pounded the button repeatedly with the flat of his hand, face turned away from her.
“She’s a fighter,” she called to him. “Don’t forget that.”
Joseph didn’t acknowledge her words. People so cut off from their emotions frustrated Tara. It was a hot button because, growing up, her parents had shut her out of their lives almost completely. They were all reserved, while she had big, big emotions. She’d trained herself to hold back, but it hadn’t been easy.
She returned to Faye’s room, where her mother sat with perfect posture, carefully avoiding the sight of her daughter’s face. Her poor mother. If Tara could help her, she would. If Faye died, Tara would be all the family her mother had left. She was certain that if her mother had to choose a daughter to lose, it would be Tara, not Faye. There was no sting to that awareness anymore. In fact, it made her feel sorrier for her mother.
CHAPTER TWO
TARA PARKED HER rental car outside the Parthenon Mortuary, which bore a resemblance to the ancient Greek temple it was named for, and went to help her mother out of the passenger seat. Her mother had slept for most of the hour-long drive and seemed groggy, so Tara held out her hand.
Her mother waved her away and forged up the steps with her usual self assurance. They were met by Dimitri Mikanos, the funeral director, with twinkling blue eyes and a bright yellow suit. When Tara introduced herself, he clearly hadn’t realized there was a second daughter, which pinched a little, but, truly, was what she should have expected. All her life, she’d longed to be invisible in Wharton.
The inside of the funeral home was painted bright blue with white trim, as cheerful as its director, which Tara appreciated, considering the gloom of their task. Her mother held it together until Dimitri ran down the list of decisions she had to make—casket color, style, upholstery, flowers, grave markers, clothing. Then she gasped and began fumbling in her purse for pills that spilled from the pillbox, trembling violently.
Dimitri helped her mother to a sofa in a small lounge, then Tara followed him into the casket room to make the selections. The organ music unsettled her, and the decisions were bewildering. Satin or plush, plain or tuck-and-roll, gold handles or bronze, casket spray or standing baskets, on and on.
Tara got through it, her emotions under control, until Dimitri brought out a clothing bag and took out three of her father’s suits that Joseph had brought in. Tara had to choose the one they’d put on her father.
She tensed up, held her breath, but it was no use. It was the shoes that got her—specifically a pair of oxblood wingtips like the ones she remembered from her childhood. Custom-made in Italy, they’d been her father’s favorites. Buy a quality shoe and take good care of it, he’d told her when she watched him polish them. She loved the smell of polish, the circular movements, how shiny the shoes got. She’d begged to go to the shoemaker’s when he had new heels put on. Mr. Vanzetti had brought out a bowl of rock candy—a treat only for good children, he’d said. “Is she a good girl?” he’d asked Tara’s father in his heavy Italian accent. Tara had held her breath waiting for her father’s verdict. When he gave a solemn yes, Tara’s heart had leaped in her chest. She chose a piece that looked like granite and tasted like a grape jellybean...and magic.
She could tell that Mr. Vanzetti had put new heels on the pair she now looked at, and the thought sent grief through Tara in a wave so deep she felt like she had to lift her chin to catch a breath. Her father was dead. She was choosing the clothes he’d take to his grave.
She would never get a grudging nod or even a disapproving glare from the man ever again. “Those.” She pointed. “I’ll get my mother,” she blurted to hide her emotion, practically running down the hall to the small room, where her mother lay sleeping on a gold-embroidered white sofa.
Tara had the fleeting wish she could run into Dylan’s arms again, but that made her feel foolish.
She sat near her mother’s hip. She’d been surprised how devastated her mother seemed by her husband’s death. Her parents had appeared to operate in separate spheres, hardly speaking to each other. Abbott’s life was Wharton Electronics and her mother managed the social and charity