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  “I loved that man so much,” Banks said in a low voice, his gray eyes on BJ’s headstone. Brian Sr. and I had decided together to keep it simple. I felt so sorry for the man. He’d buried his wife years ago, and now this. But I supposed that was another reason we got along so well. I’d buried my father too, and now my husband. Tragedy seemed to keep finding us for reasons I just couldn’t fathom.

  “I know you did,” I replied. I couldn’t take my eyes off of Banks. Dressed the way he was—in an expensive, well-cut suit and tie, a wool jacket draped over his broad, muscular shoulders—he looked like he belonged anywhere but a cemetery. He was so different from BJ in so many ways—one seemed relaxed while the other was straight-laced and serious—but the important things were the same. BJ would never be caught dead in one of Banks’s monkey suits, as he called them, and Banks would never be caught dead covered in head to toe grease the way BJ had often been at the end of a long day working in the shop. But they’d both been fans of cracking open a beer and shooting the shit until the wee hours of the morning. They went to car auctions and shows together. They shared their lives in a way that warmed my heart, despite their obvious differences, or maybe even because of them.

  “I wonder if this gets any easier,” he said, his light eyes shifting from the headstone to my face, the hopeful shine in them breaking my heart. He clenched his jaw, the muscles tensing under the clean-shaven skin of his face. The day was cold, but clear, the last of the sunshine brilliant on Banks’s golden blond hair, which he wore short around his ears and neck, the longer hair on top slicked back from his forehead so it was presentable. He left it a little messier on the weekends, but not by much. He always looked well put together, even when he was busy relaxing.

  “Ask me again in another year,” I said, and forced a smile. Out of everyone that had crowded around me in the last 12 months to form a protective barricade against the onslaught of grief and sorrow, I felt like I could relax most around Banks. We’d both loved BJ in our own ways, but they were similar. And Banks just seemed safer, like he wouldn’t break if I hit him with the full force of my emotions, though I hadn’t yet done that past the first day he found me sobbing and distraught on my front porch.

  “I still wake up every morning expecting him to be next to me,” I said. “It takes less time to remember that he’s gone, which I guess counts as an improvement, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

  Banks took another sip of his beer. “I find myself wanting to call BJ all the time or send him a message the way I used to—just the dumb shit we used to talk about all the time—and then I remember he’s gone.”

  I let his words soak in and found they didn’t hurt nearly as much as I’d expected. They were almost comforting. We sat in silence for a few more moments, finishing up our beers and shivering in the cool weather as evening fell around us. I came out here more than I admitted to Mom and Brian Sr. Not as much as I used to in the weeks following the accident—and I hadn’t fallen asleep here in months, dreaming strange nightmares about BJ buried alive—but several times a week. I knew whatever had made BJ the wonderful man he was wasn’t underground in this cemetery—those were just bones—but I couldn’t help the closeness I felt sitting here. I talked to him all day, every day—at home, at the shop, when I was driving—but I usually just sat on his grave, staring at the headstone in silence as I thought about the good moments we’d had. It never felt right talking to him here. I just wanted to be close to the only part of him left on this Earth. It sounded stupid when I tried to convey the thoughts to the shrink, but she’d seemed to get it. I didn’t think Mom would, and I didn’t want to hurt Brian Sr. with my hang-up, so I just kept it to myself, indulging in these visits a little less often as the months went by. I knew one day they would end altogether, but that seemed like something for the distant future, not the present where I still found comfort here.

  Once the daylight had drained away completely, I stood. My hands and feet were numb in their gloves and boots. I suddenly wished I’d driven so I could get back in my car and crank the heat. What I really wanted was to go home and get a fire started in the fireplace so I could watch the flames and let the thoughts drain from my head.

  “Thanks for being here, Banks,” I said as he rose from the ground as well.

  He started folding up the picnic blanket as he looked at me, his eyes much darker in the dim light. “Do you want to go get a drink somewhere? There’s a bar close by.”

