Secrets Whispered from the Sea - Emma St. Clair Page 0,20
lips before disappearing into the front hall. Moments later, I heard his footfalls heavy on the stairs.
I wanted to ask Ann about Tommy drinking, ask her about IVF, ask her if Nana’s death was the only reason that she looked so weary. But as the questions were still forming in my mind like wisps of cloud, Ann got up and began furiously scrubbing pots and pans, putting a period on the end of our conversation.
9
“Did you know he was bringing her?” I hissed to Ann, trying not to stare at our father. And Nadia, in a tight silver dress that looked like it would belong in a club, not in a back parlor of a church, waiting for a funeral service to begin.
“I did not know,” Ann said through clenched teeth. “I told him not to bring her. It’s not like she ever met Nana. And what is she wearing?”
“It looks like she wrapped herself in tin foil,” I muttered.
Ann snorted out a laugh, then slapped a hand over her mouth, trying to feign a cough. “Clem!” she hissed, glaring.
I couldn’t bring myself to be sorry though. That might have been the first time I’d ever made Ann laugh. Maybe Nana’s funeral was the wrong time, but if anyone would have approved, it would have been Nana.
A tiny shudder rippled through Ann as Dad and Nadia neared us. Her mouth tightened into something between a fake smile and a grimace. For a tiny moment, the two of us were united in something. Even if it was dislike for the petite woman who had just entered the parlor where Nana’s family waited before the service.
Taking a breath, Ann pulled her shoulders back as they reached us. “Nadia. Dad.”
Nadia leaned in and air-kissed Ann’s cheeks. I tried not to grimace at the sight of her arms in her silver dress. She had Madonna arms. So muscular that they looked like they’d been special ordered that way. I’d never before been able to see tendons underneath someone’s skin before. It wasn’t a good look.
Dad, apparently, disagreed. Usually, he couldn’t go more than a few seconds without touching her. He seemed to be holding back today, so at least one of them knew how to act at a funeral.
I didn’t fault Dad for getting remarried. I really didn’t. After dealing with Mom for years, the man deserved a happy relationship with a decent woman who didn’t suffer from alcoholism. Nadia at least got one of those things right. As far as I knew, she only ever drank water or protein drinks with ingredients like kale. But as to whether she was a decent woman or made my dad happy—the jury was still out.
Then there was the fact that she was thirty-eight, only three years older than Ann. Our father was sixty-two. The math made me shudder. Nadia seemed delighted whenever people thought she was our sister. I wanted to throw up.
In the beginning I wondered if she had mistaken my dad for some other man who had a big bank account and would one day realize this and leave. It had been six years, so maybe it was time to stop being so hard on her.
“You’re looking well, Clementine,” she said, squeezing me in a tight hug. All her hard muscle and her pointy bones seemed to stab me as she did. “But I bet a few sessions of yoga with me would help brighten your overall aura.”
Nope. I definitely wasn’t being too hard on her.
I barely restrained myself from reminding her that nothing was going to brighten my aura because we were at a funeral.
“Good to see you,” I said instead, hoping my words sounded more sincere than they felt.
Dad slid his arm around my shoulder in a half hug, and I tried not to be disappointed. Whether it was getting a half hug rather than a full one or not getting birthday cards on time, I always managed to feel slightly disappointed by him. And then guilty for being disappointed. It could have been worse. He could have blamed me for Mom’s death, but afterward, he kept me at the same distance as always: arm’s length.
I patted his back and pulled away before he could. He was soft, much softer than he’d been the last time I had seen him. I hated how the smell of his aftershave made me feel like a little girl again, wishing for his approval, hanging on his every word.