Insidious(14)
“Should I ask what that was about?” I whispered.
“Nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar, V.” I leaned over to see Carly giving Tiffany a slew of crude hand gestures.
“Yeah, like I’m the only one here thinking it,” Albright remarked back.
“Hey,” Carly finally snapped, her voice sneering above a whisper. “Unless you want us all to be hearing your eulogy next, I’d shut it!”
Everyone within ear distance turned their attention to us.
“Will both of you knock it off?” said Vanessa, nodding up at the altar.
Up until that moment, I had made it a point to not look up there, but alas I finally did. Clawing my fingernails into my thighs, I felt my stomach drop and chest tighten. Beside the closed casket, there was a massive placard with Blaine’s yearbook photo on display, his striking blue eyes and infectious smile beaming back at me. I immediately shielded my eyes with my hand, trying to control the inevitable sob that erupted from my throat.
Vanessa insisted she switch seats with Carly to put some distance between her and Tiffany, and I couldn’t be more grateful as tears spilled off my lashes.
Car didn’t miss a beat, immediately coddling her arms around me. I buried my face into her sleeve.
“It’s okay,” she hushed softly.
As if someone had gripped my shoulders, I suddenly wrenched upright. The involuntary movement almost caused me to scream. A soothing warmth began spreading across my chest, leaving me in a deeper state of bewilderment.
“Do not let your heart be troubled.” The words came in a gentle whisper, breathing right into my ear. I whirled around, finding nobody on my opposing side. In the far back of the banquet hall, however, stood a most curious guest. They lingered in the entrance of the corner passageway, an oversized black hoodie hiding their features. The person merely nodded, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. The warmth was swiftly ripped from my chest, leaving an aching, hollow chill in its place.
***
Mystic Harbor divided into three sections. I, along with the Ryders, lived in the East End where a majority of the upscale residents resided. Some were newer homes, but most were century-old estates, and they all looked like something eerily out of The Stepford Wives. The cemetery was on the whole other side of town, resulting in an exhaustingly long funeral procession. We drove north to the rightly named Old Port, a 19th-century district made up of historic buildings and cobblestone streets. Quaint shops lined the boulevard, moss clinging to the thick roofing slates. With all the antique mold trimmings, handmade bricks, and carved molding doors, it looked just like the design of one of those old novelty village puzzles. It was a particularly gloomy morning, and a heavy blanket of fog had traveled down to the district to cast a subtle glow across the dewy streets. Complimented by the warm gaslights lining the stretch, Old Port remained a place paused in time, like an idyllic English town untouched by modern hands.
The same couldn’t be said about the south and west ends of town. On the other side of Old Port were all the shopping centers, restaurants, and bars tourists reveled in visiting from just off the harbor. The businesses brought in revenue, but it also brought what my mom’s country club society called “the unfavorable.” Mystic Harbor was built on old money, and the tight knit community didn’t leave much welcomed room for outsiders. So when new businesses boomed, the flock of neighboring locals from less respecting areas gravitated to Mystic Harbor, becoming thorns in the country club’s side.
One of those said thorns happened to be the Reynolds. Adam’s dad opened up a popular waterfront bar a few years ago off the river, and it had become the local watering hole for those who didn’t drive Porsches and live in seaside castles. I loved it, not only because it gave me a reprieve from Mom since she and the rest of her country club goers refused to travel west of Bowen Street, but because it had become my home away from home...up until recently. It was dubbed The Office, after a running gag. Their novelty shirts read, “Sorry, honey, I’m still at The Office.”
At last, we arrived at the cemetery.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
I froze at the sound of the deep, burly voice. Sure enough, it was Mr. Reynolds. Standing there in beaten up boots, worn jeans, and his iconic racing jacket, he stood out like a sore thumb amongst the other black-clad mourners. I hadn’t seen him at the service, so it came as a surprise to see him here. And I couldn’t be more relieved.
He opened his arms, and I practically tackled him with his invitation for a hug.
“Hey, Papa Bear.” I nuzzled my face into his chest, welcoming the comforting aroma of cinnamon and cigarettes that always lingered on his clothes. He easily dwarfed me, which wasn’t that hard given I was only five-three, but he took it to a whole other level. Mr. Reynolds used to be an ultimate fighter, and the years hadn’t robbed him of his muscular physique. The only indication of his age was the sparse gray strands riddled in his copper brown locks and cultivated facial hair. Top the fact that he was six-foot-five and looked like he could take down Wolverine with his bare hands, and I honestly felt like a little kid hugging him.