Текст книги "A Little Too Much"

Автор книги: Lisa Desrochers

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Two

MALLORY CALLS FROM the hospital as Alessandro is making macaroni and cheese (Henri’s vote) from scratch for dinner. “Max is out of surgery,” she says. “They say everything went fine and we can go up to recovery with him in a few minutes.”

“Thank God,” I breathe.

“How’s Henri?”

I hear the real question in her voice, but choose to ignore it. “Fine. We’ve built Middle Earth in your family room,” I say as Henri snaps together the last few pieces of his Lego Rivendell. “Do you want to talk to him?”

“Put him on.”

I hand the phone off and move to the kitchen. “Max is out of surgery. They say everything’s good,” I tell Alessandro.

He turns from the stove and looks at me. “I’m glad.”

“Auntie!” Henri shouts, crashing into me from behind. “Mom wants you.”

I take the phone. “Hey.”

“So Jeff and I are going to stay here tonight.”

I know what she’s waiting for me to say. “No problem. I can stay with Henri as long as you need me to.”

“You? Or both of you?”

“I don’t know, Mallory.” I try to hide my irritation. I know why she’s worried, but he doesn’t know and I’m not going to tell him.

“I would prefer it was just you.” Her voice is tight.

“I know.”

“As long as we’re clear.”

“Just take care of Max and don’t worry about Henri, okay?”

There’s a pause. “Okay,” she finally says.

I disconnect as Alessandro drains the macaroni. “Do you need help?”

He hands me the colander. “Shake this out and dump it into the pot,” he says, gesturing at the stove.

I do as I’m told and stir the macaroni into the cheese sauce as he moves to the fridge and pulls out some salad stuff. A few minutes later, dinner is on the table.

Henri excitedly tells Alessandro about all of his favorite Lego sets and what happened when he built the front of his pirate ship out of the middle of the Star Wars Death Star.

“I had the Death Star set,” Alessandro says, smiling at Henri.

“Geek,” I mutter, and Alessandro raises an eyebrow at me, but then out of nowhere, a piece of breadstick ricochets off his cheek. We both look at Henri, who giggles and flicks another hunk of bread at Alessandro.

Alessandro tips his head at Henri and holds up his fingers as goalposts. “How accurate are you with that finger?” he challenges.

Henri grins and tears off another bit of breadstick, taking aim at Alessandro’s goalposts. He only scores on one of his five shots, but the others don’t miss by much.

“My turn,” Alessandro says, pinching off a hunk of his breadstick.

Henri makes goalposts and Alessandro’s shot misses Henri’s goal wildly.

Henri rolls his eyes. “Nobody’s that bad. Show me what you got. I’m not a sore loser, you know.”

Alessandro grins at him. “Remember you said that, little man.” He scores on three of his next four shots, then makes a roar-of-the-crowd sound, raising his arms.

I crack up. This is a side of Alessandro I’m not sure I’ve ever seen. “Competitive much?” I mutter, and Henri giggles.

“It’s a guy thing,” Alessandro says with a wink at Henri.

“Are you going to marry Auntie Hilary?” Henri asks out of nowhere, and I freeze.

Alessandro’s gaze flicks to me before he answers. “No, Henri. Your aunt and I are just old friends.”

Henri slides out of his seat and jumps into my lap. “When school starts, we’re going on a science field trip where there’s a bird-eating tarantula!”

“Wow!” I say, pulling him closer, thankful that he’s on to another train of thought so fast. “What is it with you guys and tarantulas?”

He hops out of my lap and leans both hands on Alessandro’s knees, proceeding to tell him all about Jeremy Timmons’ tarantula, and how it ate a whole cricket, guts and all. A wet, pulsing lump forms in my throat and I can’t watch them together. I stand and scoop dishes up, carrying them to the counter. When I turn back from the sink, Henri is perched on Alessandro’s knee, telling him how Rufus once killed a squirrel in the backyard.

