new cups before putting them away on an unused shelf in the cabinet.
"She'll be invited." I must have shot him an inquisitive look because he shrugged. "My team looked into her."
"That was not..."
"It was. It was necessary," he cut me off, giving me a somewhat hard look, showing me a bit of the soldier within. "Solely for the fact that she knew about how Teddy treated you. We needed to make sure she wasn't suspicious in any way, despite what she said to you. I get that it feels like I am overstepping, but my job is to make sure nothing will blow back on you."
Job.
That word landed, a slap that smarted, leaving me sore, yet thankful for the reminder.
That was what this was to him.
A job.
A paycheck.
A really hefty paycheck.
As much as that reality stung after yet another day half-deluding myself into thinking something was brewing between us, I needed it. Hope was for fools who didn't know how cruel and unfair the world was.
I was no fool.
I was intimately acquainted with cruelty.
"She's clean, obviously," Smith said, misinterpreting my mood. "Anyway, my original point was that she will absolutely be invited. She's worth more than Bertram by almost double. And, let me tell you, Bertram is loaded. I guess taking all the money from lobbyists really helps line the pockets because most of it didn't come from his business that he claimed your late husband ran, but clearly did not."
"Did you look into my financials?" I found myself asking, a mixture of curious and uncomfortable.
"No. Normally, we would. Just to make sure you can cover the fees. But..." he trailed off, waving a hand around at the house.
"Right," I agreed, unpacking the rest of the bags, arranging them by what room they would be going to.
"Jenny," Smith's voice called, a mix of soft and firm. Like he was trying not to be demanding, but also wanted to make it clear that he wasn't going to stop until he got my attention. So my head lifted, gaze finding his hesitantly. The suit with his dark shirts always made his eyes almost predictably brown. I missed the way they would refuse to make up their mind on what color to be. "What's going on today?" he asked, point-blank, putting me on the spot. It was a quality to respect, sure, but I had never been good at being on the spot. I shrank. I cowered. More than a decade of conditioning ensured that reaction from me. Even as I thought that, I could feel the way my shoulders were curling forward, hunching me into myself, shrinking. I was always shrinking, apologizing for taking up too much space.
"Smith..." I started, hearing a thickness in my voice, realizing too late that it was there because there was a telltale stinging in my eyes.
And hearing it, seeing it, Smith was the one who shrank back, something that seemed impossible of such a big man. "I didn't mean to raise my voice." He hadn't. Not really. He got more firm, but didn't raise his voice. I knew all about raised male voices. "I'm just trying to understand why you seem so..." he paused, searching for the right word. "Unhappy," he settled on. "Do you want to talk about what happ..."
"No," I cut him off, voice almost a little shrill. "It's nothing. I'm fine. I am just waiting for all this to be over."
And to that, Smith stiffened, his jaw going so tight that it started to tick. And before I could explain that I didn't mean having him around, that him being there was likely the only thing that was making this situation tolerable, he gave me a nod.
"I have to call the office," he said, a nonsense excuse he didn't even try to sell me properly as he reached for his phone and disappeared out the back door.
And me, not good with confrontation of any kind, grabbed all my new belongings, carried them upstairs, and put them away before changing into a comfortable pajama set, and sitting down at my desk, making a bracelet of intricately carved flowers, taking my time, making sure each and every petal was perfect, unique before attaching the clay beads onto elastic string, sliding the finished project over my wrist, deciding right then and there that I was going to wear it. To the funeral. Maybe it was a tiny thing. But they would be expecting Cartier, Tiffany, Harry Winston. It was a rebellion of sorts, rejecting their world I hadn't truly wanted to be a part of in the first place.
With that in mind, I shuffled a few things back into their new homes, but left some on the desk, liking that, liking the idea of being able to pick up right where I left off.
And then I made myself tea, silently hoping Smith would show his face, would casually stroll in so we could move past the awkwardness. But I got the distinct feeling he was trying to ignore me, only hearing him come out of his room when he heard me go into mine, silently moving down the hall whereas he usually made himself heard. Like an invitation to follow him downstairs to have warm drinks and talk or watch a show.
But neither of us had even passed that room where things had gotten decidedly unprofessional. And the only other places to watch TV were our own rooms.
I climbed into bed, staring at the TV without really watching it, unable to keep my mind from racing, from considering all the possible ways that the funeral could go terribly, and the realization that I wouldn't have Smith for support. First, because he was just supposed to be staff, someone detached from me, certainly not someone to lean on. Second, because there was a wedge between us.
