End of Eternity 1 Page 3

  You should have that chandelier replaced, Grayson advises me. Now that I’ve used it to murder myself, it might be considered unlucky. I always thought that it was a bit ostentatious; a simplistic modern design might suit that space better. Something understated.

  Shut the fuck up, I tell the disembodied voice in my head as I reach the landing. It doesn’t even sound exactly like Grayson. I am confused when I turn the corner and see my father sitting with Brad and another man in the family room, and pouring sparkling liquid into crystal flutes. Champagne. Our most expensive champagne. One of the bottles we hid at the back of the wine cellar, and saved for only extremely special occasions. I realize that the sound I thought was a gunshot must have been the cork being popped.

  A wave of fury washes over me, and I cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t realize that there was something to celebrate tonight,” I inform the men in a dark voice.

  “Carmen,” Brad says, standing up with a filled flute in his hand. “We’re having a drink in memory of Grayson—to honor his life.”

  “Is that so?” I ask him skeptically, glaring at the bubbly amber liquid. I also notice a pile of papers and folders on the coffee table, in front of the strange man I don’t recognize.

  “Come and join us,” Brad says to me, leaning forward to grasp the champagne bottle. “Let me pour you a drink.”

  I wince at his words. “Are you kidding?”

  “Bradford, son. She’s pregnant,” my father says in a low voice.

  “Damn!” Brad says in surprise. “I totally forgot. It’s too bad, because this is some good stuff.”

  “Thanks for rubbing it in,” I say miserably. The glorious bubbly liquid is tantalizing and nearly irresistible; it doesn’t help that I need a drink more than I ever have in my entire life. I run my tongue over my lips to moisten them as I try to fight against the craving. I move to sit beside my father on the sofa, lowering my chin in despair.

  “Sweetheart, we were just sharing our favorite Grayson stories,” Dad explains to me as he places a hand on my back. “Your husband was a remarkable man. I was just talking about how he single-handedly saved our house with his wizardly investing skills.”

  “He was the best friend anyone could ask for,” Brad added. “I was telling your dad what it was like to grow up with Grayson. That kid was always getting me into some kind of trouble.”

  A gentle smile touches my lips. I’m not sure about the identity of the quiet third man in the room, but it is nice to hear my father and Brad sharing their love for my husband. I am a little curious as to why the third man is flipping through a folder of papers; he strikes me like he might be here for some professional purpose, and that sets me on edge.

  “Do you have any favorite Grayson stories you want to share?” Brad asks me.

  I lift my shoulders in a tired shrug. I feel a bit uncomfortable wearing my thin nightgown and talking about such personal matters in front of a complete stranger, but I am too miserable to really care. “When I found out I was pregnant,” I say softly. “It was autumn last year, and I had just gotten off work at the station.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You were a weather girl, weren’t you?” Brad asks.

  “Meteorologist,” I correct snappishly. I take a deep breath. “Gray was waiting outside to drive me home in his old Chevy truck—it was nearly crumbling from rust and most of the paint was scratched completely off.” My smile begins to blossom across my face. “He adamantly refused to get rid of that thing, even when we had more than enough income to get something better.”

  “I loved that truck,” Brad said fondly. “He actually bought it way back in high school, with money saved up from part-time landscaping. We lived out of it for an entire summer. We drove it to New York when we started college, with all of our belongings stuffed in the trunk, and we never looked back. Those were good times.”

  Staring at Brad in puzzlement, I wonder why he suddenly seems like a real person. I was in a philosophy class with him once, years ago, and he struck me as a fierce and ambitious man without trace of human emotion. I didn’t know that he had so much history with Grayson. I didn’t know he had a heart. I hope I’ll get a chance to talk to him more in private just so I can learn about who my husband was. I see that the men are expecting me to continue with my story, and I bite my lip before resuming.

