Killing Me Softly (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

You'd think that being a funeral home family would prepare us for this sort of thing. You'd be wrong. I mean, there were details that were a given. Perkins Brothers would certainly handle the funeral, but Uncle Peter was contracting out with another set of funeral directors to help handle some of the arrangements. They would run the crowd control at the wake. We expect quite the turnout, and Uncle Peter and Aunt Elaine will be in the receiving line with Mom, Brady, and me.

I hope this wake is less eventful than the last one I attended.

I couldn't care less about the casket. Who knew there were so many options? I mean, I know it's big business. I know there's a cache of caskets in Uncle Peter's basement, but I never paid attention to all the choices. Wood, metal, veneer. Satin, polyester, velvet, cotton. White, black, gray, mahogany. Religious. Secular. If I didn't already have a headache, I'd have one now.

Uncle Peter is in business mode. I know cost is not an object. On the other hand, this is a box to be buried in. I can't see going all over the top for it. I say as much.

"Sadie! That's rude. These boxes straightened your teeth and paid for your college education."

Mom has a point.

"Sorry Uncle Peter. I didn't mean to offend. I guess I never thought that much about the business part of this. I just always thought of you two running out at all hours, riding around in a car with a body in the back. Crying people. Smelly flowers."

"Well, that about sums it up."

Decisions are finally made, and we head back upstairs. There are phone calls to place, flowers to order (hopefully the non-smelly kind), and things to do. Mom needs to get an outfit and her hair done. All Dad's stuff at the nursing home has to be packed up. I suppose that Uncle Peter's got to go get Dad and do all that ... stuff. I wonder if he's going to prepare the body or have a colleague do it.

How do you even ask that? Uncle Peter's eyes are just as watery as mine and Mom's. Dad was not only his brother but his business partner. They were truly best friends. Envy washes over me. Why couldn't Jenna and I have been like that? Sitting at Aunt Elaine's table while Mom and Uncle Peter work on the obituary, I think about what Mom said about failing Jenna. If she had been a better parent. I don't think that's right. Mom was a great mother. She was on her own much of the time, with Dad over at the funeral home. She ran us here and there, helped with projects, cooked supper, baked cookies, tucked us in. If there's one thing I could ask Jenna, it would be why. Why did she turn out how she did? What did I do that was so deserving of her hate?

I volunteer to go pack up Dad's stuff. I'm better if I have something to do. Aunt Elaine is going to take Mom shopping in a few hours. I probably need to get something to wear too. While on my way over to the nursing home, I call Therese and tell her the news. I'm lucky I don't crash my car as the tears pour uncontrollably from my eyes. I make it to the parking lot and sit there for a few minutes. I cannot believe I was here last night. Twelve hours ago. And I didn't go in. I have so much to feel guilty for, and this is just one more thing.

I've been here so much over the last four years. I've walked through those doors more time than I can count, but walking in this last time will be the hardest of them all.

I wish I had someone to hold my hand.

But who?

And how do I ask for help? I know Therese would come if she could, but the twins are up and raring to go. Her husband is at work. I know he'll take time off for the services, so I can't ask more time of her right now. I'm not calling Brady. I know he's going to be all prostrate with grief, and it will be all I can do not to sucker punch him. He is a hypocrite and will put on a show about how much he's going to miss Dad, despite the fact that he was never here for him while he was alive.

Max. Fitzy. Either one would probably come with me. Maybe. I don't know about Max since we sort of broke things off. Maybe he would. I could call him. Maybe. Fitzy would come, but I'm not sure if it's because he has to. I know, maybe Detective Abbott is on duty and it's her turn to babysit me. She can come, and we'll be besties and braid each other's hair.

That thought makes me laugh, giving me the strength to walk into the nursing home alone, one last time. Cleaning out his room is not nearly as difficult as I'd anticipated. Probably because Dad wasn't really here. Oh sure, this had been my father's room for the last four years, but it wasn't Dad. Dad had been gone for a while. I imagine I'll never know how much he was aware of after the stroke, but I certainly take comfort in knowing that he's no longer trapped in this room.

Helga's on duty. She pulls me tight into a hug, nearly smothering me in her ample bosom. I can't believe that at one point I didn't like her. She created Max. For that reason alone, I am thankful for her. That's secondary to the care she took of my dad. We are—were—fortunate to have such great care for him.

"Oh Sadie, I'm so sorry." She looks around me. "Are you here alone?"

"Yeah, my mom's with my uncle, making arrangements. My brother hasn't shown up yet because it's not time to give out the money, and my sister ... well, you know."

"Where's Max?"

"I haven't called him and told him yet. I've been over at my mom's this morning, and was waiting for a more human hour."

"You know that boy rises early."