  My plans for the evening were to go home, take a warm shower, and curl up in some blankets on my couch while sipping on a glass of wine. I’d done a similar thing every night since losing BJ. I didn’t watch TV anymore, really. Sometimes I read a book, but mostly I just let my mind flood with thoughts and then slowly empty itself again as the hours passed. It wasn’t quite meditation, but it was the closest thing I had. At the end of a night of that, I felt peaceful and ready for the few hours of sleep that I could usually muster before I woke to stare at my ceiling for a few hours in the dark, whispering all my secrets to my dead husband.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I had an unopened bottle of red wine at home waiting on me. I only had a single glass a night, but I made it last, sipping sparingly as I stared into the fireplace and let my thoughts consume me. It had become a ritual, one I was loathe to miss out on after the sun went down.

  “Just for one drink. It’s been forever since we’ve gotten the chance to hang out away from the shop.” He smiled, and I did too. He was right—it had been a long time since we’d seen each other for something that didn’t involve cars. Jackson was still working on the last project that Banks had given to BJ before his death. The shop was staying afloat, but being there was still painful.

  “Okay,” I said with a shrug. “Just one drink.”

  I packed up the rest of the strange picnic, stuffing the trash and recyclables into my bag along with the folded blanket. Banks and I walked back out to his car, which was parked on the side of the dirt path that went around the entire cemetery. I’d walked here—it was only about a mile away from my house and I could use the exercise; all this mourning had caused me to put on an extra 10 pounds of padding on my already curvy frame—so I climbed into Banks’s sleek, modern sports car for the short drive to the bar he knew.

  I’d never been to this place and was relieved to see how quiet it was inside. Not that I expected a madhouse in Danbury, Connecticut on a Monday night. We sat down at a small two-seater table in the corner and ordered drinks from the waitress, who came over immediately. The drinks came quickly, before we’d really relaxed into our seats and opened ourselves to talking—a beer for Banks and a glass of red wine for me, similar to what I had at home. I didn’t feel much like talking, I realized. I’d tensed up since leaving the cemetery, the way I always did at the end of the day. I spent the time between getting out of bed and returning home at the end of the night constantly pushing down my miserable, depressed feelings over BJ until I could deal with them, which was why I spent every night wrapped in a cocoon made of blankets and let all the day’s thoughts consume me so I could deal with them one by one. I desperately needed that time to be able to face the following day. If I let all those feelings build up without dealing with them each night, I’d end up losing it.

  I took a sip of my wine, letting the flavor ignite my taste buds. I hadn’t eaten much today, so I didn’t plan to get more than one drink. I wasn’t looking forward to making something at home. I’d spent a lot of time just eating fast food or snacks, which explained the 10 extra pounds. Cooking for one was depressing. Putting the extra serving into a Rubbermaid container was just another reminder that I was alone now.

  “I used to come here with BJ all the time,” Banks said, setting his beer down on the coaster in front of him. “Before you guys started dating. We were actually here the night he told me about meeting you. He was in love from the first second.”

  I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face at hearing that. “The feeling was mutual.
There was just something about BJ you couldn’t help but get drawn in by. He was electric. That’s the only way I can describe it. I knew after our second date that he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.” I smiled again. “Well, I admitted it to myself after the second date, but I really knew it after the first.”

  “If you can believe it, I knew that day in detention that I wanted to be friends with BJ.” He took a sip of his honey-colored beer, his eyes never straying from my face. I’d never seen anyone with eyes the color of Banks’s, gray like steel, or like the sky before it opened up and poured. They were striking, especially when combined with his well-formed, masculine features and gleaming blond hair.

  “I can definitely believe it,” I replied. “I used to watch him turn on the charm at the shop. People would just fall into the trap he set, although I don’t think he was actually trying to set a trap—he just wasn’t that way—but people followed him like he was the Pied Piper.”