I ruffle his hair. “Time for your bath, buddy.”

He clambers off Alessandro, and Alessandro cleans up while I stick Henri in the tub and shuttle him off to bed.

“What are you going to read me tonight?” I ask, climbing into bed next to him.

He holds up a thin hardcover book. “Loki’s Revenge.”

“Excellent,” I say. “Loki’s my favorite.”

He settles in and opens his book just as Alessandro appears at the door, his sleeves rolled up, leaning a shoulder into the door frame. As Henri reads, I have to keep swallowing the lump in my throat. Alessandro and Henri connected tonight. They know each other. I never thought that would happen. And Henri really likes him. When he looks up and sees Alessandro in the doorway, he grins and pulls on my arm. “Make room for Alessandro, Auntie.”

I slide up and curl around Henri, and Alessandro comes in and sits at the foot of the bed, leaning sideways on one elbow. He grabs Henri’s toes through the blanket and jiggles them, and Henri kicks and squeals.

I nudge Alessandro’s shoulder with my foot and give him a look. “Bedtime. We’re supposed to be winding down here.”

“Sorry,” he says to me, but then gives Henri a conspiratorial wink and Henri giggles again.

“Read, buddy,” I tell Henri, and he picks his book up from where he dropped it in the sheets.

“When Thor de . . . f . . .”

“Remember that the A makes the E say its name,” I prompt as I point to the word he’s stuck on.

“When Thor defeated Loki, Loki swore he would make Thor pay.” Henri looks up at me and grins, then looks back at the page and reads to us all about how Loki gets back at Thor. When he’s done, I give him a big hug and kiss, then haul myself off his bed. Alessandro stands and ruffles Henri’s hair and I turn out the light. “ ’Night buddy,” I say from the door.

“Good night, Auntie. Good night, Alessandro.” He snuggles down into his pillow and closes his eyes. I watch him for a minute, feeling the heat of Alessandro’s body just behind me, then pull his door closed.

“He’s a great kid,” Alessandro says as we move back to the family room. He picks up a picture of Mallory’s family from the end table. “This is his father?” he asks, tapping Jeff’s face.

That sharp something twists in my gut again. “Jeff.”

He inspects the photograph for a minute longer, a V forming in the creases between his eyebrows, then sets it down without another word. I click on the TV, and settle into the couch, hoping the subject of Henri’s parentage is closed.

Alessandro settles in next to me and loops an arm over my shoulders. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah. Just worried about Max.” It isn’t a lie. It’s just not the whole truth either.

“It’s been a difficult day,” he says, and I know he’s not just referring to Max.

Through all of this, the image of him beating the shit out of Eric has still surfaced in my mind repeatedly. The details of that day are still fuzzy, but I remember Eric handing me a Coke as we sat in the rec room watching TV. I remember the TV blurring and the room starting to spin. The next thing I remember is Alessandro’s bloody fist.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Hilary,” he breathes into my hair.

I don’t know if he’s apologizing for what happened with Eric, or for leaving me, or what, but whatever it is, I can tell by the aching sadness in his voice and in his eyes as I lift mine to look at him, that he means it. “Me too.”

The electricity that’s always in his touch causes me to shudder. He leans in, very slowly, watching me the whole way. I close the last inch and press my lips to his. His kiss is tentative at first, but the longer it goes, the more insistent it becomes, until his tongue slashes through my lips and takes possession of me.

I press him back into the cushions and straddle him, then start on the buttons of his shirt, suddenly needing to see him—to feel his skin on mine. I kiss him hard and deep as I peel back his shirt.

“Hilary,” he breathes when we take a second for air, and I hear the tortured longing in that one word. It sends desire pulsing with my blood, and I smother anything else he wanted to say with another kiss.

