Whether he’s with me or not, it won’t help you.  He’s done with you.

Whether I was the love or hate of his life, nothing and no one would ever overshadow me.

I swallowed the memory of every woman he had ever known.

Swallowed it whole.

I covered his hand with my own, still staring at her until, finally, her face drawn tight, eyes flashing at me, she looked away.

The victory was short lived, however.

I took my hand away from Dante’s when I saw who was taking the seat beside Tiffany.

I faced forward right as his hand fell away from my knee.

He hadn’t turned around, but I could tell he knew that his mother was behind him.

Dante never touched me when she was near.  It had been this way for as long as I could remember.

I used to have a problem with it, used to be sensitive about it, but just then it suited me fine.  The less he touched me the better.

His mother, Adelaide, made a big show of greeting Tiffany.  Kissing both of her cheeks, telling her how wonderful she looked, complimenting everything about her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

She didn’t acknowledge me, nor I her.  This was not the place for it.

There wasn’t a civil word to be had between the two of us.  There never had been.

I thought she was evil, and she thought I was trash.  Neither of us would ever change our minds.

I was surprised, though, that there was no greeting between her and Dante.  He didn’t turn around, and she didn’t take exception to it.

That was a new and interesting development, to be sure, one that I didn’t mind at all.

Adelaide’s lifelong friend and Tiffany’s mother, Leann, soon joined them.  Again there was not a word or gesture of greeting between the first row and the second, and for the same reason.

Adelaide  by herself was an evil force to be reckoned with.  Add in her best friend, and any sane person would run in the other direction.  Two more manipulative women I had never met.  They were a team made in hell, and if they were ignoring me, all the better.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“If a thing loves, it is infinite.”

~William Blake

Dante’s father Leo sat on the row with us, but not close.  Father and son did not speak.  Husband and wife, one mere feet in front of the other, did not exchange greetings of any kind.

That was the normal way of things in the Durant family.

The sight of the father had me doing another surreptitious glance around the room, clocking at least four of his other sons, all by different women.

I wasn’t sure if somehow Leo had only sired boys or if he just never acknowledged the daughters.  With what I knew of Leo, if I had to guess, it’d be the latter.

None of the siblings were sitting together, none of them so much as acknowledging each other.

Only one of them ventured into our row.  It was Bastian, Leo’s second oldest son, his first child with mistress number one, born mere months after Dante.

Bastian sat on the far side of Leo, exchanging a brief but civil greeting with his father.

Dante was Leo’s only legitimate child, but he was far from his favorite.  If I had to guess which one was, it’d be Bastian.

Dante stared straight ahead, not acknowledging his half-brother.  Again, expected, but I sent Bastian a little nod of a greeting that he returned solemnly.

I’d never had a problem with Bastian.  Despite getting along too well with his bastard of a father, he wasn’t a bad sort, which was not something you could say about all of Dante’s half-brothers.

I made another scan of the swiftly filling room.  It would be standing room only soon it’d gotten so crowded, but still most seemed loath to take the front row seats, which were traditionally reserved for family.

My eyes stopped dead on a familiar face.

I nodded at my grandmother.

Her tightly drawn mouth drawing tighter at the sight of me, she nodded back.

I hadn’t seen her in almost ten years, but I was still shocked at how much she’d aged, how haggard her homely face appeared.

I knew Gram’s death couldn’t have been easy on her.  I had never been sure if my grandmother loved me, but I was certain of her love for Gram, and losing her must have hit her hard.

After that I faced forward and looked neither left nor right.  I’d seen enough familiar faces for the moment.

The service was brief but emotional.  Even Leo’s speech had me struggling not to lose my composure.  Leo was a shitty human being and a worse father, but he had loved his mother and didn’t even try to hide his grief at her passing.

For Dante’s speech, I had to put on the dark sunglasses I’d stowed away in my bag and look down at my hands while Dante spoke of his grandmother and all that she’d meant to him.

His words were sparse but worthy of her.

The shades hid my eyes, but they couldn’t hide the tears that ran under them and down my face.

When he finished and came back to sit beside me, I covered his hand with my own for a few brief moments, Adelaide and my grudges be damned.

We were at the front of the procession that flowed out of the funeral home, into cars, and along the short drive to her gravesite.

She’d been allotted a beautiful spot in the sprawling cemetery, right next to her long deceased, much beloved husband.

I stood stiffly beside Dante as Father Frederick recited Gram’s favorite poem and it made me cry all over again.

By that point I wanted nothing so much as to lock myself away somewhere, curl up into a ball, and cry until the tears ran out.  That was the irony of funerals, of gathering to grieve when no one who was really grieving wanted anything to do with company.  I was worn out, and we still had the reception to get through.