Page 13 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

Then he sees her.

Margaret waits beneath the old oak in the pale-blue dress she wore on their first date. Her hair is swept stubbornly to one side, exactly as he remembers it, and her smile carries every happiness they shared through the long years of their marriage.

For one heartbeat, Kilian can only stare.

Then he laughs.

It is not the careful laugh of an old man protecting fragile ribs, but the fearless laugh of a sixteen-year-old boy who has just seen the rest of his life waiting beneath a tree.

She opens her arms.

He runs to her.

I remain where I am, watching as they embrace with no frailty between them, no knotted hands, no memories too painful to carry. There is only the perfect clarity of a promise kept.

I have witnessed reunions since the beginning of time, yet somehow they never become ordinary. Each one leaves something behind, however small, reminding me that love has survived every ending I have ever been asked to guide someone through.

Kilian and Margaret walk together into the meadow's low sun, and when they finally disappear from view, I allow myself one quiet smile.

Another promise kept.

The city calls me back eventually, though the familiar thread feels softer now, more like a rope than a chain. Rain has finally begun to fall, drifting through the streets in quiet sighs as I return to Blackthorn Bay.

I should take the direct route home.

Instead, I pass the bakery with its darkened windows, the old post office, and the ancient oak that has outlived three city planners and one poorly engineered levee. Without anyconscious decision, I find myself turning the corner toward Belladonna Blooms.

A single light still burns in the apartment above the shop.

The window is propped open with a worn bird guide whose spine has surrendered after years of use. Lavinia is curled in the seat beside it, her legs tucked beneath her and a thick quilt pulled nearly to her chin. An open book rests forgotten across her lap, while her enormous orange tabby, Marigold, has somehow compressed herself into an impossibly small circle on the windowsill.

Lavinia must have intended to read.

Sleep simply arrived first.

I pause on the sidewalk, ignoring the splash of passing headlights and the distant, lonely cry of a train. No one else is waiting for me tonight, and the city's clocks continue to run perfectly well without my supervision. I am permitted these few moments of peace, and for once, I do not refuse them.

It is different with Lavinia. She recognizes me without demanding explanations and welcomes me without asking me to become someone else. She brews her tea too strong, speaks to her flowers as though they are old friends, and always looks as though she is about to laugh, even when she is alone in the dark.

I know better than to tap the glass or disturb her. To Lavinia, I am only a friend, or perhaps a regular customer with an unusual interest in funerals and lilies. For now, that is enough.

I remain beneath the window until I am certain she is deeply asleep, listening to the rain and watching the light soften around her.

Tomorrow, she had said, if you have time.

For the first time in centuries, I intended to make time.

CHAPTER 4

LAVINIA

Iam not ashamed to admit that I have always been nosy.

Even as a child, I was the sort to press my ear against the wall beside the telephone cradle, tracking the rise and fall of my mother's voice the way a sailor tracks the weather. I'd linger in the upstairs hallway long after bedtime, sitting with my back against the baseboard in the dark, waiting to catch whatever argument or laughter drifted through the heating vent before I finally gave in to sleep.

It wasn't simply curiosity.

It was self-defense.