Page 2 of A Moth to the Flame (Utopia #1)

Chapter

Two

CORDELIA

I’m no expert on the nuances of modern funerary practices, but a bar wake seems odd. Then again, I’ve never buried anyone before.

Granny was the only family I had.

“She was a good woman,” someone mutters to my right.

I swallow the taste of bitterness that coats my tongue and do my level best to refocus on what matters.

It’s not Duke fucking Castellaw or his brainwashed groupies.

The people occupying the high-top table nearest to me raise their shot glasses, and then down the clear liquid all together. Unified even in mourning.

I pause at the edge of the main bar area to drink it all in—the heat of too many bodies, the din of too-loud conversations, the acrid scent of moonshine.

I take in the way that nobody offers me a sympathetic glance or word or a shot of the liquor they’re sharing.

I inhale it all deep into my lungs and hold my breath.

Prepare to finally let it go once and for all .

Until the sound of shattering glass dashes any hope of walking out of here with my head held high.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur to the woman whose drink I just party fouled. “What were you having? I’ll get you another.”

I brace for a tongue lashing, or at least a glare.

I receive…nothing.

She blinks like she’s looking straight through me, like I’m the ghost my grandmother hopefully isn’t doomed to be.

“Seriously, Trae?” She slaps the shoulder of the guy beside her. “If you wanted me to sober up enough to drive us home, then you could’ve just said so. No reason to go wasting good ‘shine.”

I sigh then continue shoving my way through the packed sardines. I don’t think anyone has to worry about sobering up anytime soon. At this rate, the merriment will carry on for days.

I think Granny would’ve liked that.

Hell, even into her nineties, she would’ve joined in.

Life is for living , she said.

Sounds obvious, doesn’t it? It’s really not.

At least not for this thirty-year-old accountant with a decent paycheck and a two-bedroom, ranch-style house.

A steady job and homeownership are the bedrock of the American dream, but no one’s handing me adult gold stars.

They’re not lining up to comfort me in my grief, or even giving in to their morbid curiosity about what life is like for one of the few residents who made it out of this hillbilly hell.

I’m not grotesque in appearance nor am I mean-spirited, but those stellar resume points don’t matter. I’m as alone in the world that I’ve built for myself as I am in this hometown crowd.

No friends from my adult life attended the burial, because I don’t have any.

None of my work colleagues sent flowers or plant arrangements to the funeral home.

I go unnoticed at my job unless I make a critical error that forces others to realize I exist. The only romantic entanglements I’ve ever had are one-night stands facilitated by dating apps.

There’s no boyfriend at my side to usher me through the sea of bodies standing between me and my booth on the other side of the room .

When I finally make it through the bulk of the crowd, I glance around.

Did I fight my way to the wrong booth?

I don’t see any hand-scrawled Reserved signs on the nearby tables.

“Delia.” The warm greeting jars me. “We were starting to wonder if you’d left already.”

The subtle accusation lodges in my ribs. I blink at the two women occupying the newly proclaimed mourning table.

I’ve spent this entire, unending day mired in grief and walking through the logistics of death alone. Why would they suspect I’d left if they never acknowledged that I’ve been here all along?

“Savina, Hope.” I tip my quivering chin in acknowledgement, then slide into the empty bench seat across from grown women who I haven’t seen since we were girls in the same school.

My muscles tense like my body is bracing for another showdown.

“Do you need help with anything at the homestead?” Hope asks before I’ve even properly settled into my seat. “There has to be a century’s worth of clutter under that roof.”

Her offer is kind, but it doesn’t do anything to release the tension that’s building in the pit of my stomach.

“Delia?” Hope prompts. “Did you hear me?”

I used to imagine the shy, oldest daughter of the Tate clan as a Cinderella type, complete with unassuming heroine potential. Her mousy brown hair, average brown eyes, and small stature radiate the kind of quiet beauty that women spend thousands to achieve.

It seems that a decade of growth has loosened her tongue.

I try to be polite without giving away my discomfort. “Seems like Granny managed to organize most of it before she passed.” My mouth ratchets to one side. “There’s a large pile in the sitting room labeled keep.”

Things like oddly shaped pebbles and leaves so dry that there’s a strange flavor in the air likely caused by their dust. Metal trinkets so old and worn down over time that I can’t discern their original shapes or purposes.

