Rose Petal Graves (The Lost Clan #1)

  ROSE PETAL GRAVES

  OLIVIA WILDENSTEIN

  -To my children and husband

  for the fairytale life they’ve given me.

  PART 1

  Catori

  CHAPTER 1 – THE NEWCOMER

  The silence was compassionate, but it came off as oppressive. I wished people had kept talking when I’d arrived. I wished they hadn’t stared, but their curiosity didn’t surprise me; it simply irked me. Like drivers slowing to absorb each detail of a car wreck, they were attempting to decipher how many sad little pieces I’d been broken into.

  Unwrapping the thick scarf from around my neck, I walked with my head held as high as my aching neck could carry it toward my father. Gently, I shook his shoulders and whispered, “Dad, I’m here.” He was slumped against the varnished bar Bee kept in pristine condition since she’d inherited the restaurant from her father. “How much did he drink?” I asked her.

  “Two tumblers of whiskey, but he was a bit woozy when he came in,” Bee said, drying a glass and setting it neatly on the wooden shelf behind her. Her real name was Beatrice, but everyone called her Bee. “I took his car keys away. Exchanged them against the drinks. Here.” She slid them over to me.

  “Dad,” I tried again. Still no reaction. I stroked his back, hoping that in his numbness, he sensed I was there—that I was back.

  “How was the flight, sweetie?” she asked.

  “Bumpy. I hate flying.”

  “Never been on a plane,” she said.

  “That’s because you never leave,” said Cass, one of my high school friends turned waitress at Bee’s. “Hey, Cat.” She gave me a small, sad smile that mirrored the one Bee wore. “I’m so sorry.” She placed a platter of empty drinks on the counter and they rattled. Then she came to hug me. “It’s so horrible.”

  “What did I tell you about learning some delicateness?” Bee asked her, probably to lighten the atmosphere.

  Cass pulled away, rolled her eyes, and blew on her long bangs. “Why did I ever sign up for this job?”

  “Because you get to eat my grandson’s cooking for free, that’s why. And he’s the best darn cook in all of Michigan.”

  “Hear that, Blake?” Cass exclaimed.

  Blake stuck his head out of the kitchen hole. “Catori!” He abandoned his pots and pans and came out into the main room, making a beeline straight for me. He crushed me against him.

  When he released me, I asked, “Can you help me get Dad home? If it’s all right with you, Bee.”

  “I’m offended you’re even asking,” Bee said, planting her wrinkled hands on the shiny counter. “Get Derek home. And stay as long as Cat needs you.” She raised her voice. “For those of you waiting on your food, the next round of drinks is on the house.”

  “And for those of us who got our food?” old Mr. Hamilton asked. He used to be a famous actor back in the day. At least, that’s what he used to say. We’d never seen him in any of the movies he’d bragged about.

  “Everyone gets a free round,” Bee said.

  “On it,” Cass said.

  As she went around the room, Blake slung Dad’s arm around his shoulders and hoisted him up. I was offered condolences and patted so many times on my way out that when I stepped onto pavement, it felt like freedom. I took a deep breath of frosty air. Snow was coming. I could taste it.

  “It’s a wonder Dad made it here in one piece,” I told Blake when I spotted the hearse. It was parked across the street, with three of its wheels propped on the sidewalk.

  I swung the passenger side door wide, and Blake deposited Dad in the seat and fastened the seatbelt across his chest. After he shut the door, his good eye roamed over my face. I almost didn’t notice his glass eye anymore, just like I almost didn’t notice his flattened nose, his missing right ear, and the scar tissue covering most of his face. “I’ll follow you in my car,” he said, jogging toward the back of Bee’s Place.