  “How’s the shop doing, by the way?” Banks asked, his eyebrows sneaking together just a touch. His brows and long lashes were a shade or two darker than the hair on his head, still blond, but not translucently so. “I don’t get by there as often as I’d like. Work has been insane.”

  He’d come by a few times a week when BJ was alive, hanging out for hours. But that was before his dad left their family business. After that, he rarely got back into Danbury before the shop closed around 7, and he had to work weekends. Now he came by a few times a week. We stayed open later now—closing at 8 on weekdays—which made it easier for him. I appreciated him for making the effort. Sometimes he felt like the only link I had to my dead husband.

  “It’s doing great, actually. Surprisingly.” I hiccupped a small laugh. I knew just about nothing where cars were concerned. Anything I knew, I’d learned from BJ. Brian Sr. had been a huge help in the last year, but the real superstar had been Jackson, our head mechanic. He’d really stepped up, and I’d stepped up his salary as a result of how much of his time and skill he’d sacrificed.

  “You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” he said. “You’re doing a great job to hear Jackson tell it.”

  My cheeks reddened at the thought of them discussing the shop and me when I wasn’t around.

  We finished our drinks, still chatting about the shop and BJ, but lightly, with smiles on our faces as the chill of the autumn evening left our bodies. When our glasses were empty, Banks drove me home instead of ordering another round.

  “Thanks for the drink,” I said once we were parked in my driveway. “And for the company.”

  He smiled. “Anytime.” He bent over the center console to give me another warm hug.

  I got out and walked up to my porch, turning to wave goodbye to him. He didn’t start to pull out until after I’d unlocked the front door and gone inside. I turned on the light, illuminating an empty, silent house.

  “You aren’t here,” I said. “I’ll never get used to that.”

  Sighing, I went to get a fire started in the hearth so I could start my lonely ritual before falling asleep on the couch.

  Banks

  Wednesday

  As usual, I was meeting Mom and Dad at a nearby restaurant for lunch. Since Dad retired a few months before BJ died, we’d had a standing lunch reservation at The Lookout, an upscale restaurant in Manhattan right around the corner from the office, which Mom loved. Every Wednesday, I gave Dad the rundown on how things were going with the family business, and then weathered an intense question and answer session about every facet of the operation. It was annoying, but better than the alternative—him showing up at the office to check in on me. He had enough faith in me to leave me to sort out the day to day operations of the business he’d entered when he was fresh out of college. He wanted me to keep him informed, which was really the least I could do, considering he’d taken the tiny business started by my late grandfather and turned it into a multibillion-dollar corporation doing business in countries all over the globe.

  The weather was brisk, but dry, so I decided to walk the four blocks to the restaurant instead of hailing a cab. I got there just after 12, and could see Mom and Dad sitting at our regular table in the corner. The hostess smiled professionally at me, greeting me by name, and stepped aside to allow me to walk over to them. The entire staff knew us well since we came here every week. Mom also played tennis with the owner and her husband.

  Mom waved a long-fingered hand when she saw me approaching, a light smile on her flawless face. I’d never seen this woman without makeup, even first thing in the morning. I wasn’t quite sure how she did it. I leaned to give her a hug and plant a light kiss on her cheek, not wanting to muss her makeup. I shook Dad’s hand, who nodded in that firm way he usually did when seeing me in public. In private, he smiled and hugged like a normal person, but when prying eyes were around, he comported himself as professionally as possible, even during a family lunch. He’d worked with so many people in this town and still did quite a bit of charity work. I couldn’t fault him for cultivating a certain persona and wanting to see it abide even after he was retired. I’d been attempting to do something similar since taking over the reins at work. I’d successfully transitioned from William Wheaton’s son and presumptive heir, to Blake Wheaton, a man who worked hard and didn’t suffer fools. I didn’t plan to do anything to undermine that.

  “Hi, Mom, Dad,” I said, sitting down across from them as I nodded once at each of them. They each had a glass of red wine in front of them. There was a glass for me as well, positioned in front of where I always sat.