In a back corner of my mind, there’s a voice that’s telling me to stop, but it’s drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears. My senses spin as I’m thrown between worlds. I feel everything that’s happening now, the desperation of Alessandro’s kiss; his persistent hands, no longer tentative, but sure and firm on my body; the taste of his mouth and his spicy scent enveloping me; the taut cut of his abs as I glide my fingers over his perfection. But I also feel what I was feeling then: that certainty my heart was going to explode at his gentle touch; the way he kissed me so tenderly on the lips, his tongue caressing mine, exploring, like he wanted to know every inch of me; the way he made me feel things that no one else ever had.

I pull away and slip his shirt off his shoulders, then look down at him, and can’t help staring. There’s no ostentatious bulk, just perfect lines in classically beautiful proportion. I sweep my fingertips over the smooth olive skin along the curve of his biceps, needing to touch him to be sure he’s real. But as my eyes eat him alive, I see the thin, white scar that extends from his side, just below the ribs, toward his hip, disappearing under the waistband of his jeans. I remember it was purple and raised when we were younger. Newer. I glide a fingertip over it and he finches. “What happened?”

I never asked before. When we were kids, I had my ghosts and he had his. We let them lie back then. But now I want to know.

His expression hardens. “I was in a gang. I hurt a lot of people. Some of them hurt me back.”

I reach for him, but he draws away, and there’s so much pain in his expression, right there, so close to the surface. I want to take it from him so he doesn’t have to bear it by himself, but I know he won’t give it to me.

I lift his face and smooth my palm over his stubble. “You are so beautiful, Alessandro. Every inch of you.”

He stiffens as he fights with his desires, but his desires win. His mouth crashes into mine, his kiss deep and urgent. His tongue twists through my mouth, tasting all of mine. My hands smooth over flawless muscles under flawless skin as I glide my fingertips up the sides of his rib cage and massage his nipples with my thumbs. He closes his eyes and moans as they harden.

That moan undoes me. “I want you,” I tell him, my voice course and thick with sex.

He opens his eyes and looks at me, his expression full of anguish. “I want you too, Hilary. God,” he says, screwing his eyes shut and turning his face away from mine. “I want you so much. But this is wrong.”

“Why?”

He opens his eyes and they find mine again, haunted and unbearably sad. “Because I didn’t come back to take advantage of you again. I came back to apologize . . . to help if I could.”

I press against him so he can feel the need pulsing through my veins. “You’re not taking advantage of me.”

His eyes flutter closed and he tips his head back into the couch and shudders as I lick from the base of his neck to the corner of his jaw. I pull back and lift my shirt over my head. He watches as I unhook my white lace bra, letting it slide off my shoulders.

His hands are fisted into the fabric of the couch cushions next to my legs. He’s fighting so hard with himself not to touch me.

But I want him to touch me.

I slide my hand down his abs to the bulge in his jeans and lean forward, my chest against his, skin on skin, and my lips on his neck just below his ear. “I want to feel you inside me again,” I whisper.

He growls, grabbing me and spinning me onto my back on the couch. He’s propped over me on one knee, the other foot on the floor, and he’s got my yoga pants and thong off before I even realize what’s happening.

The pure animal need on his face sends a shudder through me. And the next second, when he spreads my legs, and his mouth finds the sensitive point there, the sex rush is so intense that everything south of my belt convulses. I turn my face into the cushions as I arch up and cry out.

His tongue moves over me, flicking and teasing, tasting and owning. As he devours me, I gasp at the unexpected jolts of electricity that skitter under my uber-sensitive skin. And just like that, he has me right on the edge of coming. I’m panting out short breaths, my fingers fisted into his hair as he slips his fingers inside me and sucks. And a second later, when he sends me over the edge, I do everything I can to stifle my cry as I fall apart.

The flood of sensations is overwhelming. Whatever just happened has never happened to me before. I don’t know what this was, but it was more than just sex. It was bigger. Louder. Higher. I’ve never felt like I couldn’t get close enough . . . like I wanted to climb right under the guy’s skin. But that’s how Alessandro makes me feel.

