White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel) (18 page)

He chuckles. I understand. The idea of Miss Prim-and-proper getting a tattoo is laughable. “Who knows. But I’ll be there to hold her hand if she does. I’ll do anything for her, Skylar.”

Is there hidden meaning in that statement? He just told me a minute ago that he isn’t sure he can honor her wish, yet he’s telling me he’ll do anything. Maybe he means he’ll do anything while she’s alive, but then after, all bets are off.

“It’s started already,” he says.

“Started?”

He nods. “I missed all the signs before. The slurred or missing words. The fatigue. The headaches. I never once thought they meant anything. And now, for the past two days, I notice every little symptom. They scream out at me and are as obvious as her eyes are blue. And I notice new ones, as well. The way her hand falls away from mine when she loses feeling in it. The way she will sometimes ask the same question twice. It’s starting. And it kills me.”

It kills me, too. But I’m trying not to think about it. There will be plenty of time for that later. I try to lighten the mood. “Hey, would you mind if I steal Erin for a girl’s day tomorrow? She wants to color her hair and I have a few other things that don’t involve boys that I’d like to do with her.”

He looks pained, like he doesn’t want to let go of her for one second. But I can tell he knows she needs this. She needs time with her family and friends, too. He needs to share her with us. Even if it’s the hardest thing he ever has to do. He scrolls though his phone and then grabs a pen and paper off the nearest table. He scribbles something and hands it to me. “This is a hair stylist who works with a lot of the models I shoot. I’m going to text him right now and let him know you’ll be calling. He owes me a favor. If he’s in town, he’ll squeeze you in. I’m sure of it.”

My jaw drops when I see Erin emerge from the dressing room area. They’re directing her over to where she will stand with a large group of people. She’s supposed to be part of a crowd at a concert. They are pumping out dry ice to make it smoky. The lights dim after they’ve told everyone exactly how the scene will play out. She has one line. When the lead character walks by the crowd, she is supposed to stumble into him and say ‘Excuse me.’ That’s it. That’s all she has to do. And this took two hours of hair, makeup and costuming.

Griffin and I can’t peel our eyes away from her. She’s beaming. She’s acting out every little girl’s dream. The energy coming off her in the dimly lit studio is palpable. She’s gorgeous. She’s living.

His camera is immediately retrieved from a bag by our feet. He takes dozens, maybe hundreds, of pictures of her. He should. She’s radiating happiness.

It takes over an hour and six takes to get the scene right. But not because of Erin. She was flawless. Every time. Every take looked the same to me. I wonder if Gavin asked the director to stretch it out, giving her more time to enjoy the experience. When I find Gavin, standing close behind some of the cameras, he winks at me. Just as I suspected.

I glance at Griffin. He’s watching his wife with a look of awe. “She’s so happy,” he says, staring at her. “She needed this today, after the morning she had.”

I stiffen and my insides tense up. “Did something happen?”

“We went by her school. She had to tell her students she’s not coming back.” He shakes his head and I can tell he feels bad for the seven-year-olds who no doubt think Erin walks on water. “She didn’t tell them the entire truth. Only that she’s too sick to be their teacher anymore. It was heartbreaking, Skylar. They swarmed her after she told them. They begged her not to leave. They said they would help her out and be really good. They said they’d do anything to keep her there. I knew exactly how they felt and it gutted me.”

“I’m so sorry, Griffin.” I put my hand on his and give it a reassuring squeeze.  Then I momentarily wonder if it’s okay to touch him. I stare at my hand that rests on his. I quickly look up to see that Griffin is doing the very same thing. He catches my eyes, holding them with his. He gives me a small nod. Then, at the same time, we withdraw our hands from one another.

I look over to see what’s happening on set only to find Erin striding towards us. I’m positive that she saw me touching him. Her gaze is fixed on the arm of the chair our hands just vacated. I also don’t miss the fact that it seems to make her happy.

This is truly twisted.

She flings her arms around me. “Thank you so much, Skylar. You and Gavin are absolutely wonderful to have set this up on such short notice. I’ll never forget this.”

“I’m glad it all came together so nicely. You were wonderful. A natural, Erin, really.”