  I settled into the hearse and turned the key in the ignition. Since I’d been in no state to drive sixteen hours cross-country, I’d left my car back in Boston. Now I was stuck driving this gleaming monstrosity that reminded me of Mom. She’d taught me how to drive in this car. How I hadn’t destroyed it was a mystery. Once, she’d suggested we go on the highway, but halfway through our driving lesson, she’d remembered she’d forgotten to sew Mrs. Matty’s mouth shut and if she didn’t do it before the wake, bad smells would leak out. Even though I was sort of bummed a corpse took precedence over me, I’d done a U-turn in the middle of the highway. I thought it was very fast and furious of me; Mom thought it was very fast and stupid.

  The lump, which had been building in my throat since Dad phoned me with the news a few hours ago, grew so big I could barely breathe. A tear dripped off my chin and plopped onto my jeans. And then another. They blurred everything around me, from the shop awnings to the mailboxes planted next to every white picket fence on Morgan Street.

  I slapped my steering wheel. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  Dad stirred beside me, but didn’t wake.

  Blake slid his blue Jeep around the hearse. Blotting my eyes with my hoodie sleeves, I pulled away from the curb and followed him past the peninsula covered in ancient sand dunes that dipped into Lake Michigan, past the vast bean fields and Holly’s plantation of naked sour cherry trees that blossomed white in the spring, down a gravel path that snaked through tall pines and ended in the cemetery. Home sweet home. The land had belonged to my mother’s family for several generations.

  We lived on top of the graveyard, in a two-story house that my grandparents had built to replace the one falling to ruins. We’d all lived together, my grandparents downstairs, and me, my parents, and my aunt upstairs. Aunt Aylen had left first. She’d gone to college in Arizona with no intention of coming back, except for the holidays and a few weeks in the summer. Then my grandpa had passed away. Five years later, my grandma joined my grandfather.

  As I gunned the hearse through our property’s broken, rusted gates, I noticed a car parked in front of the house. Probably another mourner with a casserole. Dad told me he’d been receiving roasts and baked pasta dishes all day, so many that he’d put some away in the cold chambers in the basement. I didn’t know how he had the courage to go down there. Even though Mom’s body wasn’t laid out, she was there, in one of the metal fridges, awaiting the medical examiner to establish cause of death and prep her for her final rest.

  Leaning against the parked car was a man. He didn’t look like a mourner; he didn’t look like anyone I knew for that matter.

  Blake was already parked and out of his car. He closed in on the out-of-towner. “You lost?” he asked.

  The man, who must have been a couple years older than I was, pressed away from the hood of his sleek car. His face was smooth and moonlit, and his raven black hair fell in curls over his forehead. “I’m the medical examiner.”

  “You’re not supposed to arrive for another two days,” I said, coming around the hood of the hearse to stand next to Blake.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. They were startlingly bright considering how dark it was. “I was free early.” He stuck out a hand. “Cruz. Cruz Mason. You must be Nova’s daughter.”

  I eyed his hand. It shone white as though illuminated from within. Perhaps it was due to the contrast with the black leather jacket he was wearing, or perhaps it was because he was standing underneath the porch light.

  A retching sound broke the silence. Blake lunged toward the hearse, rammed the door open, and pulled Dad out, but he wasn’t fast enough. My father was already covered in vomit, and so was the dashboard and leather seat. My stomach flip-flopped at the idea of having to wash it out.


  “I’ll get my bag,” Cruz said, pulling back his hand since I’d made no move to shake it.

  “You don’t have to get started tonight.”

  “It wasn’t to get started,” he said, taking out a black bag from the trunk. “I was told there would be an extra bedroom I could use.”

  “Oh.” I shot my gaze over to Dad who was in no state to confirm this. “I’m sure Blake can accommodate you. Right, Blake? You have some free rooms over the restaurant?”

  He nodded.

  “I wouldn’t know how to get there,” Cruz said.

  “Your fancy car doesn’t have a GPS?” Blake asked. Even his glass eye seemed expressive.

  Cruz glared at him.

  “Blake’s heading back there in a sec. Just follow him.”

  “Don’t you want me to stay?” Blake asked.

  “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” I said, looking at my father whose head lolled against Blake’s broad shoulder.

  “You sure, Cat?” Blake asked.

