tongue, and I couldn’t remember the last time he and I had spoken.
I could see Dad eyeing the remaining members of the Fab Four, who eyed him right back. It took work getting Ann to agree that Vivi, Sylvia, and Lucy should be seated with the family. They probably deserved to be there more than Ann or me. After Mom died, I’m not even sure Dad saw Nana again. She definitely never met Nadia. I’d be getting an earful about her at bridge night.
Through the doorway, suddenly, I heard piano music. My breath caught, and Ann’s eyes met mine. She nodded slightly, and I was surprised at the transfer of strength and support. It flowed from my sister, hitting me square in the chest, like a tiny hug to my heart.
Nadia opened her mouth, but before she could put her foot in it, I walked away. I stood just behind Ann and Tommy, Sophie and Camille. I admired their family for a moment, my heart swelling with an unfamiliar ache.
A door opened, and the assistant pastor, Beau, gestured for us. “Family, if you’ll follow me.”
Beau looked like someone had stuffed a football player in a suit and handed him a Bible. His massive shoulders stretched his jacket, and his blond hair looked far too much like a surfer. And what kind of pastor has a name like Beau? It seemed to me like the first order of business at seminary would be to change your name to something sensible and church-like. Michael or Caleb or Jonathan, maybe. Not Beau.
But when I passed him at the door, his eyes held a depth of kindness that somehow managed to escape pity. It was a hard thing to accomplish. Maybe I was wrong, and more pastors should have names that seemed ill-suited for clergy.
Hymns were sung. Words spoken, by the head pastor as well as by Beau. The deep notes of the piano seemed to rumble through my ribs. My throat closed up at the clear sound of a woman singing “Amazing Grace” a capella. The whole time I couldn’t take my eyes off the shiny wood coffin at the front and the flowers draped over the closed lid.
Nana’s right there.
Ann and I agreed not to have an open casket, but now it felt wrong that I hadn’t seen Nana. Like I needed the proof that it was really Nana in there.
I didn’t want to see her, not really. Not still and waxen, looking strange in whatever they do in funeral parlors to make people look like mannequins of themselves. I wanted Nana to stay in my mind fresh and vibrant, laughing with her long, white braid tossed over one shoulder. And yet, without seeing the proof, the whole thing felt oddly unreal.
I startled when something touched the back of my hand. A tear. Tiny dots darkened my dress where they had fallen all around my clasped hands. I hadn’t even felt them cross the planes of my cheeks.
Vivi squeezed my hand and gave me a slight nod, as though reassuring me she was still here, and that it wasn’t okay, but it would be. Some day.
With a sigh, I turned back to the front and wiped my cheeks until they were clean and dry.
When I arrived back at Nana’s after the reception finally ended, I carried a paper sack full of leftover ham sandwiches, a container of chicken salad, and a few slices of pound cake that I hated to admit was some of the best I’d ever eaten. Was it wrong to track down the recipe for dessert at a funeral?
It was the time of afternoon that Nana always called the dregs of the day, where the sun slanted warmly over everything, bathing the world in a happy glow. I hadn’t made it to the beach since I got here, but now I wanted—no, needed—to be there.
I changed into a T-shirt and faded pair of shorts, shoving my phone into my back pocket before heading toward the beach. As my foot touched the wooden crosswalk, I heard the low thudding crash of a water pounding onto the sand. I broke into a quick jog, breathing out a sigh when I could see the waves tossing themselves on the shore.
Leaving my flip-flops at the start of the sand, I marched straight to the ocean, gasping at the first slap of cold water stinging against my feet and ankles. A gull cried out, laughing overhead as I stood there, facing the sea.
It was