  “When I told Gray that I was feeling like crap, and feared I was pregnant, he called Dad at once. He asked for permission to marry me, and promptly drove to the nearest jewelry shop—it was a little place in the Diamond District. He made me try on the biggest rock we could find, and got down on one knee and proposed right there in the middle of the store.” I smile, and my fingers drift down to trace the princess-cut stone on my finger. “He even had it customized. I know it sounds stupid and impulsive, but it was just what I needed. He knew that. He often had a sort of uncanny instinct in knowing exactly what I needed.”

  I pause, staring at the champagne glasses longingly, and imagining the cool liquid washing down my throat. I can almost taste the bittersweet bubbles enveloping my tongue. “I would not have kept the baby if Gray didn’t step up like that. But he did. He said that he would do anything it took to make sure that our child had a good life. He said we were going to be a family, and that we’d be happy. He said he wanted to marry me as soon as possible.” I wrinkle up my face a little, trying to fend off the emotion. “Anyway, after the jewelry shop, he immediately drove us to a dealership, and he got rid of his old truck and bought a safe and spacious new SUV so that we could prepare for being parents.”

  The men in the room are silent for a few seconds after I tell my story. The silence is very difficult to bear. I reach out timidly to grasp the bottle of champagne, and close my fist around the neck with yearning.

  “A little bit won’t hurt, right?” I ask them softly.

  Dad hesitates. “Carmen, you really shouldn’t…”

  I close my eyes and nod miserably.

  “Let her have a drink for god’s sake,” Brad says angrily. “The girl just lost her husband. Women were drinking while pregnant for centuries before we ever knew that it was unhealthy.”

  “Maybe just one,” Dad says weakly.

  Grateful for permission, I lift the cold bottle to my lips.

  Go on, Carmen, says Grayson’s voice inside my head. Do it. Drink the fancy champagne so that our child is born with brain damage and birth defects. That will make things better.

  I hesitate just as the bottle touches my lips. I can smell the divine liquid inside, and it feels like the answer to everything.

  Do it, Grayson urges again. Poison our daughter so that her little body grows warped and disfigured.

  Go to hell, I mentally hiss. You said you would be here. You said that you always would do the best thing for our child. Why does it matter if I have a single drink when you’ve already fucked up everything?

  Killing myself was the best thing I could do for her. I’m a monster, and you’ll both be better off without me. But do you really want to give our baby learning disabilities? Depression and various debilitating disorders like mine?

  With a shaking hand, I reach out and place the bottle back down on the coffee table. “I guess I’m not that thirsty,” I say softly.

  The quiet third man in the room finally clears his throat and turns to Brad. “It looks like everything is in order, Mr. West. The company should honor the policy and pay out the benefits in full. The suicide clause has expired.”

  “That’s wonderful news, John,” Brad says with a sigh of relief. He looks to my dad with a small smile. “I told you it would be okay, Mr. Winters. You should go ahead and file the claim whenever you can—or you can let me take care of it.”

  “Thank you for looking into this, Bradford,” my father says with a small nod, and a sip of his champagne.

  A frown settles deep into my face, and I lean forward angrily. “Are you talking about my husband’s life insurance policy?” I ask Brad in a disbelieving voice.

/>   “Yes,” Brad says, giving me a reassuring smile. “Grayson held his policy for over three years, and he was smart enough to disclose his recent diagnosis of mental illness, so there shouldn’t be any issues. You should stand to receive the full two million dollars, Carmen.”

  I stare at Brad for a moment, speechless in astonishment. Finally, I reach for my dad’s champagne glass and toss the expensive liquid into Bradford West’s chiseled face. “Grayson is dead,” I whisper shakily. “What kind of a friend are you? Only a filthy lawyer would immediately think of how to profit from this.”

  “Carmen,” Dad says softly. “Calm down, honey. I asked him to help me sort out Grayson’s affairs, because I’m in no condition to do so right now.”

  Brad sputters and wipes the champagne out of his eyelashes before sending me a pitying look. He licks a few droplets off his lips. “It’s quite alright, Mr. Winters. I understand that Carmen’s upset. Dealing with money is never pleasant.”