She waves her hand up and down her body like a game show model, showcasing the dress they outfitted her in. “Isn’t it fabulous? They’re letting me keep it. Cancer perk, I guess.” She giggles. Griffin and I wince. “Anyway, I don’t want to waste this look. I think I have a gallon of makeup on. I’m freaking hot, don’t you think? Let’s go out.”

“Sweetheart, you’d be hot in a burlap sack,” Griffin says. “But, yes. We can go out. What did you have in mind?”

She looks at me. “How about your number nine?”

Griffin looks confused, but I know exactly what she wants. I know because Erin and I have this connection. This understanding of each other. This inexplicable bond that allows us to communicate without words. Well, and also because I know that number nine on the bucket list that Baylor and I concocted will have Erin walking into a crowded bar, shouting ‘Drinks are on me!’

“This is going to be so much fun,” I say, as Erin and I hook elbows and walk out of the studio with Griffin trailing behind.

chapter sixteen

I stare at the brunette in the mirror. Her green eyes stare back at me, then fall upon the growing baby bump that strains underneath my now-too-tight Yankees t-shirt I’m lounging around the apartment in today. It takes me by surprise each time I catch a glimpse of myself. I let Erin pick out the color and she chose dark brown. Really dark, almost the color of Griffin’s. It makes me wonder what color hair Bean will have. Will he have dark blonde hair like I normally do, or will he inherit Griffin’s darker, wavier locks?

I had a dream about the baby last night. It’s the first time that’s ever happened.  I was holding the hand of a little boy and he was swinging between me and someone else. But when I looked at the other person, it wasn’t Griffin, it was Erin. What does that even mean?

I shake off the bad feeling of Griffin conspicuously missing from my dream and I finish brushing my hair, happy that I chose not to get the permanent color, but the kind that will completely wash out in about four weeks’ time. Erin did the same. I’m glad she did. I really didn’t want to tell her that I couldn’t imagine her not looking like herself her last weeks on earth.

Especially considering what happened the day we went to the salon. When we were out for lunch, after Griffin’s hairstylist friend gave us the gold-star treatment, Baylor and Mindy came to join us and Erin asked if I was going to introduce her to my friends. It was hard to hide the shock from our faces, but within a few minutes she was herself again, asking when Baylor and Mindy had joined us. Then she proceeded to drop her fork repeatedly. And she cried in my arms when she almost didn’t make it to the bathroom in time to pee. It was the first time I’ve seen her cry sad tears since we shared tears the day she told me she was dying. The headache that came on that afternoon sent her to the doctor who promptly increased her steroid dosage. Still, she ended up in bed for a couple of days.

Today, we’re shopping for baby clothes while Erin’s family and our friends make last-minute arrangements for this afternoon’s surprise. I realize we don’t know the sex of the baby yet. Well, not for sure. But Erin insists it’s a boy and she knows her taste in clothing far outweighs mine. I think this kid will have a wardrobe large enough to clothe a small village by the time she’s done. She wants to shop for furniture next. She’s having everything delivered to her townhouse. I haven’t asked why and she’s failed to tell me. Some things are better left unsaid at this point. I’m grateful she hasn’t pushed. I don’t have the heart to tell her nothing has been decided. She hasn’t come right out and asked if we’re going to honor her dying wish, and Griffin and I are only too happy not to talk about it.

She seems her regular self today. There have been no lapses in memory, no slurred words, no headaches. The only thing I’ve noticed is her right arm hanging limply at her side. The steroids are doing their job and I’m grateful she’ll be able to enjoy the afternoon we have planned. This is by far the largest undertaking and it’s taken dozens of people to be able to pull it off.

As we exit the last designer baby store, she looks at me, questioning the horse-drawn carriage sitting at the curb out front. When a grin takes over my face, she bounces up and down like a little girl and takes the driver’s hand, hoisting herself into the carriage. We had done this once before, and she was so enamored with the horses, I thought it was only fitting this be her transportation to the ball—so to speak.

‘The ball’ is actually a picnic in Central Park. Well, picnic is not really an accurate description. Party is more like it. Everyone will be there. All of Erin’s family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, you name it. We had them all flown in from various locations around the country. Her former colleagues are coming, along with many of her students. Everyone who has touched her life will be there. Why wait for them to come to her funeral where she wouldn’t be able to appreciate each of them?

