Page 43 of Ebbing Tides (The Lighthouse Duology #2)

Lido stayed with Sid and his kids while Grace and I headed down to the funeral home to meet up with Lucy.

We'd decided to take our separate vehicles after I told her I needed to stop at the office for a couple of things, assuming that, with the upcoming arrangements for Dad, I'd be out of work for another few days.

Lucy was already waiting by the time we arrived, chatting with the funeral director like she'd known him forever. When she saw us enter the old Victorian—a building that was easily a hundred fifty years old, if I had to guess—her face lit up with a wide smile.

“Oh, we were just talking about you,” she said, reaching out to loop her arm through mine, dragging me closer.

“Should I be scared?” I asked with a brusque laugh, my gaze meeting the funeral director's.

He smiled, extending a hand. “Not at all. We were just talking about your time in the Army.”

“Ah,” I grumbled, accepting the gesture warily.

“Thank you for your service, by the way,” he added.

I nodded in lieu of thanks, not wanting to linger on a past I seldom liked to talk about. Then, as I released his hand, I asked, “So, uh … how do we do this whole thing?”

He offered a curt nod, taking the hint with the precision of someone adept at reading the room. “Right. So, if you'll just follow me …”

He led us to a room full of old furniture, decorated with floral wallpaper and a dark gray carpet that probably hadn't been replaced in fifty years. He sat behind the large wooden desk and gesticulated toward the two chairs on the other side. “Please, have a seat,” he offered graciously.

Lucy sat while Grace turned to me, waving her hand toward the empty chair.

I shook my head and told her to sit, that I was fine standing, and the director said, “You can feel free to pull over one of the other chairs.”

With a turn of my head, I saw the chairs he was talking about.

Four of them, lined up along the wall, beneath an old painting of what I assumed to be the funeral home in its heyday.

They didn't match the chairs my sisters sat in.

They were plainer, less comfortable-looking, and as I grabbed one and carried it over to sit beside Lucy and Grace, I couldn't help but think of what a visual analogy this was.

The two princesses, atop their thrones, and the bastard son, cast aside to sit on his rickety chair made of sticks and twine.

What am I doing here? I wondered, folding my hands on my lap and dropping my gaze to study my worn, calloused fingers.

And I continued to wonder as the director—whose name was Shawn and who was an incredibly cool, nice guy, as it turned out—assisted us in making the arrangements for our father's funeral Mass.

From picking out the casket to the flowers to the Mass cards, my sisters flipped through books of examples like they were shopping from a Sears catalog, pointing at the things they liked, wrinkling their noses at the things they didn't, and asking for my opinion when they thought it was necessary.

“Do you have any input, Max?” Shawn asked, his brow pinched after my sisters made the last of the decisions on the flower arrangements.

I shrugged with my hands and gave my head a slight shake. “Nope, I, uh … I think it's good. Everything … yeah, everything's good.” I was stammering, uncomfortable and on the spot.

Truthfully, I wished I'd been left out of this altogether, just as I had requested. But I had come to offer support, to give my sisters a shoulder to cry on, if need be. But was I there for my own well-being? Absolutely not.

For fuck's sake, for much of my life, my father hadn't welcomed me into his home for Christmas dinner.

I could count on two hands the number of times the man had wished me a happy birthday.

Why the fuck would I have any opinion on what color the goddamn box he was buried in should be? Why the fuck would he want me to?

“Okay,” Shawn replied, unsure, even as he nodded. “Then I'll get this all settled for you guys.”

“Thank you so much,” Lucy said tearfully, dabbing at her eyes.

“Will you be at the Mass?” Grace asked.

Shawn shook his head with a kind smile. “No, I'll be here, manning the fort. My friend and business partner, Abraham, will be handling the Mass and burial. But I promise he's just as nice as I am, and he will ensure your father is given the respect and dignity he deserves.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from snickering.

Lucy wrote a check from Dad's bank account to pay for the funeral and handed it over. We exchanged pleasantries with the man, he thanked me again for serving my country, and then we were on our way.

Together, we left the funeral home and stood on the steps of that old Victorian, squinting up into the wintry gray sky. At moments like this, I knew some families would converge somewhere, have dinner, spend time reminiscing on the good old days … but we weren't one of those, were we?

“Max, do you want to find clothes for Daddy to wear?” Lucy asked, looking toward me.