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Let me get him to bed,” Blake said

  “You don’t need to carry him upstairs. Just put him on the couch, Blake,” I told him, as he climbed the porch steps.

  The toecaps of Dad’s boots scraped against the floorboards and then against the doormat as Blake swung the front door open and stepped in. The wind chime Mom had suspended on the porch ceiling during Christmas tinkled, scattering sound across the otherwise silent expanse.

  “You don’t lock your door?” Cruz asked, once Blake and Dad were inside.

  “Most people come here to visit their dead relatives.” I gestured toward the headstones. “They don’t come to pay us a visit.”

  “And I bet you believe that thing you hung over your door will keep people out?” Cruz asked.

  I glanced at the cluster of tiny, silver bells. “Mom put it up. She said it was to ward off evil. She was superstitious like that. You should see how many dream catchers I have in my bedroom.”

  “Are you going to keep it up?”

  “What? The wind chime?”

  He nodded.

  “Why would I take it down?”

  “I heard talk of a blizzard.”

  “It’s pretty solidly attached,” I countered.

  Cruz raised one palm in the air. “That was just me giving unsolicited advice. I do that too often.”

  I peered up at the large hook Mom had screwed into the porch beam. It looked sturdy, but what if Cruz was right? I didn’t want Mom’s creation to fly off.

  “Is the big guy a friend of yours?” Cruz asked, watching the gaping doorway.

  “He is.”

  “What happened to his face?”

  “IED blast. He enlisted after high school.” I folded my arms tightly against my chest. “I should get inside.”

  “You should.”

  I walked up the porch steps, but stopped midway and turned around, contemplating whether to let the vomit sit until tomorrow. I was afraid the stench would penetrate the fibers of the seat and floor mat. On the other hand, it was dark and I would probably miss spots. I was better off doing it in the morning.

  “Forgot something?” Cruz asked.

  His face was so bright that I checked my hands to see if my skin also glowed; it didn’t.

  “Catori?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Your dad told me. Weren’t you heading in?”

  I nodded. “I was, but I think I should clean the car first.”

  “I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow.” He walked to the trunk of his sleek ride, popped it open, and tossed in his bag. “I’ll see you at nine?”

  “Sure.” I turned around and went inside. Blake had settled Dad on the couch. He’d rid him of his soiled shirt and had pulled a woolen plaid over him. He’d even set out a glass of water on the low table.

  “Call me tomorrow if you need anything.” He kissed my cheek and left.

  I closed the door behind him. And for the first time in my life, I locked it.

  CHAPTER 2 – BROKEN HEARTS

  “Cat?” Dad hollered from the kitchen where he was banging cupboards. “Where’s the Tylenol? My head is killing me.”

  “In the drawer.”

  “Which one?”

  “Same drawer it’s always been in,” I said with a sigh.

  Mom babied Dad, cooking all of his food, fetching him glasses of water before he even asked for them. He got used to it, and now he was going to have to get unused to it, because I would be heading back to college right after the funeral.

  I pulled the drawer open, took out the pillbox, and shook out two tablets into his palm. Dad swallowed them without water.

  “You should really eat something,” I told him. “You want me to make you an omelet? Or reheat some of that bread pudding Bee dropped off?”

  “I’m not hungry, honey, but you should eat. You’re getting too skinny.” Said the man whose middle was still concave in his mid-forties. He patted my shoulder as he walked past me. “I’m going to bed.”

  “The medical examiner arrived last night.”

  Dad paused on the stairs. “He did? Wasn’t he supposed to get in tomorrow?”

  “He was, but he’s here now. Don’t you want to meet him?”

  Dad’s eyes were bloodshot. “Not really in the mood. Can you show him around? Show him”—a sob caught in his throat—“show him where I…where I put your mother?” he whispered the last part.

