unForgivable (An inCapable World Novel Book 2) (13 page)

“Same to you.”

He pats my back, and when I break away, he holds out my chair. Always a gentleman.

“How’re you holding up?”

I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. “I’ll be fine,” I lie. “Eventually.”

“What would you like? Coffee? Tea?”

“Vodka?” I suggest.

He frowns at me, but it feels like there’s affection hidden in there somewhere.

“Coffee, it is,” he says.

He pushes out from the table and stands, headed for the counter where he patiently waits in line while reading something on his phone. When he returns he places a muffin with butter and a black coffee on the table.

I wasn’t hungry when he asked but now I’m digging into the muffin like it’s the last meal I’ll ever eat.

He raises his eyebrows. “Are you not taking care of yourself?”

I nod. As best I can, I suppose. I mean, I can’t remember what I’ve eaten in the last few days or if I’ve slept longer than a few hours but I
have
been busy.

“The first few weeks will be the hardest and then with time the pain will fade. It may never go away, but you’ll learn to live with it.”

“Live with it,” I repeat. “I’m not sure I want to.”

“What choice do you have?”

I raise an eyebrow. The alternative to sadness is anger.
Revenge
. Ugh. When Mickey asked me to take his revenge, I agreed. I didn’t know if I could take a life but I was willing to try because I was angry. Hell, I’m angry still. My emotions are real and raw and I’m not sure they will ever heal. But now I’m back to my life and the dust is settling, part of me doesn’t want that anymore. I know it will only cause more chaos and destruction and maybe hurt the people I have left.

I’ve had a glimpse of happiness with Damien and I think about what life could be like and I want it. When the time is right, I really want it. But if I do what I promised my Uncle Mickey, I might forever ruin the possibility of Damien and me. He won’t look at me the same, and I love the way he looks at me. I wish he was looking at me right now. In that quiet, intense way.

Hours later and I miss him. Is that even possible? I have to give myself a little shake and Moby assumes it’s because I’m cold because he offers me his jacket.

“No, I’m fine. Just had a chill,” I say. “Now, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Mona’s will, for starters. She left clear instructions that everything be left to you.” He reaches down to the floor to grab his briefcase and after a quick snap of the lock he opens it and removes some papers. “You can look over the details. I’ve marked where you need to sign.”

“She left everything to me?”

“Yes. The pub, her apartment upstairs, her savings, and her life insurance, which totals over half a million dollars.”

I cough, almost choking on the coffee scented air. “Excuse me?”

“She wanted you to have some security after she…passed on. This should help you achieve that.”

“I don’t need money,” I say sadly. I’d give it all back just to see her one more time, have her growl at me or just tease me. Or stroke my hair as I fall asleep like she did when I was still young enough to appreciate it. But at least the money will help keep Frankie happy until I can decide what to do about him and his brother.

I go through the stack of paperwork, signing and dating everything labeled with yellow arrows. It takes much longer than I imagined and when I glance up at the clock, I realize I’ve been here almost two hours. Not that I have anywhere pressing to be.

When I sign the last piece of paper, I gently put the pen on the table and feel a sense of finality. This
really
is happening. She
really
is gone. Never again will I see her flame-red hair, or her small smile that she always fought to hide.

Fitch flips through the paperwork and, when satisfied, he tucks it back away in his briefcase. “I can organize the transfer of her remains to a funeral home, and if you’re not up to it we can pay someone to coordinate the details.”

“Yeah, that would be great. But I don’t want a funeral for her.”

His posture stiffens as he tips his head to the side. “No?”

I laugh without humor. “Everyone she knew is connected to the Dantes. The moment she went to the cops she lost every relationship she had except for me and her brother.” And perhaps even him… “No one will go to her funeral, Fitch. No one.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll come to realize more people cared about her—and you—than you think.”

“Maybe.” Or maybe not.

“I know this is hard…”

“Do you?” I hug myself tighter. “My aunt was a rat. Life for me won’t be easy now. And the pub? It won’t survive. No one will eat there—maybe not even the regulars. And…I’m not sure if you knew that Mona was paying off the Dantes for ‘protection’ of her pub, whatever that means. Mona didn’t need protection.” But as soon as that last statement comes out of my mouth I realize how foolish it sounds. The only person she needed protection from was the person who ended up finishing her off. It’s almost ironic.

“I was aware,” he says sadly. “She asked me to bring it up to you if anything happened, although she hoped she could eliminate the fee before she passed.” He clears his throat and changes direction. “It may take a few weeks to get all the paperwork resolved and for you to receive your inheritance. Will you be okay until then?”