As I spin with my orgasm, the flash of insight nearly blinds me. Alessandro makes me feel. Not just physically, but in every sense of the word.

And it scares me.

Because with Brett and everyone before him, sex was mechanical. Predictable. I was in control and it felt good, physically, but that’s all it felt. The purpose was to ground me and remind me I existed. Sex with Brett didn’t reach into my soul and tug at my heart. It didn’t move me to tears. But Alessandro took me there with no pain. No props. I’ve never been able to come like that for anyone else.

But as Alessandro crawls up the couch, and I feel his knees press into the cushions between my legs, I realize this is different. I open my eyes, and see him working the button of his jeans. I reach up to help him and he looks down at me with a question burning in his raw, animal gaze. The same question that was there eight years ago, the first time we did this. In response, I drag his zipper down.

He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and rips the condom out of it, chucking the wallet on the floor. I slip it out of his hand, and he sucks in a sharp breath as I roll it over his length. I lay back and open myself up to him, guiding him to me with my hands on his hips.

He hesitates and lets out an agonized groan, but I don’t want him to think. I just want him inside me. I roll my hips and take him deep.

He moans my name as he sinks into me, and a seriously intense sex rush seizes my body. All the muscles in my belly, my groin, down my legs contract hard around him and my breath catches in my throat.

“Am I hurting you?” he breathes into my hair, concern edging the roughness of his need.

For a second I can’t speak. “God, no,” I finally manage. Nothing has ever felt this good.

He begins to rock, and the feel of him moving inside me, filling me, sets my blood on fire. His pace is slower than I’m used to, so it takes me a minute to catch his rhythm, but when I do, and we move together, hot, aching pressure starts to build in my belly again, like lava roiling under the volcano, preparing to erupt.

He drops kisses over my shoulders and neck as he moves on top of me, picking up his pace as our breathing does the same. With every thrust, I give a little moan, unable to stop myself. I catch his earlobe in my teeth and tug gently and am rewarded with an animal growl from Alessandro’s core.

Something changes with that growl, like he was holding back but now he’s set the beast free. He trails a hand from my left hip down to my knee and lifts it higher, spreading me wide, then groans deep in his chest and plunges deeper, burying himself to the root.

I spin with the sensation of him moving inside me, doing everything I need him to do—bringing me just where I need to go. And the only pain is the ache in my heart for not being able to get close enough.

As he pumps faster and deeper, I feel myself start to spin out of control. I gasp for air as he brings me right to edge of the cliff again, and arch into his body with his last thrust. As I come hard for the second time in ten minutes, I cry out, “Alessandro!”

And his name falling from my lips sounds like a prayer.

I’m ready, I realize just in that second. I’m ready to open up and tell him everything. I want him, and more than that, I need him. I think I always have, on some level, even when I thought I’d never see him again.

“Hilary?” Alessandro pants, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, my eyes screwed shut and my insides in knots. I open my mouth to say it . . . to tell him Henri is his. But then I close it again. Now isn’t the time. It’s too much too soon.

When we’ve caught our breath, he kisses my lips then rolls off me.

I pull myself to my feet and hold out my hand. “Come on.” I tow him up the hall on shaky legs, past Henri’s room, to my old bedroom. We slip under the sheets and I curl into his side, and this time, when he loves me, it’s slow and easy and so tender that it hurts.

And I know without a doubt, this is where I’ve always belonged.

Chapter Twenty-Three

IT’S THURSDAY AND it’s my turn.

And I’m petrified.

Last Thursday, I slept with Alessandro. This Thursday, I’m going to tell him he has a son. We’ve been together every night for the last week, and so many times I’ve opened my mouth to tell him, but I can’t decide how.

What if everything Mallory is afraid of comes true?