So. Many. Impure. Thoughts. I stifle a giggle. If it weren't such an inappropriate time, I would think about how I really need some lovin' right about now. But that would be inappropriate, so of course I wouldn't do that. (I'm so lying right now.) With great effort, I pull my focus back to Helga and the task at hand. I tell her when the services are going to be, and she promises to spread the word to the staff. I can't imagine they go to all the services for all the patients. It would be too much. Too many deaths.

Helga's right. I need to call Max.

And Fitzy.

Who do I call first?

I need to call Fitzy. I need to tell him about Dad. I also need to explain about the Jenna thing. It's time to come clean. Mom knows, and she doesn't hate me. I have to face my fears and admit to the rest of the world how I let my sister down.

That's going to take a while. I'd better call Max quick and let him know.

"Hey—"

"Hey yourself. How's things?"

"Okay. Well, not okay. My dad died." I walk down the hall of the nursing home, perhaps for the last time. I'm glad to have the distraction of the phone.

"Oh my God, Sadie! Are you okay?"

"You know, you ask me that a lot."

"I think I have good reason, don't you?"

"I'm not usually such a mess, really."

"Just since I've met you, that's all." There's a little chuckle in Max's voice. I realize he's right. I am a mess.

"Yeah, that was when things derailed. I mean, I guess they started to skid off the tracks last October, but my life has never been this upside down. Ever."

Max is quiet for a minute. "What do you need?"

This man is too good. Certainly too good for the likes of me, who will probably end up causing his demise anyway. "Nothing right now. Services will be Sunday night and Monday morning. It's going to be weird without Jenna here though. I can't believe we're going to bury Dad without Jenna getting the chance to say goodbye."

He's quiet for a minute. I wish I knew what he was thinking. "You'll keep me posted? If you need anything, and I mean anything at all, you'll call, right?"

"I will ... and Max?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

"Henry Fitzsimmons. Go."

"You think you're all cool answering the phone like that? You're still the same guy who cried during 'The Land Before Time.'"

"It was allergies. Something got in my eye."

"Un huh. I was there, and I know the truth." Sitting in my car, I can still picture sitting at the movies with Fitzy and Brady and being shocked that Fitzy could be so emotional.

"It's hearsay."

"That's not what I called about though. I need to talk to you. In person."

"I'm not due back on until tonight. Can it wait?"

"Can I talk to you as a person, not a cop?"

There's a pause.

"I don't know." Fitzy's got his cop voice on. I have to get this off my chest.

"You can record me. I need to talk to you now. It's important." I hope he can tell from the tone in my voice that I mean it.

"Fine. I'm driving home from the gym. Meet me at my place in ten?"

He gives me his address, which is not far from my mom's house. Funny. I think of it as my mom's house, even though Dad lived there too. He's barely just gone, but he's been gone for so long already. It's odd, but I think in some ways, this is easier.

I park on the street in front of Fitzy's townhouse. It's in the downtown, near some restaurants and the limited bar scene. It's a funky brick building that I bet is even funkier on the inside. Totally not my style, but I can appreciate it.

I also can appreciate the view when Fitzy answers the door. I cannot form a word or a coherent thought. He's wet, most likely fresh out of the shower. And wearing—wait for it—nothing but gray sweat pants, slung low on his hips.

Holy-Mother-of-Hotness.

And to make it better—no, worse, so much worse—are the tattoos. They adorn each shoulder down his bicep, dance across his chest, and wrap around his flank. Just like in my dream. His body is as sculpted as I'd dreamt as well. He is the man of my fantasies. Would it be poor form to lick him instead of saying hello?

"You're early."

"You said ten minutes." He steps aside so I can enter. There's nowhere to go but up the stairs. I follow him up, resisting the urge to grab his firm buttocks, and try not to stare too hard at his defined back. There are tattoos back there too. One on each shoulder blade, and the writing hugging his side. It looks like it's in German or something. I wonder how much more of him is tattooed. GAH.

There's a landing and then five more stairs that opens into a spacious living room. There's a tile fireplace in the corner with a large flat-screen above it. A cozy, hunter green couch and overstuffed chair provide the seating. Industrial rails line the staircase, which goes up another floor. The whole set of stairs is open from the first floor to the third, giving the feeling that this place is huge. There's a small dining room with a funky light hanging over a bare table. A large kitchen is at the opposite end of the house. I can see stainless steel and black granite. Uber-sleek and modern. And so sexy.

I. NEED. TO. FOCUS.

I'm now thinking appliances are sexy. They are not. They are functional. It's just that Fitzy is so sexy, he's creating this atmosphere that's charged with  endorphins or pheromones or baby-making hormones or something.

"Can you please put a shirt on?" I'm agitated, and it comes out sounding annoyed.

"I would have if you had given me three more minutes like I told you to."