When we get closer to the party, her eyes go wide as she takes in the tents, the inflatables set up for the children, the endless tables of food and drink, the local band we hired that she said was her favorite a while back when we were at a club together. “Tell me this is not all for me, Skylar.”

I smile. “You said you wanted a picnic in Central Park, didn’t you? We just thought we’d invite a few other people, that’s all.”

“A few people?” She looks around at the hundred or so people that line up along a path as the carriage makes its way to our final stop. “Do I even know this many?”

I laugh. “Yes, you do. And they all love you. You have no idea the impact you’ve had on so many lives, do you?”

Her mouth falls open and tears stream down her face as we pass by the familiar faces of her students, her extended family, her friends. The carriage finally stops and Griffin is waiting to help her down. He takes her into his arms as she thanks us for putting this together for her.

He leads her over to the large grassy area where every food you’d expect to see at a picnic and more is set up in the biggest catering spread Mitchell’s has ever done. She greets everyone in her path along the way before Griffin seats her at the table of honor. He nods at someone in the tent and over walks an older, distinguished looking man, carrying a plate of food. He places it down in front of Erin and says, “Miss Hudson, I trust I won’t have to give you detention for participating in a food fight again, will I?”

Erin jumps out of her seat. “Mr. Segal! Oh, my gosh! How . . . where . . . ?” Tears flow out of her dancing eyes as she draws him into a hug.

“You’ll never know what an honor it is to be here.” He holds her at arm’s length and looks her over. “My star pupil. You did it. You followed your dream. Look at you.” His eyes glisten as he fights to hold back the tears. “When your friend, Skylar, called me and told me your story, it knocked the wind out of me. I’m so sorry, Erin. But I feel so privileged to be here with you and to have been a small part of your life.”

They sit and talk over lunch, being politely interrupted from time to time as long lost friends and relatives offer Erin a hug or a kind word. All the while, Griffin hangs back and captures the moments on film.

Watching Griffin take pictures is fascinating. It makes me feel like I’m a voyeur, as if I’m seeing something private like an intimate dance between lovers. He walks around his subjects quietly, stealthily, and with grace, taking in the scenery, lighting and ambiance, making it all become a part of a story that he plans to tell with his photos.

There is dancing, there are toasts. There are children running about and grown-ups getting drunk. To a bystander, it might even seem like a wedding. The beginning of a life together between two people. Nobody would ever guess that it’s quite the opposite.

I’m dancing with my father when I hear Erin squeal. I look over to see another bright smile on her face as she shakes hands with a familiar-looking handsome man who looks to be in his forties or fifties. She pulls him into a one-armed hug and the poor man is squished against her, Erin style, whether he likes it or not. His hands hesitantly come around her as he looks to Griffin who is watching them intently. Then it hits me. He looks like Griffin. Or, rather, Griffin looks like him. It must be his dad. But how? I tried to reach him days ago, leaving messages with little success. Perhaps one of her sisters?

I watch the three of them talk. I see Griffin’s demeanor change from hesitant to amenable. I watch in awe as Erin works her magic, pulling father and son together like nobody else can. I wish Griffin could see himself like this.

Without thinking too much about how pissed Griffin might be if I touch his equipment, I sneak over to where he’s stashed it and remove one of the cameras that looks like I can just point and shoot. I use a nearby tree as camouflage and zoom in on the three of them. Then I snap a few pictures of Griffin and his dad. His dad looks so happy to be here with his son. I hope when Griffin sees these, he’ll be even more accepting of him. Everyone deserves a second chance. No one knows that better than I do. Like Griffin, I take dozens of pictures, hoping that among them will be the one that shows the perfect emotion of the moment.

I try not to push my luck and quickly put the camera back before I head over to join the conversation. Erin pulls me to her side. “Jack Pearce, meet Skylar Mitchell. My very best friend who also happens to be carrying your grandchild.”

Mr. Pearce looks between Erin, Griffin and me. It’s apparent nobody has filled him in on this little piece of information. He stammers, “Uh . . . okay . . . hello, Ms. Mitchell. You called me the other day, right?”