She’s been the only constant in my life. Everyone has left me. Mallory is the only person who’s ever come back. I know we fight, and I know I disappoint her, but I can’t risk losing her. If Alessandro finds out about Henri . . . if he wants to tell him—or worse, tries for custody—not only will I lose Mallory, but maybe Henri as well.

But when I search deep inside, I realize I’m much more afraid of Alessandro turning his back on me. Somehow, he’s torn down my walls, and the feeling of being totally vulnerable and exposed to him both terrifies and thrills me. It’s like the rush of free-falling, and knowing I can take the risk because Alessandro will catch me.

Except, what if he doesn’t? What if I tell him this and he lets me fall on my face?

I’m wound so tight trying to sort through this that, when my phone rings, I jump a mile, sure it’s him. But then I realize the ringtone isn’t Creed. I pick my phone up off the nightstand and look at the screen.

Bedford Hills Correctional.

My heart leaps. I went yesterday, on New Year’s, and Mom refused my visit again. Maybe she’s changed her mind. I stab the connect button and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Ms. McIntyre? Hilary McIntyre?” a woman’s voice that’s not Mom’s asks.

“Yes.”

“Ms. McIntyre, this is Sylvia Reingold at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. Your mother is asking for you.”

For a full minute, I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. “Is she okay?” I finally ask.

“She’s being transported to Northern Westchester Hospital as we speak. The doctor says it’s close. You might want to hurry.”

“I will,” I say, numb.

“And she’s also asked for your sister, if you can reach her. We don’t have her number on file.”

My pounding heart flips in my chest. “Okay.”

I disconnect and dial Mallory.

“Hey,” she says, and through the blood pounding in my ears, I hear the boys yelling in the background. It sounds like Max is getting back to himself.

“Mal, we have to go to see Mom. She’s—”

“Stop, Hilary,” she interrupts, her voice a blade. “I told you why I can’t go. Please respect that.”

“They’re taking her to the hospital. They said she’s asking for us and that we should hurry. This is it, Mallory. She’s really dying.”

“Good,” she spits, but then there’s a long pause where all I hear is the TV blaring and the boys fighting. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I want you to come.”

“Which hospital?” she asks after a beat.

“Northern Westchester.”

She blows out a breath. “I’ll be there in an hour to pick you up.”

I’M ON THE curb when Mallory’s silver Volvo SUV rolls to a stop next to the parked cars in front of my building. The car behind her honks as I race over and hop in. And when I look at her as she pulls away, I’m surprised to see she’s been crying.

She glances over and sees the surprise on my face. “Don’t even say it,” she warns, holding up a hand.

I sink into the seat and neither of us says anything as she navigates us through the city to the West Side Highway.

“What else did they say?” she finally asks just as we’re crossing the bridge into the Bronx.

“Nothing really.” I look at her. “But she asked for both of us.”

Her jaw grinds tight and she keeps her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I’ll never forgive her. I don’t care if she’s dying or not.”

“I don’t blame you.”

When she doesn’t say anything else, I lean my forehead into the window and close my eyes.

It’s an hour and a half later that Mallory’s GPS informs us we’re “arriving at destination.” She pulls into the parking lot and we go to the information desk.

“Where is Roseanne McIntyre’s room?” I ask the old woman at the computer.

She pecks at the keys for a minute and I want to scream at her to move her ancient bones faster, but I bite my tongue.

“I don’t see any MacEntire,” she finally says.

“No. McIntyre. M, C, I. She was probably just brought in from Bedford Correctional.”

She types some more and smiles as she hits pay dirt. “Oh! Here she is. She’s in a secured room on the third floor.” She looks up at us. “Are you family?”

But I’m already sprinting toward the elevator. Mallory steps up behind me as the doors open. I wait for everyone coming out to get the hell out of our way, then step in and push three. When the doors open again, it’s into a long corridor. Just down from us is the nurses’ station, and across the hall, sitting in a molded plastic chair, is a corrections guard. I hurry toward him, Mallory lagging behind.

