The Devil Wears Black

It was.

Dark, humid, hot spaces. That’s where the azaleas thrive best, I’d told him that day.

He’d remembered.

He hadn’t thrown them away or let them die. He’d nurtured them.

I closed the door, stumbling back, struggling to breathe. My lungs felt ten times too small for the rest of my body. He’d done the impossible. He’d kept the flowers alive for many weeks, clearing out his entire pantry and taking care of the flowers daily.

Chase was ready for commitment. I knew that with every fiber of my heart. But I also knew that he was grieving and confused and not in the right headspace right now.

“Hey.” I heard his voice behind me. I jumped, turning around.

“Oh. Hi.”

“Are you making something?” He looked exhausted, rubbing a towel into his unruly hair.

“Yeah. Chili. You hungry?”

“Sure, if it’s not burnt.”

That was when I realized the chili was, in fact, in advanced stages of burning. By the time I reached the stove, a black crust of charred beans covered the pot.

Chase poked his head behind my shoulder, peering into the singed mess.

“Pizza?” I sighed.

He nodded, his chin touching my shoulder blade. “With pepperoni and artichoke hearts. Just like Dad liked.”

CHASE

Five days later, we buried Dad.

Mom had aimed for three days, but we had relatives coming from Scotland, Virginia, and California, and they all had different schedules and flights to consider. Madison had been there every step of the way, just as she’d promised. She’d gone casket shopping with Mom, had personally taken care of the flower arrangements for the funeral, and had been a great help accepting visitors into Mom’s house and signing condolences deliveries.

Ronan Black’s casket lowered to the gaping mouth of the earth on a gray fall day. The funeral itself had been a grand event of over a thousand people, but we’d asked that for the burial ceremony, it would be close family only. Mad had her small, warm hand tucked in mine the entire time. It was crazy I couldn’t kiss her whenever I wanted to. Bury myself inside her whenever life felt too unbearable. The days after the funeral stuck together like pages in an unread book.

People brought food to our house, as if anyone had an appetite, and when shit got too real, when I couldn’t muster another polite smile, Mad took over and entertained the guests for us. I doubted she had much sleep during those days. She kept working—half from home, half from the office—and was there for us until the late hours of the night.

A week after the funeral, all of us sat together and read the will as a family. Madison had insisted on not taking part in this. Called it “the clinical side of death, the one I’m not comfortable with.” We all respected that, although we thought of her as an undesignated part of the family by then. Which—I was the first to admit—was another level of fucked up. We met at Mom’s. The housekeeper served us cranachan parfait, Dad’s favorite Scottish dessert. We consumed it while sipping the barely bearable Ogilvy potato vodka, the way he liked.

Katie was the one reading the will. She was the only sibling out of us three who didn’t seem hell bent on killing someone if she didn’t get what she wanted out of it, so it seemed fair.

“Mom is getting the estates, twenty-five percent of Black & Co.’s shares, and all the family jewels.” Katie looked up from the paper and squeezed Mom’s hand.

“Shit, I only came here for the Tiffany necklace. Well, that was fast,” Julian said, pretending to stand up from his seat. Mom slapped his thigh and guided him back down. They shared a tired chuckle. I appreciated that Julian reintroduced sarcasm into our daily post-Dad routine, but I wasn’t in the mood for laughs. Katie’s eyes returned to the page. The paper quivered like a leaf in her hand. She cupped her mouth, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

“I inherited all the vintage gowns Black & Co. owns that were made or used by fashion icons. Fifteen percent of the company shares. And the loft!” But I knew what was making her cry. The dresses. They meant the most to her. We had a Black & Co. museum uptown, containing famous historical dresses she loved. As a kid, she’d visited there almost monthly. I wondered if Mad had ever been. I wondered if I could take her. I wondered if she would let me.

“Julian, you’re next.” She leaned forward, squeezing his knee. If there was one positive thing about the aftermath of Dad’s death, it was the fact that Julian had been given a second chance without really asking for one. It was both universally and silently agreed that he was a world-class idiot who’d acted like a douchebag of enormous proportions for the past few years, but karma had fucked him so hard—so dry, sans lube—that none of our family members felt particularly passionate about ruining his life further. Let me amend: I would never pass on a good opportunity to torture Julian, but I no longer wanted to ruin his life.