Until Harry - L.A. Casey Page 0,3

to the right side of the coffin and sucked in a breath when I lifted my head and my eyes landed on him.

I slapped my hand over my mouth when a sob escaped. He was really there – it wasn’t some sort of sick joke. . . My uncle was really dead. The sight of him brought back a sudden memory of talking to him over Skype a few years ago, and it played havoc on my heart.

“Lane, darling, please talk to me,” my uncle pleaded. “You aren’t happy. I can see it in you.”

“I’m fine, Uncle Harry,” I sighed. “It’s just taking me longer to settle in here than I thought it would.”

My uncle dead-panned, “You moved to the city four years ago.”

“So?” I grunted. “It’s a different country. It’s still a lot for me to get used to.”

“Are you sure?” my uncle pressed. “Maybe you should talk to your nanny – she’s very good in situations when you’re sad.”

An alarm went off in my head.

“Nuh-uh, I don’t think so. I don’t want to speak to the Irish Oprah. She’ll just nit-pick and I don’t want that. You know she will talk me into getting on a plane and coming home. She has a gift, and I’m not letting her sway me.”

“Then tell me what’s going on – please?” he pleaded. “I can sense something is off with you. Did something happen?”

“I’m. Fine,” I assured him, then decided to put him out of his misery. “I just had a bit of a weak moment and thought about doing something silly, that’s all.”

“Explain,” my uncle almost growled. “Now.”

I gnawed on my lower lip and brought the volume of my voice way down so the other customers in Starbucks couldn’t hear me. “I had a dream about him last night, and I woke up in a cold sweat. For a second, for a split second, I thought about taking some pills. Before you freak out and demand I come home, know that I know it was a very serious thought, and I’ve booked a session with a therapist to talk about it.”

“Lane,” said my uncle firmly.

“I’m fine – I just want to talk to a therapist about it.”

My uncle blinked. “It may help if you talk to Ka—”

“No.” I cut my uncle off. “I can’t.”

“Lane—”

“No, Uncle Harry, I don’t want to see or speak to him. Please. I can’t.”

My uncle grumbled. “Okay. Fine.”

I groaned. “You do this at least once a week. When will you give up on getting me to talk to him?”

“When I’m dead and buried.”

“Don’t talk like that.” I wagged my finger at him. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Uncle Harry,” I whimpered as I was pulled from my memory and brought back to the present. I moved closer to the coffin, my stomach brushing against the wood. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”

Remorse filled me, and in that moment I was sick with myself. I hadn’t been here for him when he needed me most. I’d put my own selfish needs above a man who had done nothing but love me all of my life.

A soft cry came from behind me, then I felt arms wrap around my body. I had no idea who was comforting me. I could smell the aftershave he wore, which cloaked around me just like his arms did. I placed my hands on top of the hands that rested on my stomach.

“It’s okay, my love.”

Daddy.

I burst into tears and, turning into my father’s embrace, I wrapped my arms around his waist. My father held me and swayed us from side to side until my sobs became sniffles. After a few minutes I turned and looked back to my uncle. I placed my hand on top of his head, squeezing my eyes shut when I found it was ice-cold to the touch.

I reopened my eyes and looked at his handsome face.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, leaning over and kissing his soft cheek. I then gently pressed my forehead to the side of his head. “I’m so sorry.”

I let everything go and cried and cried and cried.

I had wept when I read Lochlan’s letter, but it was nothing compared to the emotion upon seeing my uncle. I was just short of wailing in sorrow. I was heartbroken, and the more I looked at my wonderful uncle, the more destroyed and empty I felt inside.

“How was your flight?” a voice asked from the parlour doorway.

I didn’t need to look to know it was the