“We’re Roseanne McIntyre’s daughters. She was asking for us,” I pant.

“ID,” he says, standing from his chair and towering over us. He’s huge, like they think Mom’s a flight risk and they might need a mountain of a guard to wrestle her into submission when we try to break her out.

I hand him my ID, and I see Mallory’s hand shake when she holds hers out to him.

“You can see her one at a time. Fifteen minutes each.” He pushes the door open. “Who’s first?”

“Her,” Mallory shoots before I have a chance to respond.

I look at her hard. “Don’t you disappear.”

Her terrified eyes flick toward the door then back to me. “I can’t do this, Hilary.”

“She’s dying, Mal. You have to.” I step up and hug her. “Go. I’ll wait here.”

I feel her shake as she lets a sob loose into my shoulder. I hold her for a few minutes, until she gets her shit together.

“Okay,” she finally says, peeling herself away and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.

I back off and she steps up to the door, hauling a deep breath before walking through.

The guard leaves the door open and stands watch outside. I so want to eavesdrop, but instead, I wander over to the nurses’ desk. “Excuse me,” I say to a middle-aged woman sitting there typing into a computer.

She holds a finger up at me, then types something else before looking up. “Can I help you?”

“My mom, Roseanne McIntyre?” I say with a wave of my hand at her door. “I was wondering . . . are they saying how long she has?”

Her expression goes all sympathetic as she stands. “Not long. Hours, most likely.”

“What . . .” I swallow the pulsing lump in my throat. “What kind of cancer does she have?” I don’t know why it matters, but I want to know.

Her lips press into a grim line before she answers. “Lung cancer, but it’s metastasized everywhere now.”

I turn and take a step to the side so I can see her bed through the door. I can’t see Mom at all, just a mound of blankets, but Mallory’s standing about five feet away, at the bottom of the bed. My heart contracts into a hard knot when I see her shoulders shaking as she cries.

“What are you doing for her? Is she in pain?” I ask, swallowing back my own tears.

“We’re doing everything we can to make her last few hours comfortable,” the nurse says as I turn back to her.

“Good. Is there a vending machine on this floor?”

She points up the hall. “In the lounge at the end of the corridor.”

“Thanks.” I head in the direction she pointed and locate the door marked “patient lounge.” Inside, I find the machine. I dig through my bag for a dollar and feed it into the slot, then push D6 and the Oh Henry! is pushed of the rack and thunks into the tray at the bottom. I grab it and head back to Mom’s room.

I peek through the door again and see Mallory is closer now, at the side of the bed. An arm reaches out of the mound of blankets. It’s bony and it shakes as it extends toward her. Mallory tentatively takes the knobby hand. I watch as she leans closer, as if trying to hear something Mom said. She shakes her head and fresh tears spill over her lashes, but then she sinks into the chair at the side of the bed and holds Mom’s hand in both of hers, pressing the backs of Mom’s fingers against her forehead as she cries.

And that’s it. I can’t stop the tears leaking from my eyes, first a trickle and then a flood. I lean my back against the wall and cover my face as sobs hitch out of my core.

But a second later, Mallory’s at the door. “Someone help!”

The nurse from the station and the guard both rush into the room, and I follow.

Mallory is back at the side of the bed. “She’s not breathing,” she sobs. “Do something!”

The nurse takes Mom’s wrist and checks her pulse. “I’m sorry, honey. She’s gone.”

“No.” I step up to the side of the bed as the nurse brushes her fingers over Mom’s dead eyes. She’s so much thinner than she was even last time I saw her, two months ago. Nothing but skin and bone.

I can’t reconcile the anger I feel that she didn’t wait for me with the grief that wraps around my heart and squeezes, threatening to choke out its rhythm. I convulse with sobs that I can’t control as everything I feel for and about her erupts out of me.

She drank. She let a parade of strange men into our lives. She threw Mallory out. She abandoned me and pretended like none of what happened to me afterward was her fault. She was a horrible mother. But she was mine—the only parent I’ve ever had. I wanted her to be so much more. I wanted her to love me.

