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Squaring up to them Dorian let loose calling them a tirade of names and a whole bunch of more degrading terms I thought were too good for them.
Personally, I didn’t even acknowledge their presence; instead securing Layla’s car seat in the back of the car, and focusing on getting the hell out of there to keep my baby safe. For most of my time in the public eye I had been relentlessly scrutinized. I knew if they drew a reaction from me it would give a new story legs for them to run with instead. This was why I chose to treat them with the attention they deserved—indifference.
Even after we had driven away my mom sighed in relief and expressed her disgust at how they’d behaved. I was so bereft at leaving Grace behind in the morgue I couldn’t even muster the strength to respond.
Dorian had flown in from Maine and when he saw the mess I was, he immediately got together with my mom, Derek, my manager and Angus and Dinah, my wife’s parents, to plan her funeral. Everyone tried their best to get me involved, but I was too heartbroken to deal with the practicalities of it all.
As Grace’s husband, I knew I should have done better, but I felt utterly overwhelmed any time anyone brought up the subject. The thought of saying this final goodbye to my beautiful young wife slayed me.
My wife had passed on what her final wishes were to me, and I understood her need to have the last word on this. Her request for privacy was a given, due to the way the press had constantly invaded it whenever we stepped outside the house.
Being buried on our property meant we had some control. Derek had the funeral director sign a nondisclosure agreement and her casket was delivered in an unmarked van.
Paul and Stuart, two of our estate managers, rigged up a wooden trailer they used for transporting hay and harnessed two black stallions Stuart had hand-reared from our stables to take Grace from our house on her final journey to the meadow.
Diane and Peter, our landscape gardeners, had draped the old wagon trailer with ivory sheer material panels, then decorated it with ivory calla lilies, vine leaves, and lilac wisteria from Grace’s favorite parts of our gardens.
The final effect looked stunningly elegant and fitting for someone as beautiful as Grace. As horrible as the day was, my wife would have been happy with what her family and friends did out of love as we lay her to rest.
Heavy rain pelted the manmade lake surrounding us. The droplets bouncing in a noisy musical roar in the otherwise quiet pasture. The island and lake had been designed by Grace and landscaped by Diane and Peter with a working crew from town in the months after we moved.
When I recalled how excited Grace was when our landscapers brought her design to life, what she’d called her ‘reflective serenity concept’ it made my heart clench. The south section of our property ran along the intersection between the Reed Creek and New River, so it hadn’t been too difficult to redirect some water to flood a small amount of acreage on the lower part of the meadow.
Grace had romantic visions of it being a place for us to escape to away from our kids for the night when our teenagers became too much. I never thought for a moment, when I agreed to the plan, it would become her final resting place.
With her casket safely transported from our pontoon boat onto the island, I stood bewildered at the thought of how I’d cope with the enormity of bringing up a female child alone. A Roman Catholic priest delivered the final sermon over her open grave before her mahogany-colored coffin was lowered into the ground.
As we stood by her graveside under the large willow trees on the tiny island, I hated everything surrounding me and I struggled for breath. Flanked by my brother, mother, and Grace’s parents, we each threw a single yellow rose down into the hole where she lay and said our silent goodbyes.
Layla was back at the house and my mind turned to my poor tiny child. At least she’d been spared the sight of laying her mother into the ground. Apart from this, the only comforting thought I took away with me that day was I’d achieved the request she had asked for, no prying eyes of the press.
Grace’s last request was for me to sing a song for her after everyone had gone. I sang, “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin and almost choked on every word. Then Stuart brought the pontoon boat back and picked me up. I was soaked to the skin by then, but he hugged me anyway, then he quietly led me home.
CHAPTER FOUR
Following Grace’s burial, those first few weeks at home were an alcoholic blur; my mom, my brother, and the house staff having taken over because I had all but ceased to function. Three weeks in, my mom and Dorian had taken up residence at my place, banned alcohol deliveries to my home, and their sometimes worried but mostly stony faces watched every move I made.
Naturally they were sad and concerned, and frankly I’d given them due cause, because everything in life had taken a back seat as I wallowed in pity somewhere between grief and denial.
Hygiene, eating, even Layla, became someone else’s responsibility as I got lost in an alcoholic haze as I tried to drown my thoughts by getting lost in an abyss. Mom overrode her grief and fears with practicality, and with Layla needing twenty-four-hour care; she had interviewed and hired a local, highly qualified nanny for her.
It had been almost four weeks after Grace died, by the time Grace’s parents finally found the courage to leave. Sad eyes still swollen with tears gazed into mine when I made a rare appearance downstairs as Stuart prepared their ride.
“Promise us you’ll get yourself straight and cherish Layla,” Angus hugged me and pleaded, with a voice that broke when he mentioned Layla’s name.
“Make Grace proud and bring her up in the way she would have wanted,” Dinah stated, sniffing back her tears.
“Of course, I just need some time,” I agreed, too wounded by the way they looked at me, and by then I’d have promised them anything to get them to leave.
Their way of dealing with the loss of their daughter was by highlighting constant reminders and sharing memories of her. It may have comforted them, but their comments had felt like jagged knives gutting me.
Those early days were a blur as Mom, Dorian, Matty and the others took responsibility for everything because I had ceased to function, and as January slid into February my life was still on hold.
When a month and a day had passed, my mom lost patience with me when I had declined an invite for the fourth day running to take a short walk around the grounds with my daughter in her stroller.
“The fresh air will do you good,” she advised, as she walked closer to my bed. Sitting down, she laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “There are no words to describe what your heart feels like right now. I can vouch for that. Your life ahead will be very different to the one you envisioned with Grace, but have faith. With the love of your daughter, in time you’ll learn to live again.”
Angrily I sat bolt upright, baring my teeth to my mother, fury at my situation oozing from every pore. “No words?” I scoffed. “Mom, I have plenty of words and this faith that you talk about… it... it’s bullshit. How am I supposed to believe in anything when life threw a curve ball so hard in my face, it not only knocked me on my ass, but it’s paralyzed my mind, heart, and my soul, huh?”
