THE FUNERAL SERVICE IS BEAUTIFUL. Elegant.
We’re all clad in somber black, my chic Valentino dress something I know my mother would approve of. The blood red diamond Spencer slid onto my finger glimmers and shines in the sunlight that beams through the church’s massive stained-glass windows, blinding me every few minutes when I shift and move, restless.
Always restless.
Summer stands next to me in a flowing black dress, her belly huge. She clings to Whit’s arm, her gaze only for him, and I’m so grateful she has him, and he has her. He’s become a different person since he’s committed himself to Summer. A better person.
I’m proud of him.
The pastor drones on, saying nice words about a not-so-nice woman, and I stare at the elaborate floral display. There’s no casket—her remains have already been cremated—but there are white flowers everywhere. Sprays of roses and ranunculus flowers. Beautiful arrangements of fragile white orchids and delicate greenery. The entire church smells like a florist shop, heady and sweet, and I find myself clinging to Spencer’s arm, overwhelmed by the scent. The moment.
Everything.
My mother is gone, and while there is a hole in my heart that she once occupied, there is also that sense of relief deep within me that grows and grows as every day passes. She’s actually gone.
I’m actually free.
Whit hired a harpist, who begins to play a haunting, beautiful song. I don’t recognize it at first until the chorus and then realize it’s “Candle in the Wind” by Elton John. The song he sang at Princess Diana’s funeral.
God, my mother would love that. Such a perfect touch. She always did admire Princess Diana.
Minutes later, we’re all walking out of the church. I’m flanked by Spencer and Whit, Summer on the other side of her husband, Carolina walking behind us with our father, their arms linked. Other family members follow, all of the Lancasters turning out for this moment. She may have been divorced from the family, and she wasn’t one of their favorites, but by God, the Lancasters always know how to show up and pay their respects.
In this moment, I’m proud to be a part of this family. Prouder than I’ve been in a long time.
“Are you all right?” Spencer murmurs close to my ear, his hand clasping mine.
I nod, offering him a faint smile. “I’m fine.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand, and I squeeze his in return, so grateful for this man I feel like I could burst.
We walk down the stairs, Summer waddling as she carefully takes each step, grimacing when she lands on the last one. She rests her hand on her stomach.
“Oh God,” she breathes out.
Whit hovers, his hand covering hers. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She flashes a fake smile. “Just a cramp.”
“Come straight over to the apartment,” Father tells us, Carolina still by his side. I swear to God she flat out doesn’t cry. I haven’t seen her shed a single tear since Mother passed, and I wish I was as calm as she is. “I’ve already told everyone. There’s food and drink, and an entire staff to serve it. I hired a piano player and everything.”
“Mother would love this type of party,” I say.
“She would,” Whit agrees.
“At least someone is playing the piano in Daddy’s apartment,” Carolina says with a little shrug.
I study her, taking in her chic black sheath dress, her bright blonde hair slicked into a sophisticated chignon. She’s got black Chanel sunglasses on and giant diamond studs twinkle in each ear. She is the epitome of an Upper East Side socialite. The slender ballerina who doesn’t walk, but glides.
I envy the way she bottles up her emotions. It’s a known family trait, but she’s extra good at it. I wish I could be that contained sometimes.
“Carolina,” I say.
She glances over at me. “Yes?”
“I love you,” I tell her, wondering when I last said those words to her.
I pull her into a hug, holding her to me, and she clings, pressing her lips to my cheek in a soft, sweet kiss. “I love you too.”
We load up into sleek black limousines, Spencer and I sharing one with Whit and Summer. The moment we’re inside, Summer is hunched over, her hand on her stomach, her eyes closed as she takes a deep breath.
“Summer,” Spencer says, his voice full of alarm, “are you in labor?”
“Of course not.” She tosses her head back, her long brown hair falling past her shoulders, her eyes still closed. “It’s my mother-in-law’s funeral. I can’t have the baby.”
“Jesus, Summer. What if you’re having the baby?” Whit gently shoves her hand away from her stomach, pressing his against the side of it. He holds it there, his head tilted as if he’s concentrating on what’s happening. Like he’s some sort of doctor. “I can actually feel your contraction.”