He sprints up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I sit down on his couch and try to gather myself. On the glass coffee table, there's a cool candle holder. It's a piece of wood that looks sort of burnt and charred. There are five white candles, burrowed into the wood. I wonder if Fitzy made this. I will not be able to handle it if he's artsy too. Upon examination, I find the artist's name etched into the bottom of the wood. Phew. He's not all sexy artist guy too.

Hearing him come back down the stairs, I say, "This candle holder is really cool. Where'd you get it?"

"Some art show. I thought I needed some sort of decoration. I just got the end tables and coffee table. I'd been using cardboard boxes since I moved in."

"When was that?"

"Two years ago."

He sits down in the chair, which is thankfully on the other side of the coffee table and across the room. Lead me not into temptation.

"Glad you didn't rush into anything."

"I like to take my time and really think things through. Sometimes, I spend years thinking about things before I finally make my move."

I have a feeling we're not talking about furniture choices anymore. I need to gain control of this conversation. Even though he's now in a t-shirt, it's not much better. It's tight in a lot of places, and I can still see the tattoos on his arms. Maybe he needs to put a burlap sack on. I make a fist and put it over my mouth while I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Okay, I'm ready to start. I put my hand down and look at him. "Fitzy, I have a lot to say. I don't care if you record it or—"

He's up, out of his chair and coming toward me.

"What are you doing? Go sit down. Way over there."

Still without saying anything, he grabs my elbow and pulls me up.

"Oww, what are you doing?"

He pushes me into the bathroom and turns me to see myself in the mirror.

I have a Hitler mustache.

I look at my hands, which have some kind of black ... soot on them. Damn it, must be from that candle thing on the coffee table. Hastily, I swipe at the black smudge under my nose, but it only smears. Now I resemble Groucho Marx.

"Let me."

Fitzy is standing behind me. He reaches around me, pressing my arms into my sides and turns the water on. With his wet hands, he slowly, gently, agonizingly starts to wipe my upper lip. I turn my body around so we're facing each other. His thumb is cleaning, almost caressing my upper lip, cool water droplets running down my face. He's moving agonizingly slow, it's as if he's tormenting me on purpose. My lips part involuntarily. His thumb is there, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm kissing his thumb. Inviting it into my mouth. Sucking on it. All the while, never breaking my eye contact with him. This has got to be the most erotic thing I've ever done.

Slowly, he withdraws his finger, savoring every caress of my tongue and grasps my waist with his strong hands. He lifts me up and sits me on the sink counter as his lips slam down on mine.

I have waited over twenty years for this kiss. And it does not disappoint. Our lips eager, tongues twisting together. A fire explodes down below. Let me say this about that; from just his kiss, I can tell that there would never be any sort of need for any lubricant. His mouth moves down to my jaw and then my neck as my head tilts back, opening myself to him. His hands have moved down and have a firm hold on my butt. My legs are wrapped around his waist.

I can't believe this is happening. I'm here, with Fitzy. Never in my wildest dreams could I have ever imagined that a man could turn me on this instantly and completely. "Oh my God, Fitzy," I gasp.

"Sadie," he grunts. He stops for a minute and looks at me. His luscious lips are parted and he seems to be breathing as heavily as I am. "You have no idea what you are doing to me."

He steps back and continues kissing my neck. I feel his teeth gently nip at me. Then, his mouth starts moving down. Down my breast bone, now his hands cupping and kneading my breasts. I arch back, my body alive with his touch. His mouth is now moving down my stomach. I'm leaning back, just letting him kiss, relishing each scorching touch. Each nip. Each lick. Then he gets to my waist. With his teeth, he unzips my shorts.

And if my life were a movie, this would be the point when the audience would hear the sound of a needle sliding over a record, signaling some heinous error.

"Oh my God, Fitzy, you have to stop!" I put my foot on his shoulder and push him back.

He stands and leans in, kissing my mouth again. "I don't know if I can."

"I need you to," I pant. The more he touches me, the more my resolve is crumbling. "I don't want you to."

He's nibbling by my ear. "Then please don't make me stop Sadie. I may have to quote Meatloaf here and say it feels so good. It feels so right. It's the right thing."

The right thing. My dad's words from the dream echo in my ear. It suddenly makes sense. Why Fitzy was in my dream, exactly as I found him today. This is what I was being warned against. Right? With my last bit of resolve, I push him away.

"No, Fitzy, I can't."

He's as breathless as I am. The bathroom is too small to be in here with him. I'm too close and don't have that much will power. I hop down from the counter and re-button and zip my shorts. Damn that was impressive. I always suspected those lips were talented. Now I know just how talented they are. While I don't normally kiss and tell, I'm so going to have to brag to Therese about that one. Exiting the bathroom, I slide by him, my shoulder brushing his chest.

I go back and sit on the couch. Finally he comes out of the bathroom, adjusting himself. He starts to head to the couch. I just look at him and then the chair. He gets the message and sits down.

Now it's time to talk.