But there was nothing I could do about that.
I would have to get through it.
I could do it.
My life was getting through tough times.
And as I showered, dried, pulled back my hair, put on a garter and stockings, dragged on the dress, slipped my feet into shoes, put on pearls at my ears, a watch on my left wrist, and my clay bracelet, I reminded myself that it was just a few hours. Just a few more hours of playing a part, and I could come back home, climb into sweats, get the sleep I didn't the night before.
Grabbing a set of oversized sunglasses in the hopes that they might help me appear like I was crying behind them when I wasn't.
I moved down the stairs, finding Smith already dressed as well, standing in the kitchen drinking coffee, his free hand holding his phone, his thumb frantically moving around, shooting off a text.
"I wasn't sure if we were supposed to wait here for the senator or not, so I warmed up your car. But we have to wait for Lincoln. He's coming as well."
"Okay," I agreed, making my tea, trying hard not to overanalyze the fact that he hadn't made it for me like he usually did.
"It's just a couple hours," he reminded me again, tone distant.
"Yeah," I agreed, keeping my back to him as I went through the motions of making my tea, not sure I trusted myself not to get into it if I looked at him. And we couldn't do that. I couldn't get distracted. I had to keep my head on straight. I couldn't do that after having it out with Smith.
"Angel face," Lincoln greeted me, having come in silently, moving in behind me. "May I?" he asked, touching me up high between my shoulder blades. "You didn't get the zipper all the way up." With that, not actually waiting for permission since I clearly wasn't going to go to my late husband's funeral with a zipper unzipped, he zipped me up. "I hope your coat is warm. We're expecting some snow," he added, seeming to sense the tension in the room, and trying to ease it.
"A lot?" I asked, wanting noise too. There would be enough quiet in the house later.
"Three or four inches. But slow. Hopefully, most of it will be after we're all indoors. You all about ready to go?"
And so we went.
By the time we met up with Bertram at the gravesite, big, fat tufts of snow were already falling lazily from the sky, dusting the shoulders of everyone's black jackets, wetting the tops of everyone's hair.
"And this is where we part," Lincoln said quietly, touching my wrist discreetly before he and Smith fanned out, each going far to either side of the casket, both looking silently intimidating, looking every bit the security detail they were meant to be.
"Jennifer, my dear," Bertram made a show of rushing up to offer me support, grabbing both my elbows like I might be weak of knee, leaning in to kiss my cheek, then linking his arm through mine - two devastated family members supporting each other.
People milled in, each paying respect since there had been no wake. When everyone took their seats on the white fold up chairs that were wet from the falling snow, prompting scowls from the women as though anyone had any control over the weather.
Bertram's grip on my arm went from comforting to borderline punishing as the priest stepped in front of the casket to begin the service. I reached upward with a ducked head, looking like I was swiping tears. They were snowflakes, but it was the appearances that mattered. And then I reached for my sunglasses as though trying to maintain some dignity while I mourned.
A chill worked its way through my system, settling deep inside my bones, making me curl forward to try to hold in some warmth. But there was no stopping it as the snow wet through my hair. My body started trembling almost violently, something Bertram noticed immediately.
"Hold it together, Jennifer. No need to make a scene. You can cry at home," he told me as he dropped my arm to reach up, pretending to swat a nonexistent tear.
I was sure I was going to get frostbite by the time the priest called for everyone to start putting the white roses on the casket. Bertram moved ahead of me, still annoyed by my display. It wasn't until I felt an arm link through mine that I thought I could even force my frozen legs toward the casket.
"You're frozen solid," Maren's voice said at my side as she actively pulled me up toward the casket, forcing a rose into my hand before taking one herself, very much playing the part Smith said she could for me. Speaking of, he was nowhere to be seen. It was Lincoln who followed us across the lawn now completely white with about an inch of snow. "I parked a couple cars down from you," Maren went on, rubbing my arm like she was trying to get some life back in it. Her jacket was thicker, longer. She'd had the good sense to wear gloves and a scarf. She didn't seem bothered at all by the weather.
"Thanks, Maren."
"Didn't think you'd make it up there without help. You warm up. I will see you at the service."
With that, she gave my arm squeeze before walking away.
"Come on, Jenny," Smith's voice said before his fingers closed around my elbow, guiding me inside a car that was already humming with life, the inside so warm that it immediately made my entire body prickle.