Panic races through me. “We should get her to the hospital.”
“Whit can’t go to the hospital. We have to go to the gathering.” Summer puffs out a breath, her cheeks turning red. “Oh God, it hurts.”
“We’re going to the hospital,” Whit says firmly, reaching out to hit a button to lower the window that separates the driver from us. He instructs him to take us to the closest hospital, and the driver shifts into racecar driver mode, wielding the limousine through the crowded streets with surprising agility.
And at breakneck speed.
I’m clutching Spencer’s arm, my heart racing with a mixture of excitement and fear. Whit is the epitome of calm, speaking to Summer in soothing, calm tones, saying all of the right things, and I realize he’s an expert at this. He’s had a baby before, been there to support her while she labored with sweet little Augie.
Now they’re adding another member to their family, and it makes my heart swell with love.
We pull up to the emergency room entrance minutes later, and Spencer and Whit both get out of the car first to help Summer exit the limo. I give her a hug, and then Spencer and I stand by the limo as we watch them walk into the hospital. The moment they disappear from sight, I turn to Spencer, my eyes filling with tears.
“Baby.” He reaches for my face, his thumb streaking across my cheek, catching a tear. “Why are you crying?”
“Life is just full circle, you know?” I try to laugh, but it turns into a sob instead. “We’ve lost my mother and we’re going to gain a baby girl today.”
“You’re right,” he says softly, his eyes glowing as he studies me. “It has come full circle.”
“My mother would’ve loved to meet her.” My laugh is watery, and I cover my mouth with my hand, my eyes closing tight for a moment. “I wish she wasn’t who she was.”
“You couldn’t change her, no matter how hard you tried.” He cups my face with both of his hands, tilting it up, and I open my eyes to find him looking at me with unmistakable love. “But now you have a sweet little niece coming, and we need to make sure she knows she’s loved by her family.”
“I can’t wait.” I frown. “They never did tell me what they want to name her.”
“I’m not sure they know themselves.” Spencer leans in, brushing his mouth with mine. “I’m proud of you.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“You’ve been so strong. I know this hasn’t been easy.”
“Is it wrong to admit I’m a little bit…relieved?” I say that last word in the barest whisper.
“No.” He shakes his head. “You can admit all of your truths to me.”
“All of them?”
He nods.
“Like how I love you more than anyone else on this planet?”
His lips curl into a small smile. “I feel the same way.”
“You do?”
“Yes. You know I do.” He kisses me again, deeper this time. “I love you, Sylvie Lancaster.”
“I love you too, Spencer Donato.”
“Shall we go to your father’s apartment?”
A sigh leaves me. “I suppose we must make an appearance.”
He drops his hands from my face, winding his arm around mine and steering me toward the back of the limo. “It’s going to be okay, Syl. She can’t hurt you anymore.”
Those five words stick with me through the car ride. While we’re at my father’s apartment, chatting with family, meeting some of my mother’s old friends. They were my favorite people to talk to. They knew Sylvia before she changed for the worse. When her negative trait was going after what she wanted, damn the consequences. They tell me story after story, and I laugh until my stomach hurts, grateful for the distraction.
The group text comes to all of us near the end of the afternoon, when the gathering is just winding down. Whit sent it to me, Spencer, Father and Carolina.
Whit: Seven pounds, four ounces. Twenty inches long. Lungs as loud as her mama’s.
The text is accompanied by a photo of a red-faced, squalling little baby.
All of us share a smile. My father is beaming with pride. Carolina looks pleased. Spencer slips his arm around my shoulders.
Me: What is her name????
Carolina: Yes! We are dying to know!
Whit takes minutes to respond. To the point that I’m stomping my black Louboutins against my father’s marble kitchen floor, frustration rippling through me.
When the text finally comes through, I can’t open it fast enough.
Whit: Her name is Iris.
“You have a great-grandmother named Iris,” Father says, his eyes suspiciously bright after he reads the text.
“I love it,” I say with a sigh.
My heart is full.