  “That reminds me,” Dad says. “Bradford, son. I was hoping you could help me get in touch with Grayson’s parents. I actually don’t have their contact information.”

  I turn to look at my father with a grimace. It bothers me that he is calling Brad “son” already—it seems that he is far too eager to replace Grayson. I hope they both know that I am not quite so eager to trade my husband in for the next best candidate.

  Brad clears his throat. “Well, Mr. Winters, about that…”

  He is interrupted by the ringing of my father’s cell phone. Dad frowns as he moves his hand down to his pocket to retrieve the device. “Who would be calling at this hour?” he wonders out loud before standing up and excusing himself to take the call.

  “What were you going to say about Gray’s parents?” I ask Brad.

  He clears his throat nervously. “Well, remember the lovely elderly couple that attended your wedding?”

  “Yes,” I say suspiciously. “His parents flew in from Seattle.”

  Brad shakes his head. “Those weren’t Grayson’s parents. They were actors we hired. We’ve never even been to Seattle.”

  “What?”

  “Grayson and I grew up in Detroit,” Brad explains with a shrug.

  “Detroit?” I say with a perplexed look on my face.

  “Yes. Imagine the slums of India—now add more piss, drugs, and prostitutes. That was our neighborhood.”

  I stare at Brad nervously. “Why would he lie?” I ask.

  “We came from nothing, sugar. Now take a look at where we are. Grayson and I always lied about our origins so that people wouldn’t look down on us. His dad walked out on his mom when he was very young—after beating the poor woman close to death, right in front of Grayson. The kid was neglected and always hungry; he didn’t even learn to read until he was ten years old.” Brad’s lips turn up into a sinister grimace as he recalls these details. “Grayson’s mother treated him like shit, and it weighed heavily on him. She blamed him for ruining her body and scaring away his father. He didn’t know why his mother hated him, but he grew up thinking he was evil and worthless deep down inside. He used to run away to my house and sleep under my bed just to feel safe; I’d sneak him some food so that he wouldn’t starve.” Bradford West leans forward, and there is a dark look in his eyes. “You’ve always been a privileged, high-society girl, Carmen. Would you even have considered marrying Grayson if you knew that he was such a poor, pathetic bastard?”

  “Yes,” I say with a tiny shiver. It takes me a moment to process this information. I can’t believe he’s talking about my husband—the man I lived with and slept beside every day for years. Grayson never said anything negative about his past. I could see it in his eyes though—a haunted look I could never fully understand.

  The things you learn about a man after his blood runs cold.

  As I stare at Bradford’s expensive suit and cufflinks, I am suddenly aware of how difficult it must have been for him to go from extreme poverty in Detroit to being a fancy Manhattan lawyer. How did he even pay for college and living expenses? I know that Grayson was on a football scholarship, but what about Brad? He must have done something illegal to get by. I wonder what it was. Stealing? Drugs? Street racing? No wonder he has been pretending to be such an arrogant elitist lately—he is just trying to fit in with his peers.

  Somehow, knowing that he isn’t merely a bloodsucking lawyer has made him slightly more attractive to me. He has more substance than I previously thought. I feel a little guilty for tossing the drink in his face. It’s true that I’ve usually been attracted to a lesser element, but that’s because I prefer men with character and gravity. Too many of the people who run in wealthier circles are giddy, brainless thrill-seekers. I have spent a lot of time pretending to be a ditzy heiress to camouflage myself amongst them. It’s who I feel I’m expected to be—and maybe Brad feels the same in his law firm.

  The stories of Grayson’s childhood are horrible, but they might explain why I fell in love with him; I could see the emotional scars of everything he’d been through, and his immeasurable loneliness. I could see his need for love and family, and I wanted to give that to him. There was always a strange aggressiveness about him that I didn’t understand, but I knew it had to come from some kind of pain. Sometimes he took it out on me, but I knew he never meant to. Grayson was always on my side. Even when he hurt me, I knew that I could trust him underneath it all. I felt like I could be myself around him.