  My eyes heated up, but I reined the tears in until Dad had climbed those rickety wooden steps. Those stairs had gotten me into so much trouble when I was in my early teens, sneaking out to parties and coming home past curfew. Even though I tiptoed, one would always crack and give me away. And Mom would come out of her bedroom, with her reading glasses on and a paperback dangling from her fingers, and ask if I was all right. I’d thought it was her way of guilt tripping me, but now, I believed she was just worried about me. I pressed the heals of my hands into my closed eyes to squeeze out the tears, and then, when I sort of had myself under control, I headed to the closet where we kept the cleaning supplies.

  I grabbed a rag and a bucket that I filled with soapy water, and headed out to the hearse. The fresh air stung my cheeks and blew against the wind chime, making it swing back and forth. The noise was deafening. Dropping the bucket and rag, I dragged one of the wicker chairs toward Mom’s last creation and climbed up to unhook it.

  The bells were as cold as icicles and prickled my still-warm palm. They hadn’t served their purpose; they hadn’t kept evil out. Maybe Mom had gotten it wrong. Maybe bells above a doorway were an invitation to malevolent spirits. I tore the chime off the big hook and walked over to the dumpster. Without hesitating, I flung them inside, and then I just stood there and stared, half expecting our garbage can to burst into flames, or the bells to start careening, but neither happened. Only the wind whistling through the bare branches of the rowan trees disrupted the otherwise blissful silence.

  I returned to the porch, pushed the wicker chair back against the wall, and picked up the cleaning supplies. Old snow crunched underneath my boots as I plodded toward the hearse. I placed the bucket on the hardened earth and dragged the passenger door open. The rag I was still holding slid through my fingers and fell into the bucket, settling on the filmy surface.

  The car was spotless. Not a splatter of vomit remained. I checked the seams of the leather seat, but found nothing to sop off. I sniffed the air, but even that was clean. I popped my phone out of my pocket to text Blake a thank you when Cruz’s car rumbled down our long driveway. He came to a stop inches from me.

  “Morning,” he said, stepping out. “Beatrice said these were your favorite.” He handed me a bakery bag smudged with grease stains.

  I slipped my phone back in my pocket and checked the contents. Two corn muffins with real bits of corn were nestled at the bottom, still hot from the oven.

  “You took it down,” Cruz said.

  I followed his gaze to
the bare hook. “Yes.” I didn’t tell him that I’d thrown it away.

  “Want me to take this back in for you?” he asked, tipping his clean-shaven chin toward the bucket. “You don’t seem to be needing it.”

  “I don’t. Blake washed the car already.”

  One of Cruz’s dark eyebrows arched up. “Did he, now? How kind of him.” He sounded sarcastic. I guessed he and Blake hadn’t hit it off. I was about to grab the bucket when Cruz bent over and seized it. His skin didn’t glow like it had last night. It was normal, perhaps even a little tanned.

  He followed me up the porch steps, and through the front door. While I hung my coat, I pointed out the kitchen. He walked straight toward it, trekking bits of snow onto the hardwood floors.

  “You can just leave the bucket in the sink,” I said. “When you’re ready, I’ll show you—” My voice broke. I crumpled the bakery bag in my clenched hand. “I’ll show you downstairs.”

  “You don’t have to,” Cruz said.

  “I do.” I tossed the bag on the wooden kitchen island and headed toward the door, which Mom had painted bright yellow. She’d thought that adding cheery paint would help me get over what lurked behind it. Instead, it had increased my distress, as I’d always found myself staring at it. I wrapped my fingers around the knob, but couldn’t bring myself to turn it. Several minutes passed. Finally, Cruz put his hand over mine and pressed down to accomplish the task I was unable to. As soon as the latch clicked, I pulled my hand out from under his.

  “I got it from here,” he said.

  I stared straight into his face. Cruz’s eyes were green, like the clusters of lanky leaves that sprouted from the rowan trees planted around the oldest section of the cemetery. “I’d like to see her.”

  “How about I establish cause of death first? And then, when she’s dressed and ready—”

  “I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies, Mr. Mason—”

  “Cruz. I’m twenty-four, not forty. And yes, I imagine you’ve seen your fair share of corpses, but this is your mother we’re talking about.”