She turned in the pew and scanned the crowd. Wyatt sat in the back next to Reggie in a navy-blue suit that contrasted sharply with his reddish hair, his skin glowing a healthy summer bronze. Hannah looked away before they could make eye contact.
The first few pews also held a handful of people, but beyond that the church was empty. Hannah felt a rush of sadness. She didn’t recognize anyone from her summers in Rockwell.
Pastor Jim talked about Aunt Fae in the way Hannah remembered her, but he also must have collected stories from others in town. He told a funny story about when she’d had chickens, her battles with the wildlife, hawks and foxes mostly, eliciting chuckles from the congregation. He told a story about when she’d worked for a literacy project in town as an advocate for children. These were things Hannah hadn’t known. Glimpses into her aunt’s recent life, as insular as it seemed.
The service lasted forty-five minutes, much of it ceremonial. She caught sidelong glances from Alice during the service. Hannah self-consciously wondered if anyone expected her to speak. What would she have talked about? Her aunt seventeen years ago? Still, it seemed noteworthy to live a life such that no one felt compelled, or even morally obligated, to speak at your funeral. The thought depressed her. What kind of circumscribed life had her aunt led for the past seventeen years? At least when Hannah had known her, she’d been reserved, quiet, but her life had seemed full: she had gardens and Jinny, and she’d sometimes ventured into town, into the Sunday farmers’ market, and returned with armloads of locally grown vegetables and homemade breads. She chattered on about who she’d seen, who was selling what. She wasn’t free with her laughter or even her words, but she radiated a quiet strength and warmth that Hannah hadn’t ever known before.
Hannah hosted no catered lunch after the service. She didn’t stand in a receiving line. She simply waited in her pew for everyone to file out after the memorial. She scanned the crowd in the back, telling herself that she was absolutely not looking for Wyatt. Huck’s hand was warm on her back, and she leaned into him.
“Hannah Maloney.” The voice came from the back of the church, thin, wobbly, but direct.
“Jinny Fekete.” Hannah felt a flush of happiness. Her aunt’s only friend and another adult who had known Julia. There was no one else left.
Jinny was tinier than Hannah remembered, probably less than five feet tall and thin, childlike. Her hair was still dyed black but had gone white at the roots. She wore a pillbox, with a film of netting over the top half of her face. Shiny black feathers sprouted from the top. She rushed at Hannah like a furious seagull. The hug was ferocious.
“I knew it was you. I knew it. I knew it from the back of your head, all that thick dark hair. Not curly like your sister’s, God rest her soul, but that beautiful shine. I’d kill for that hair. HOW ARE YOU?” She waved both hands in the air, fists pumping, the Bakelite on both arms clacking together. Hannah sneaked a glance at Huck, who looked utterly baffled. Jinny’s dress was black but with a lace overlay, and it was pretty, more understated than Hannah would have predicted.
“I’m good, Jinny. How are you?” Hannah turned to Huck. “This is my fiancé, Huck.”
Jinny hugged him, her tiny arms around his waist like a child’s. Hannah covered her mouth with one hand and tried not to giggle out loud. Jinny turned to Hannah. “This is one adorable man you have there. I remember all you teenagers running around town—you were a skinny little thing, hardly a wisp. Your sister, God rest her soul, was the pretty one. You were both so smart, too smart for your own good.”
The sheer number of words gave Hannah a twitch in her eye.
“We’re going to lunch,” Jinny announced suddenly, loudly, her voice echoing in the cavernous, now-empty church. “You, me, Huck. We’re all going to lunch. Let’s go.” She took Hannah’s arm. “You’ll have to hold tight. My balance isn’t what it used to be. I get the vertigo now. See, age is a bitch. Don’t get older. The alternative is dead. Fae, God rest her soul, would tell you to get older, you know. But if you can figure out how to keep your youth, you’d make a mint.”
They walked out of the dark church and into the bright day. The parking lot had cleared, and again Hannah felt a heaviness pass through her. Did no one care about her aunt’s life? They’d fled like cockroaches in sunlight. Jinny pointed one shaky finger down the street to the diner.
“Jinny,” Hannah began as they walked, arms linked. Huck ambled behind, observing the town, the dwindling storefronts, the crumbling sidewalks. “There was no one there. No one to speak for her. Why? What’s happened in the last seventeen years?” She asked the question baldly, without self-recrimination. Jinny was the least judgmental person Hannah had ever met.
“Oh, child. Your aunt had a hard time in life. Julia nearly destroyed her. But truthfully, I think it started with Ruby.”
Hannah jolted. Uncle Stuart had said that name to her earlier. “Ruby was too much,” he’d said.
Inside the diner, they took a booth in the corner. The waitress approached the table and poured them all a cup of coffee. They ordered their brunch, and she eyed them suspiciously. Two newcomers and Jinny Fekete—Hannah was sure the curiosity was killing her.
“Jinny,” Hannah said after the waitress departed. “Who was Ruby? Stuart said something to me today—”
“He spoke? I didn’t think he spoke anymore. The last time I ever heard of him talking was months ago!” She clapped her small hands together. She looked up toward the ceiling. “They’ll be together soon. Don’t you think it’s a shame? We don’t do this kind of thing to our pets. He just lies up there, waiting to die.”
“Who was Ruby?” Hannah pressed, trying to redirect Jinny’s wild thoughts.
“You didn’t know? Fae and Stuart had a child.” Jinny shook her head, lowered her voice. “She died when she was five.”
“She died?” Hannah’s stomach dropped. It seemed impossibly young. Oh, her poor aunt. Hannah felt a deep stab of despair. Under the table, Huck squeezed her knee. “When? How?”
“It must have been . . . oh, now, almost twenty-five years ago. Let’s see, she was born in 1991, I think. I think she died in ’95 or ’96.”
“How did she die?” Hannah’s voice cracked. Hannah and Julia had been alive, preschoolers, but they’d been born when Aunt Fae had a baby. How had she not known? Hannah remembered the few times Trina talked about her sister. Had she told them about a cousin? Had she mentioned a cousin who died? Surely not—that would be entirely too troublesome for small children in Trina’s mind.
Hannah had a vision then—Aunt Fae crying for seemingly no reason, her pervasive, unshakable melancholy, the rooms in the castle that had remained closed. One in particular that had been locked—the turret room that faced Valley Road. The way Aunt Fae seemed so surprised when Hannah and Julia had made her laugh: like she’d forgotten that she could. And then a darker memory. Julia knew about Ruby. She’d broken into a locked room, and she and Fae fought about it. There had been a shouting match; Hannah had forgotten all about it. If I find you in that room again, I’ll send you both home!
“I simply cannot believe that no one has told you this.” Jinny slapped her hand against the Formica table, and even Huck startled. A few feathers from her hat came fluttering down to rest between them.