  Actually myself. Not the perfect picture of a rich girl that my parents wanted me to be, but someone raw and wild. Someone fun. Someone free.

  Now who am I? What am I, other than a house for another tiny human being?

  I know that my sister ran away from home all those years ago so that she could be herself, and avoid the suffocating pressures of our lifestyle. I always envied her for that; the fact that she was brave enough to leave all this behind and seek freedom. I know her blindness made her more confined and dependent than I ever was, so she probably reached her breaking point a lot faster.

  But I know that Helen also had some sort of critical conflict with Grayson. I know that whatever it was, it really destroyed her—and him. It might have actually destroyed him. I was afraid to hear the details of what had happened between them when my sister tried to tell me, but now I regret not listening. This is all my fault. I wasn’t listening to anyone.

  You never listened, Grayson agrees inside my head.

  In retrospect, my husband seemed to have lost some of his fire over the past few months. I’m not sure if it was due to the situation with Helen, or possibly the antipsychotic drugs he was given—maybe they were causing his depression to get worse. Grayson had been withering away before my eyes, and I hadn’t even realized it. I should have paid more attention to him. I should have done something.

  You should have done something, Grayson repeats in disappointment.

  The quiet third man in the room—John or whatever—suddenly speaks up. “Ms. Winters, are you aware of your husband’s final wishes for his body?” He is holding up yet another document.

  “I guess. Can you refresh my memory?” I ask him tiredly. “He wanted to be cremated, right?”

  “Yes. He also wanted his ashes to be delivered home to his mother and siblings in Detroit.”

  My heart leaps into my chest with a sudden panic. “Why?” I ask fearfully. I feel like I am losing him all over again. “Why wouldn’t he want me to keep his ashes?”

  “It’s an insult to them,” Brad explains through gritted teeth. “Grayson once told his mother that she would never see him again, unless he returned home as a pile of ashes. And then she would know that she had failed him. Grayson felt that all the shit in his life was due to his mother’s cruelty. He wants them to have his ashes so that they know that they were responsible for killing him.”

  “But I want to keep him,” I say in a small voice. “His ashes should stay with me.”

  Brad stands up and moves around the coffee table to sit beside me. He places a
hand gently on my knee. “You gave his life meaning, Carmen. You made him happy, for the first and only time in his miserable existence. Grayson didn’t want to leave you with a pile of useless dirt. He wanted to leave you with life, and joy. That’s why he asked me to take care of you. He wanted to leave you with his undying love; something that can never be reduced to ashes.”

  I close my eyes and lower my chin.

  “Once he’s cremated, I’ll take his ashes home to Detroit,” Brad says quietly. “I think it would be better than simply mailing them there.”

  “No,” I tell him in refusal. “I’ll do it. I want to meet my husband’s mother. I want to see where he grew up. I want to soak up every bit of information about him, before it’s all gone forever.” I hug my stomach gently. “I want to be able to give my daughter answers when she wonders who her father was.”

  “I really wouldn’t recommend it,” Brad responds, squeezing my knee. “The old neighborhood is not a place for a girl like you. But if you insist, maybe we can go together. I think Gray would have liked that.” He reaches across the table and grabs his champagne glass. “To Grayson,” he says softly, before lifting it to his lips for a drink.

  John pauses in scanning over his documents for a moment to join the toast.

  I can’t resist, and I reach for the bottle to take my own long swig of the bubbly beverage. It is totally worth it. The taste is immaculate, and so much more decadent for being forbidden. Just as I finish my gulp and wipe my lips, my father comes back into the room.

  When I see the look on his face, I immediately put the bottle down and rise to my feet. He has more shock and pain on his face than when he first beheld Grayson’s body a few hours ago. My initial thought is that he might be having another heart attack.

  “Dad?” I say frantically, moving to his side. I touch his hand, and it’s as cold as ice.

  “Get dressed,” he tells me in a shaky voice. “That was Liam. Your sister’s been in a car accident. She’s in a hospital in Pennsylvania. Liam says… he says she might not make it through the night.”