The least she could have done was wait to die until I had a chance to say good-bye.

I drop the crushed Oh Henry! in my hand and spin for the door. Mallory calls after me as I bolt into the hall. When I get to the stairwell, I slide down the wall to a sitting position and pull my phone from my pocket.

“Il mio amore,” Alessandro purrs in greeting.

“I need you,” I sob into the phone. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever uttered those words out loud to anyone, but right now, it’s true.

MOM DIDN’T HAVE any friends. She had one brother, but all I know about him is that he lives somewhere else and didn’t want me after Mom went to jail. I didn’t try to find him to tell him Mom’s gone.

We don’t do a service, because there’s no point, but I stayed last night at Mallory and Jeff’s, and we go to the cemetery together when they put her in the ground.

After almost two weeks in Alessandro’s bed, being alone last night was cold and lonely. But Jeff asked me to come for Mallory. She’s still dealing with the emotional fallout of seeing Mom again for the first time in years, just in time to watch her die.

Despite his insistence, I asked Alessandro not to come to the cemetery for that reason. Mallory’s already a wreck, and seeing Alessandro and me together isn’t going to help. I’m finally ready to open up to Alessandro, as soon as I figure out how, but I’m not quite ready to tell Mallory about it. But it’s harder than I thought it would be to do this without him.

The cemetery is a few train stops south of Mallory’s house in New Jersey. I guess it was the cheapest place Jeff could find. It seems a little run down, with patches of weeds between the patches of snow, but overall, not too bad. It suits Mom. It’s quiet right now: only the three of us and the guy with the backhoe.

I shiver under the gray January sky as Backhoe Guy very unceremoniously cranks Mom’s coffin into the hole. No one brought flowers or anything, so when he asks us if we’re ready, we nod.

As he climbs onto the backhoe, I feel Mallory’s hand tighten, where she’s holding my elbow. I look at her and her pale face is pulled tight as she stares through the stumpy, bare trees toward the parking lot.

I follow her gaze and, walking across the grass toward us, is Alessandro. His back wool jacket is closed over black slacks and a blue button-down. I’d been containing my emotions pretty well, but when I see him, I feel the dam start to break.

He stops across Mom’s hole from where Mallory, Jeff and I are standing, and there’s a question on his face.

Do I want him to stay?

Mallory splits an anxious glance between us, then drops my arm and grasps Jeff’s hand tightly. Jeff looks from her to Alessandro and his eyes widen in understanding. There’s no way anyone close to Henri is going to miss the resemblance.

I walk slowly around Mom’s hole and stop in front of him. He reaches for my gloved hand and squeezes. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay away.” He bites the corner of his lower lip. “I can’t stand the thought of you in pain.”

I sink into his arms. “It’s okay.”

Alessandro glances at Mallory as Backhoe Guy cranks the engine loudly to life, then says into my hair, “Would you like me to say a word?”

I look at Mallory and her face is paler than it was a minute ago, her mouth fixed in a tight line. “That would be great. Thanks,” I tell Alessandro.

He lets go of me and crosses himself then bows his head, suddenly looking very priestly. I bow mine too. “Oh God, you do not willingly grieve or afflict your children. Look with pity on the suffering of this family in their loss. Sustain them in their anguish, and into the darkness of their grief bring the light of your love. Through Jesus we pray, Amen.”

When I lift my head, Mallory is curled into Jeff’s arms, sniffling into his shoulder. We all step back as Backhoe Guy starts plowing dirt on top of Mom, and I feel my throat thicken with tears. I swallow them.

“You need to let yourself grieve,” Alessandro says, softly into my ear.

I bite my lips between my teeth and I continue to fight the tears.

He smooths a hand over the back of my hair. “She was your mother, Hilary. No matter what happened between you, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t hurt.”