That was why he had gone away. He'd went to warm the car. Because even from a couple dozen feet away, he knew I was shaking from cold, not emotion.
Lincoln came out of nowhere, sliding into the front seat even as Smith moved in beside me in the back, pulling my body close to his, his hands reaching for my legs, chafing some life back into them.
And I was so cold that I didn't even notice if it felt good or not. It was just helping to warm me up.
"Not to be indelicate," Lincoln said as we pulled away from the curb, "But I think my balls are going to need to be surgically extracted from wherever they have burrowed inside."
And that was just the perfect kind of ridiculous and inappropriate to penetrate through my misery, making a hysterical little laugh bubble up and burst out, something that made a smile tug at Smith's lips as well.
"What's the matter with your arm?" Smith asked, making me realize I had been absentmindedly rubbing it.
"It's nothing," I said, dropping my hand.
But Smith wasn't having it. He grabbed the sleeve of my jacket, yanking it upward, showing the faint blue finger bruise outlines on my skin.
"That bastard..."
"He was... trying to make me keep it together. He thought I was hysterical, not cold."
"I don't give a fuck what he thought," Smith shot back. "No one should be putting their hands on you hard enough to leave bruises, sweetheart."
"I bruise easily," I insisted, not wanting it to become a whole big thing.
Smith opened his mouth to say something, but I could have sworn Lincoln murmured from the seat right in front of him Don't.
I was never so thankful for Lincoln than I was in that moment.
"I am just hitting up the drive-through for coffee," Lincoln explained when he took a turn that didn't lead to the club. "Warm up your insides too," he added, pulling up to queue up behind four other cars.
"Take a breath," Smith said, feeling me tense. "They will all just assume you needed a few minutes to pull it together. If you didn't know better, it did look like you were falling apart up there," he added, giving my arm a little squeeze before pulling my sleeve back down.
"Right," I agreed.
And fifteen minutes later, that was exactly what everyone thought.
I was swarmed right at first before Maren moved in, pressing a white wine into my hands, whisking me away to a corner, keeping a running monologue about the club until I loosened up enough to start responding.
"How are things going really? Did you fire the staff yet?"
"No," I admitted. "I am thinking of having them cut down on their hours first."
"You don't have to give loyalty to people who have never given any to you," Maren reminded me. "But I get that this is a process. I love your bracelet," she said, changing the subject, not pressuring me, something I appreciated.
"Oh, thanks. I made it last night," I admitted, shrugging it off even if my heart was soaring a bit.
"What? No way. I didn't know you made jewelry."
"It's been a hobby the past several years. I am thinking about opening an Etsy shop now that... now that I will have more time," I rushed to cover.
"That's a fantastic idea. You'll have to let me come over and pick some pieces too."
"I'd like that."
And I would.
Maren had proven the only genuine person in my social circle, the one person who actually cared about how I was instead of how they could position themselves to be most important in this situation.
"Jennifer," Bertram's voice called hours later after Maren had been dragged away to discuss stock options for her company, leaving me to sink down in one of the seats, the night of sleeplessness catching up to me. "I think it would be wise to get home and rest. It has been a trying day for you," he said, voice booming enough that everyone nearby could hear his faux concern. "Let me walk you to your car."
"No, please, stay with the guests," I insisted as Smith moved in a bit, getting protective. I got the feeling that if Bertram put a hand on me again - even gently - Smith might pounce. "I have the guards to help me out," I added as Lincoln moved in as well.
"Of course. I am proud of you for holding it together. Get some rest. You are looking tired."
I bit my tongue, letting Smith guide me outside where Lincoln took a call, making him turn to Smith.
"New case," he said to Smith. "Miller and I need to catch the next flight to Florida. She's coming to pick me up now."
"It's not Fenway, is it?"
"For once, no," he said, smiling a little and I suddenly wished I knew who Fenway was, why the idea of it being him was funny.
But then a car was pulling up, a pretty brunette woman calling to Lincoln, making fun of his suit.
"Sorry to leave you like this, angel face. But work calls."
With that, he was gone, and Smith and I were making our way to my car.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" Smith asked when I rested my head against the window at my right.
"I'm tired. But I don't want to go home."
I expected him to tell me it would pass, that I would feel better when I got in my new clothes, when I got a cup of tea in me, when I got into my bed.
But he didn't say any of that.
He put the car into reverse.
And he said okay.