Page 35 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

I had a feeling that she was going to be like her great-grandmother one day, artistic and talented. But with a family that would nurture that skill so she could use it for more than greeting cards for loved ones. If that was what she wanted.

Her brother? Well, his idea of finger painting had been slamming his fist into the paint so it squirted all over.

We weren’t holding our breaths for any masterpieces from him.

“For Mama,” our daughter said, handing me a giant hydrangea head she’d carefully cut with her little kid scissors.

I’d planted the Annabelles in the backyard for our first wedding anniversary, carefully placing them so she could see them from the kitchen window and the primary bedroom.

We were gathering some to put on the table for when I went to pick her and our third baby up from the hospital as soon as Zeno—late as ever—showed up to watch our other two.

To be fair, he’d gotten a lot better with time management (and life management) ever since he’d found the right woman to help figure out the correct systems to make their lives flow more smoothly.

But he would never be someone who showed up on time. Let alone early.

Still, the kids loved their Uncle Zen and his crazy tattoos and funny clothes.

“She’s going to love it,” I assured her, tucking it in with the others I’d already picked.

“Baby brother?” she asked, those big, round eyes making me want to scoop her up and give her a hug.

“Yes, baby brother will love them too,” I assured her.

She’d been very concerned about what the baby would and wouldn’t like. Would he like Goya (her personal best friend in the whole world)? Would her older brother’s loud way of dumping out his toy boxes make the baby cry?

She was taking the role of big sister very seriously. And she reminded me so much of her mother in that way.

Meanwhile, our son wanted to know how long until he could drag the baby around behind his bike. He didn’t love it when we adamantly told him “never.”

Our eldest didn’t remind me of either of us, looks aside. Or even any of my siblings. But there were moments, here and there, when I saw a bit of Matthew in him: the charm, the joy, the complete and utter disregard of consequences.

I wouldn’t lie and say there weren’t times when I missed Matt. Despite the betrayals and the lies, he’d been a huge part of my life for so long.

Besides, I could never truly hate the guy.

He was the one who brought the woman of my dreams into my life. He was the reason I had my wife and children.

Fate might have worked in strange ways, but I had to admit it got things right this time.

“Where are my niblings?” Zeno’s voice boomed through the house, making both of my kids squeal and run inside. Goya was close behind, tail wagging.

When I finished putting the flowers in a vase, I made my way out into the living room to find Zeno on the floor roughhousing with my son while my daughter looked for the art she’d made for her uncle amongst the pile of ones she’d made for everyone else in the family.

“You good?” I asked my brother, getting a thumbs-up as he got tackled.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.”

With that, I headed out and back to the hospital.

“How are you doing?” I asked her as she sat on the side of the bed in her going-home outfit, anxious to get out of the hospital.

“Well, I have ice in my underwear,” she said, shooting me a smile. “But good. Ready to go. They’re taking forever with the paperwork.”

“They always do. How’s he doing?” I asked, looking down at the baby in her arm.

“He’s got a set of lungs on him,” she said, shooting me a bemused, but tired, smile.

“Has he gotten the hang of latching?” I asked. We’d had the lactation nurse in three times since she delivered because he just didn’t seem to be getting the hang of it.

“Not really. Which might be why he is so grumpy. But when we get home, we can supplement with the bottle. Without the judgment,” she said with an eye roll for the lactation nurse who had been urging her not to use the bottle.

Of course, Blair wanted to nurse if at all possible.

But we were also realists. And wanted what was best for the baby.

Which was fed by any means necessary. Because a fed baby meant a full belly and a nice, long nap.

Which was good for all of us. Especially this go around when we had two other kids at home who needed us.

“The kids picked flowers for you,” I told her. “Well, one of them picked. The other trampled. I’ll leave you to decide who.”

“Those flowers are going crazy this year.”

Whatever Blair was about to say was cut off by the wail from our son who, yeah, had quite the lungs on him.

Luckily, his screaming seemed to hurry our discharge papers.

Somewhere in the distance, the news was on the TV, telling a quick story about an American family—wife, husband, and two sisters—who’d just gotten arrested in Argentina for an elaborate scam.

But we were too distracted with our growing family to notice.

Pretty soon, he was home sitting on our daughter’s lap who was sitting on my lap, his belly full from the bottle I’d fed him.

On the other couch, Blair was catching up on sleep while our son carefully lined his little dragons up around her to “keep her safe” while she slept.

And, fuck, it was one of those perfect moments where I realized I had everything— everything —I’d ever wanted.

Blair - 27 years

I ran my hand down my dress, my chest feeling like it was floating as Nico moved in at my side.

Our two youngest—at seventeen and fifteen—were still climbing out of the car, seeming both too adult and achingly young. One was in his adult suit and the other in a pretty A-line dress.

We’d tapped out at five.

Three boys, two girls.

It was the perfect combination for us.

“Full-circle moment, huh?” Nico asked, his hand rubbing my lower back as I looked up at the sign above the door.

The Halberstam Gallery.

I looked up at that black sign with its silver calligraphy every day for so many years.

But instead of working here now, I was going to see my sweet girl’s first-ever exhibition.

I’d known from her first attempt to draw a dog that we would end up here one day.

It had been such a rewarding thing to watch her talents grow over the years, to be able to take her to all the museums and galleries I’d been to, had drawn so much passion from, to see her grow in her confidence in art school.

And, finally, to gain so much traction on social media that she’d become a sought-after artist for all the galleries in the city.

Her choosing the one I’d worked in had just made my heart swell.

“It’s amazing,” I said, taking his hand and moving inside.

I’d seen all the art before.

But it was something different to see it on the walls, to hear the discussions of people who wanted to buy the originals, to see our little girl beaming under the praise.

She was our only artist.

Our eldest had followed in his father’s and uncles’ footsteps. I assumed our other sons would do so as well.

As for our youngest, she was still figuring things out. She had nothing but time.

“Can I borrow you for one minute?” I asked, stealing our artist to pull her over toward the canvas that had the least interest—a giant floral bouquet that was a compilation of all of the flowers her great-grandmother had created in her life. It didn’t matter. It was going to be on my wall.

But first, I needed this one photograph in front of it.

Nico and I moved around it with all our children, smiling at the camera.

It was going to be my final post for The Tenth Muse . I’d posted periodically through the years, but it was time to wrap it up. And I wanted to give it a proper send-off.

I uploaded the image, then typed out the caption.

Love: the truest muse the world has ever known.

XX