“She has a safe. I never went into it unless she asked me to get something for her, but I know the combination. I imagine there’s money in there.”

“Perhaps some other things, too.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs and forces a smile. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He shifts in his seat. “So you’ll keep the pub running?”

“I suppose so, not that I know the first thing about running it. Mona did everything and she wasn’t keen on letting anyone in on what she did behind the scenes. I don’t know a thing about what I need to do to keep it afloat.”

He cups his drink in his hands and steam rises from the liquid. After a slow drink, he says, “I can refer you to a recruitment agency. They may be able to find someone for you, at a cost.”

I scoff. There’s always a cost. “No, thanks. I’ll manage. Besides, it hardly matters. Closing is inevitable.”

“I hope that’s not true. She wanted you to keep it running.”

“I can try, but to what end? To see it bankrupt after people boycott it? To run it to the ground because I don’t know the first thing about managing a business?”

“I don’t know the right answer. I can only tell you what she told me.”

“Right.” I down my hot coffee and warmth trails down my chest. The mug is hot, almost too hot to hold and I put it back down on the table, keeping my hands in my lap.

“You could always ask your uncle to help with the pub.”

I open my mouth to tell him Mickey’s already dead but then I close my mouth and decide that’s information I can’t entrust, even to him. I don’t need anyone asking me questions about him, especially the cops. I’m already on their radar. I don’t believe that shit about them wanting to protect me.

“He’s…missing.”

“Convenient,” he says, eyeing me.

I look away. I know I’m giving away too much but I can’t help myself. His death is so fresh and, unlike Mona, I saw him die. I saw his cold, pale body, and the blood on his stomach and all over the bed. His face will haunt my dreams.

“And I can’t turn to Declan either,” I say.

“I heard he’s in custody.”

“No chance of talking to him?”

Fitch laughs without humor. “Not a chance. They’ll be well guarded until after the trial. And then…they’ll just disappear. New identities, new home, new life…”

“Everyone…gone.”

He touches my shoulder and squeezes ever so gently. “You’re not alone,” he says. “Think of me as family. Whatever you need, I’m happy to help you with. Legal or not. And there are others who would offer the same.”

“But can I trust them?” I say, with a frustrated sigh. “Who isn’t on the Dantes’ payroll?”

“Your concern is valid, for sure. You’ll have to be careful. Trust your gut and it shouldn’t steer you wrong. And…” He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a business card.

I take it from him and furrow my brow. “The Velvet Sands Hotel? Is this your idea of helping?”

He frowns and holds up his left hand to show me his wedding band. “Flip it over.”

I take the paper and run my thumb across the messy cursive writing, written in black ink. It’s so messy I can barely read it.

Hamish Allen, 5 Duff Street.

I say the name out loud. It’s one I’ve never heard before. “Am I supposed to know who this is?”

“I have no idea. Your guess is as good as mine. Your aunt gave that to me eight months ago. Said if things got bad to give you that, and I’d say her death qualifies as bad.”

“Eight months ago? Is that a coincidence?”

He takes a drink of his coffee and after he sets it down, he shrugs his shoulders. “When it came to your aunt, I never asked questions. If she knew what was coming, she didn’t say.”

“Fantastic,” I say, more to myself. Now I have another thing to add to my monster to-do list: find out who the fuck Hamish Allen is.

T
he next few
days are a blur of dealing with Mona’s finances, getting paperwork finalized, and planning Mona’s burial. I want to cremate her and maybe scatter her ashes in the ocean, but I thought about what Moby said and I changed my mind. If no one wants to celebrate her life or mourn her death, that’s fine. But I will. And that’s enough.

Turns out Fitch was right. I’m not alone. I have friends, even if they aren’t as obvious to me as Carrie. When the people who work at Mona’s pub find out about her funeral, everyone is all too eager to help. I decide to keep it small, not bothering to put an announcement in the paper or anything. And I tell my mom. She doesn’t recognize my voice when I call.

I close my eyes and sigh after she says, “Who is this?” in Polish for the second time. I’m hit with the same familiar ache in my chest she always caused me when she disappointed me as a child. But I steel myself and brush it off, unwilling to let her affect me anymore. “Mona’s died,” I tell her plainly.

Her response, “At least it was quick.”

I guess she still has hurt feelings over how they said good-bye all those years ago because she doesn’t even sound sad. I hear music in the background and a man calling out her name. I roll my eyes and imagine what he looks like. Who he is... Another deadbeat, I imagine. Someone who treats her like garbage.

“I got to go,” Mom says. “If you...if you need anything...”