I huffed at the suggestion. I imagined dressing the old bastard in the same clothes he'd worn when he came home from work, right before taking off his belt and beating the shit out of me with it.

Maybe I can ask good old Shawn to put the belt in his hand and not around his waist , I thought with an unamused smirk.

“You don't want me to be in charge of that,” I said, shaking my head.

“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “I'll do that too.”

“Lucy, if you want me to do something, I will,” I said, realizing she was annoyed. “But you don't want me to pick out the clothes he's going to wear for all of eternity. You won't like what I pick.”

“I just want him to look nice,” she said, her voice warbled with a sudden burst of emotion.

“But he wasn't nice,” I countered, keeping my tone soft. “Not to me.”

Her lips parted, as if she was going to say something more, and then she stopped herself and nodded. “Okay. I'll go to his house tomorrow, and—”

“Or I can do it,” Grace offered with a shrug. “I don't mind.”

“Okay, yeah. You do that, and, um … I'll call the church, put together the readings for the Mass, decide on pallbearers …” She looked up at me, a questioning look in her eyes.

I shrugged my reply, as if to say, Do I have a choice?

God, I was being such an asshole. I knew it, and I didn't like it, but what could I say? He brought out the worst in me, just as I'd brought out the worst in him.

With a long-winded sigh, I looked off toward my truck and said, “So, um … I'm gonna get going. Call me, tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it.”

“Where are you going?” Lucy asked, obviously perturbed.

“I have to grab some things from the cemetery,” I replied.

Her face lit with an idea. I could practically see the light bulb above her head. “Oh! Do you think you could ask Charlie to make sure the area around the plot is cleaned up?”

“Charlie always keeps the place clean,” I said, feeling a bit defensive for no particular reason.

“No, I know that, but I mean … if he could spend a little extra time …” She smiled weakly.

I sighed and relented with a nod. “I'll mention it to him.”

“Thank you.” She wrapped her arms tightly around my waist, and against my chest, she deflated with a sigh. “I'm sorry this is torture for you.”

“I'll get through it,” I assured her, kissing the top of her head. “Only for you guys though.”

Never for him.

And certainly not for me.

***

When I knocked on the security office door, the guy who covered the day shift—shame on me for never being able to remember his name—opened the door and offered his condolences.

“Thanks,” I said with a forced smile. “I just gotta grab a couple of things, if you don't mind.”

“Yeah, sure, man,” he said, stepping aside.

“Have they found someone to cover for me?” I asked, making awkward conversation as I grabbed my book— Lisey’s Story —from off the desk.

“Todd,” he answered, naming the guy who covered a couple of hours in the swing shift before I got in.

“Ah, okay. Good. I know it was short notice.”

“It's no problem, man. Shit happens. Gotta be prepared for it.”

I offered a half-hearted nod as my eyes landed on the lighter and pack of cigarettes. My breath stuttered in my lungs as I stared at the two items belonging to Melanie's husband.

Fuck .

She had forgotten them. I had forgotten them.

Is she still here?

I swung my gaze in the direction of Charlie's cottage, as if I could see through all the walls and the tombstones and the trees, clear through to the curb at the bottom of his hill. To see if her silver SUV was still parked there. Stupidly, I was annoyed that I couldn't.

Dammit .

I snatched Luke Corbin Senior's belongings from the desk and tucked them into my pocket before grabbing a few other odds and ends I might need over the next few days. Then I wished the day-shift guard a good one, thanked him again, and left with a thundering in my chest.

Maybe I'm not too late.

In my truck, I sped through the winding roads, going well over the cemetery speed limit. I felt like I was racing against time, thinking she might not have left yet, but my heart sank like a ten-ton brick when I rounded the bend and didn't see her car.

I was too late. And the crashing wave of despair and disappointment barreled over me, pushing a gasp from my lungs as I rolled to a stop at the bottom of Charlie's hill in the middle of the graveyard.

I felt like a fool for hoping and then even more like one when Charlie rounded the house and spotted my truck parked outside.

He carried an axe with him as he headed down the hill, and for half a second, I truly wondered if he was intent on murdering me, remembering something Melanie had said about him having killed before.

But then he leaned the axe against the stone fence surrounding the perimeter of his yard and continued walking in my direction.

Certain now that he wasn’t going to kill me, I rolled down the passenger window.

“Hey, Charlie,” I greeted, forcing a smile on my face. “Sorry to bother you.”