  “I took the liberty of ordering, dear,” Mom said. “Charlene was just telling me last weekend about the new entrée the chef was debuting. She agreed to share it with us a full week before the general public gets to try it.” Her blue eyes were sparkling and her pink mouth was lifted only slightly into the smallest smile in her arsenal. She liked ordering for people, always had. I preferred to order for myself, but didn’t make a big deal out of it because it made her so happy. I was used to it and, really, how different was it from going over to their house and eating whatever their cook had on the menu for that day?

  The waiter came to deliver the first part of our meal, a leafy salad with lots of arugula and spinach. I picked at it unenthusiastically, not much of a salad fan, especially when it was full of weeds like this. I had no idea what I was in for once the main entrée arrived, so I didn’t plan to eat much of this course.

  “How were this week’s meetings?” Dad asked. He looked up from his salad, his dark eyes wide with interest. I’d met with the heads of a few different companies from Japan and Germany, trying to broker a few different deals at once. It was my first time going solo on negotiations with both countries, so I’d made sure to do my research and tread carefully but firmly.

  “They went well,” I said, and launched into a detailed breakdown of each meeting, from the conversation to my impressions of the men and women with whom I’d spoken. Dad asked many questions, which I fielded to his obvious liking, because he eventually ran out of things to ask. I counted that as a win. I wanted to show him I could do a good job, that he hadn’t left his life’s work in the possession of someone who was unworthy but a shoo-in simply on the basis of winning the genetic lottery.

  “How’s Maggie doing?” Mom asked, her eyes darker with the concern I knew she still felt for me over losing BJ. He’d been my best friend for half of my life. Now he was gone. They’d come to like Maggie a great deal too, their love for BJ transferring easily over to her almost as soon as the two had started dating. My parents knew I tried to keep up with Maggie as much as I could. I hadn’t always just seen her before I met with them for lunch, but this time I actually had something to report, as I’d spent some alone time with her, though most of it had been in front of BJ’s grave.

  “She’s okay,” I said. “I just saw her on Monday. She’s dealing with everything in her own time and in her own way. I’m there for her whenever I can be.”

  “
But how is she dealing with life?” Mom asked, her eyes sending urgent messages. “Her personal life?”

  “I don’t really know,” I admitted. “She doesn’t open up to me much and I don’t want to push her.”

  Mom nodded her understanding and moved on. “How’s the shop doing? Does she need help there?” We all knew that Maggie had gone to school to get a degree in education, not to run a mechanic shop that specialized in renovating classic cars. That had been BJ’s domain, but with Jackson’s help, she was doing right by him.

  “She’s doing great. I go by there at least once a week to catch up and see if there’s anything she needs help with, but the head mechanic is probably her best resource in that department.”

  “How’s the Cadillac?” Dad asked.

  The waiter was back, removing our salad plates and forks without interrupting the conversation.

  I grinned at the mention of my baby. “It’s looking downright cherry. I think we’ll be ready to show it as early as next week.” BJ and I had run across that ’37 Cadillac Series 60 together. It was in rough condition but such a rare find that I bought it immediately. I’d never imagined finding a two-door convertible coupe, and now I had one of my own. We spent the next week going over detailed plans for its restoration—upholstery, rebuilding the engine, body and accent colors, everything. Once we had a plan, BJ got busy working. It was only supposed to take a few months, but then the accident happened, and the restoration was derailed. I spoke to Jackson the week after the funeral and told him to focus on jobs that would keep the shop afloat in the aftermath and that we could get back on track with the Caddy once things were more certain. Now we were close to completion. I couldn’t believe it. I was so anxious to show the car for the first time.

  “I’m actually going to head over to the shop after this,” I said. It was a rare slow day at the office after the last week of nonstop meetings and conference calls with the head of just about every company we did business with. I was looking forward to the reprieve, even if it was brief. “There’s a car show coming up and I’d like to enter the Series 60, but I need to be sure we’ll be good to go.”