Western Waves (Compass 3)

“Get what?”

“You’re stalking me!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re stalking me! Did you follow me here?”

He sighed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“It only makes sense!”

“It only makes sense that I’d want to stalk you at some dead guy’s funeral? Do you think that highly of yourself?”

“I don’t lack self-esteem, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve come to think that I am a very stalkable individual. People would kill to stalk me. Or they might kill me while stalking. It’s a toss-up, really.”

“Are you always this awkward?”

“On the daily, yes.”

He arched an inquisitive brow, and his frown lines deepened as he studied me. Then he looked back at Kevin, then back to me. “You ever attend a funeral where the person looks just like you?”

“I, well… no.”

“I’m not asking you to be Sherlock Holmes or Matlock. I’m just saying connect the fucking dots, lady.”

“Stella.”

“Don’t care.”

“Are you saying you are Kevin’s so—”

Before I could finish my thought, the man eyed me up and down with the most intense look of disinterest before he walked away. As he moved, a chill raced down my spine, forcing me to rub my forearms up and down.

“No, it couldn’t be,” I muttered. If Kevin had a son, I would’ve known about it.

There’s no way… I mean, he couldn’t be…

Could it be true? That Kevin had a long-lost son?

I couldn’t help but wonder what the scone-stealing, egotistical, ridiculously handsome in a grumpy-grump kind of way man’s name had been.

I turned back toward Kevin’s casket and shook my head. “I see you tried to take some things to the grave, but it appears they washed up against the shore. Do you have anything to say about this?” I held my hand out in front of his mouth as if I was holding a microphone. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

He remained silent. That broke my already shattered heart into a million more pieces.

“I’m sorry I made funeral jokes, Kevin. Though they were pretty funny.”

I smiled a little, though, knowing his humor. He would’ve laughed if he had the chance to do so. Crazy how deeply you could miss a person’s laughter. If I had a chance, I would’ve gathered more laughs to keep locked within my memories.

I arrived home at the property to attend the repass and took on the role of making sure everyone was okay and looked after. And of course, the man who had taken center stage in my day—after Kevin, of course—was there, taking in the surroundings of the home. He was looking at all the photographs sitting against the wall beside the spiral staircase.

Kevin was a photographer when he was younger, and it was how he made his first millions. Sure, his success in the stock market and his family’s generational wealth was a big part of his multimillionaire lifestyle, but he was very passionate about his artwork.

Maybe that was why we connected so well. Sure, I used acrylics and paintbrushes, but creatives of all sorts seemed to be drawn toward one another. We shared a certain level of pride.

“All his work,” I commented, walking over to him.

He glanced my way, then turned back to the photos, not speaking a word.

I smoothed my hands over my dress. “Do you have a name?”

“Yes.”

I waited for him to share it. He didn’t. “Well…?”

“Am I bothering you?” he yipped.

“No. Why do you say that?”

“Because you are going out of your way to communicate with me when there is no reason whatsoever for us to be entangled in conversation. It is clear I’m not interested in speaking to you, yet you still find the need to conversate. You’re exhausting.”

“Gosh. You’re so… grumpy and rude for no reason.”

“Am I supposed to be happy at a funeral?”

“No, but like, you don’t have to be a dick.”

He pushed out a sarcastic grin. “Thanks for the funeral tips.”

“Screw you.”

“Not interested.”

“I’m so glad I’m never going to have to cross paths with a person like you again, Mr. ‘I attend funerals of strangers because I have no life of my own’ guy.”

“And I’m glad I’m never going to have to cross paths with a person like you again, Ms. ‘I tell stupid-ass jokes at a dead person’s funeral and cry over blueberry scones’ girl.”

“You’re an asshole!”

“How many times are you going to tell me that before you leave me the hell alone?”

“I—”

“Talk too much. That’s what you do. You talk too much.”

“Are you really Kevin’s son?” I blurted out.

“I don’t know. How about you try asking him? Oh wait. You can’t, because he’s dead,” he replied. I blankly stared at him. He shrugged. “I was trying a funeral joke like you.”

“Yes, well, your comedic timing is a bit off.”

“I guess I’ll retire from stand-up.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Blackstone, I think we are going to get started any moment now,” a gentleman said, walking up beside us. He looked over at me and smiled brightly. “Stella! It’s so good to see you,” he greeted. Joe Tipton was Kevin’s longtime attorney and dear friend. I’d known him as long as I’ve known Kevin—which meant my whole life.