I scoff and hear my breath as static in the phone. “No, I’ll be fine.” As usual.

“Right. Well, take care of yourself, kid.”

“You, too.” I hold the phone for a while, sit down, and take a breath. Then I bury my feelings down deep to consider them later when I’m alone and have the time. That usually happens at night when the world is still and quiet, when I feel the most vulnerable.

We have the funeral at a church. Mona wasn’t religious. In fact, you could see how uncomfortable religious talk made her. She’d pretend to stab herself in the ear whenever anyone brought up the names God or Jesus. But she didn’t say how she wanted this to go so I choose my way. I’m not so religious either. Not even sure I believe in organized religion—or religion at all. But, now she’s gone, I’d rather believe she’s gone somewhere nice, where I might see her again, as opposed to the alternative.

When the ceremony is over, we take her ashes to the beach.

The ocean roars as the tide makes it way to the rocky shore. It’s sunset, my favorite time of the day. The sun is on the horizon, coloring the edge of the ocean with shades of pink and lavender. It’s beautiful. When I was younger, my aunt would bring me here in the summer—I guess that’s why I chose to scatter her ashes here. The water is never warm, even in the summers. The Atlantic Ocean never is, but it never bothered me as a kid. I used to strip to my bathing suit and run against the waves and duck my head under, jumping up and out of the water to run back to shore, my skin prickled with goosebumps. Then I’d do it all over again. Aunt Mona would read on the beach while sitting on a towel.

At the time, Mona’s actions didn’t strike me as odd or out of character. Thinking back, it makes me chuckle and feel a pang of sadness. She must have been so bored. And yet, she always took me when I asked, without putting up much of a fight. She pretended to be like the other kids’ mothers and tried to act normal. She did it for years until I was old enough to handle the real her—or maybe she just couldn’t take it anymore. Then, the flood gates opened and I saw her for who she really was. Foul-mouthed and chain smoking, with leathery skin and hard features. She was perfect and had a heart of gold or maybe brass—unless you pissed her off.

Seeing her true self made me love her more. Not because I liked that version of her better, but I liked her more because she worked so hard to keep me innocent and sheltered when I needed it. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for her. If I’m honest, I liked colorful Mona more than I ever liked the pretending-to-be-domesticated Mona. It just didn’t suit her. Not one bit.

I hold the urn close to my chest, the thought of her inside of it confounding me. Bigger than life, and now every piece of her in this small metal vessel. Nothing could contain her in life, and it just doesn’t seem right to let her sit inside this cold, lifeless jar.

I remove the lid. The ocean roars a little louder, as if angry. It reminds me of her spirit. The water circles my ankles and I walk farther, avoiding the large rocks and stepping over shells and seaweed.

“Until we meet again, Aunt Mona.” I tip the urn on its side just enough for a steady stream of her ash to slip out. Some falls and mixes with the water while more of her ashes catch the wind and scatter like dust motes in the sunlight. I close my eyes and let the final strands escape. When I feel enough of a difference in the weight, I open my eyes and tip the rest of it over.

Quietly, I say good-bye as a thin a layer of ashes works through the foamy water’s edge. A hand touches my shoulder and I turn my head to see Carrie. Her eyes are red and her makeup is streaked. She’s so soft sometimes.

“Come on, Beth,” she says, blubbering. “Let’s go.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulders to comfort her and pull a crumpled tissue from my pocket. She blows her nose and glances at me with her red nose and puffy eyes. “She was bad ass,” Carrie says.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Definitely bad ass.”

When we reach Carrie’s car I offer to drive since she’s kind of a mess. We climb into the car and I leave the music on low. Carrie turns on the heat and warm air blows in my face and it smells of burning dust.

We drive back to Mona’s pub—my pub now, I guess.

I pull around the back, into the small space where Mona usually parked, tucked between her shed and the big garbage bins. The back door is unlocked. I caved and—though it pained me—gave the keys to Henry to open up so he and the staff could put something together to celebrate. Mona never gave her keys to anyone but me and it felt wrong to hand them off, but I’m coming to realize I’m not her and I won’t ever be. And I couldn’t have pulled today off without Carrie and the staff. I used to think asking for help was a bad thing—even though I did it often. Mostly for attention. But it’s okay to accept help sometimes. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

The lights are on in the kitchen and there are trays of food on the counter and soup cooking on the stove. I even smell baking bread and that chokes me up a bit. It reminds me of her, and our late night talks while she baked. I can also smell cooked beef and onions and potatoes. Beef stew? I peer over the tall pot, put my face in the cloud of steam, and inhale deeply.