Some Halloween costume accessories. I buried the random animal skull in the backyard .

Still can’t figure out where that came from or why she was holding onto it.

No matter how much I begged for a pet, Granny swore that animals didn’t belong in the house. The closest thing I’d ever had was the cat clock that’s hung on the wall in the sitting room since I was a baby.

“She was a national treasure. I wish she had been my grandmother,” says the other woman in the booth.

Savina O’Connell’s bright blue eyes mist over with unmistakable sadness.

In high school, I had envied the head cheerleader who concerned herself with nothing more than the next football player she could use for a good time after the Friday night game. She was never short on offers, unlike me.

Apparently, she’d been the one who discovered Granny’s body and made all the funeral arrangements. I owe her for at least calling to let me know the details, so that I could make it home for a final goodbye.

A lump catches in my throat. That goodbye had been at the funeral home this morning with a cold, embalmed corpse.

My brain still refuses to accept all the evidence I’ve seen today. I didn’t know my daily phone call with Granny three days ago would be the last time I’d ever hear her voice.

If I had, then I wouldn’t have wasted that time crying about the latest guy to blow me off for a second date. I wouldn’t have been in Charleston while she was here. I wouldn’t have scheduled my next visit home for a month from now.

I could have hugged her warm body one last time. I could have noticed that her health was deteriorating rapidly and taken some time off work to be here with her. To hold her hand and love her as her soul passed from this world into the next.

An unbidden sob sneaks out of my chest.

I cover it up by gesturing toward Savina, hoping she’ll fixate on my ragged cuticles and polish-free nails.

“If Granny McCoy had been your grandmother, you would have suffered through junior high with unsightly bowl cuts, since she didn’t believe in salons.

Swore those ladies would suck all the magic right out of a person with their chemical shampoos and too-dull shears.

Do you honestly want your long, lustrous golden locks treated that way? ”

Her curdled expression exemplifies her thoughts on the matter.

Hope barks out an unexpected giggle. “She probably only kept your curls short because everyone knows that the faerie folk covet red hair. She was just trying to protect you. Mothman is watching, even now.”

I crack a smile at the mention of an old folktale. According to Granny, Mothman was a faerie who crossed the Atlantic with the original white Appalachian settlers. There were major plot holes in all her stories about the cryptid, but I had hung on her every word all the same.

Granny was the only one who ever tried to protect me. Who ever loved me.

“To Granny McCoy!” a booming, deep voice calls from across the packed bar. “May she live on in all our hearts and minds!”

Damn near the entirety of the town thrusts their drinks aloft into the muggy summer air. Hell, I’m pretty sure most of the people from our neighboring mountain hollers are here tonight in her honor.

Through the raised cups and the shouts of honor and praise, I lock eyes with the source of the latest toast.

Everyone swears that Wallace has been around forever.

Townies and random stragglers from the nearby ski resorts alike are enthralled by the enigmatic owner of The Flame.

To their credit, the man seems frozen in time.

By all appearances, he can’t be older than his late forties.

With a head of dark, thick hair that’s just beginning to gray around the temples, eyes so brown that they’re almost black, and a height and breadth of shoulders to make him stand out in a crowd, he’s inarguably alluring.

He dips his chin toward me in a singular nod, focused enough to send goosebumps spreading over my too-warm skin. There’s something distinctly different about his gaze on me, as if he sees me in a way that I’m unused to being seen around here.

The longer he ensnares my attention, the more my chest is able to expand and contract fully with deep inhales and exhales. Like he’s giving me a reprieve from my choking sorrow somehow, offering something to ground me in the midst of my swirling confusion.

Hope glances over her shoulder toward the source of my glassy-eyed stare. “It was really nice of Wallace to offer to host the wake here.”

Savina raises her eyebrows. “Rumor has it that he’s not charging you a penny for tonight. Drinks on the house for anyone who toasts Granny until the sun comes up.”

Welcome to Utopia, West Virginia, ladies and gentlemen.

Population five hundred and forty-five, according to the last census.

A gossip mill to rival any popular website’s piping hot tea.

“It’s true,” I admit. “He approached me at the cemetery and offered to host the wake here.”