“I’m so hungry,” Carrie says, snatching a roll and eating it plain.

I force a smile. I can almost see Mona by the far wall, giving Carrie a look of irritation for touching food in the kitchen. She would slap her hand away if she were here right now. Tell her to go out front and eat at a table like a normal person.

“Are you okay?” Carrie says, bringing me back to reality.

“Yeah. Great.”

The music calls to us. Acoustic guitar with a hint of drums, but not loud and obnoxious. It’s soft, like background noise. I push through the swinging doors and see Collin Smith, a man who often comes here to play and sing on the weekends. He winks at me when our eyes meet. Beth links arms with me, pulling me along and I match my pace to hers.

There are a few dozen people here, more than I expected. The whole staff, Mona’s lawyer, her accountant, and some regular customers who raise their beers as if to toast Mona. I smile and I mean it. Here I thought no one would come. I’m overwhelmed with emotion to see so many people proving me wrong.

“To Mona,” Henry says, raising his glass.

Damien’s sweet face appears in the crowd. He saunters forward, his eyes never leaving mine, and he hands me a glass of champagne. “To Mona,” he says, tapping his glass against mine.

“To Mona,” I say softly.

I down my glass and the cool, sparkling liquid helps me relax.

I mingle with everyone for the next few hours. Everyone takes a turn going to the dance floor to tell a story about Mona. I expect to feel sad, to miss her, and yet, most of the stories have me laughing. Colorful Mona. No one will ever hold a candle to her.

A few hours later, when everyone is buzzed and feeling good, people start to file out. It’s only when the crowd thins that I notice a man I’ve never seen before sitting in the corner of the room. I try and place him but I come up empty. So, naturally I jump the gun, and assume he’s a spy for the Dantes. If I were dead sober I would bite my tongue and talk to him privately, away from the crowd. But I’m not dead sober and this is not the time or place for the Dantes to make their presence known.

I stalk over to him, my heels clicking angrily on the floor. He raises an eyebrow at me as he takes a drink of whatever is in his Collins glass. He watches me over the edge, his brown eyes dark and hooded. He licks his lips when he sets his drink back down and wipes his hand over his beard.

I want to swat his drink away. Drinking for free here at Mona’s celebration!

“You’ve got some nerve!” I snap at him.

The bastard has the nerve to grin at me. Without thinking, I haul off and my arm flies toward his face. He catches it and before I know it, I’m being bear hugged from behind. I fight against Damien. I know it’s him. I recognize his scent and the tattoos on his arms. “Let me go!” I scream. But he won’t and I elbow him hard as my anger gets the better of me.

He lets out a loud curse and immediately I feel bad. I glance back and forward between him and the mystery man, torn between comforting Damien and smashing a broken beer bottle over the head of the latter.

Damien wins.

“Shit! Damien, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He raises an eyebrow and smiles as if to tell me he’s okay, but then his nose starts to bleed. “Did I do that?” I don’t know how I could have. Did my head hit his face? I don’t even remember.

Carrie hands him a cloth and he presses it to his nose. And all the while, this mother fucker is laughing at me.

“You certainly have Mona’s temper, I’ll give you that.”

“Who the hell are you? You here to spy for the Dantes? Ruin Mona’s celebration?”

“Not at all. I think you’ve got things wrong.” He leans forward, pushing out of his seat. He holds out his hand. “Hamish Allen.”

“Hamish?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

I nod.

“Who is this guy?” Damien asks.

“Nnn...no one,” I mumble.

“Really?”

“Carrie, can you take care of things down here?” I ask.

She shrugs and backs away, turning her focus on the people left, who now watch us with their complete attention.

“We need to talk,” I say to Hamish, as I usher him to the kitchen.

He has a swagger to his walk, like he’s big and bulky and wants everyone to notice. I eye him, noting everything about him, as I try to figure him out. His flesh is clean. Not a single tattoo. But he looks hard with a crooked nose and some scars on his forehead. He’s seen more than his fair share of fights. I even see a pink line across his arm that’s probably the length of one of my fingers, with dots on the side that suggest stitches. Stab wound? Maybe. His hair is long and braided down the back, highlighted with streaks of gray.

Damien grabs my elbow and forces me to stop. “Beth, do you even know him? And you’re going off to talk to him alone?”

“It’ll be okay,” I say, and stretch up on my tiptoes to peck him on his cheek.

His loosens his grip around my arm and his hands fall to his sides. Frowning, he shakes his head at me. “I don’t like this.”

“Trust me,” I say quietly. “And don’t go anywhere.”