Shane held out his hand. “Not now, Hallie. We have to fulfill his wishes, notify the rest of the family and organize a memorial. We have to get through this together.”

“Together,” Colleen said and twirled the wand. “Well, sadly, because there is a party already planned, it can now be his memorial.”

Hallie shuddered. “So many people will show up for that, and I won’t have enough food or drink . . .” She trailed off. “I need to hire more people.”

Shane rested his hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to tell Hank to take it from here. He will find servers and bartenders, food and drink. You stop now, Hallie. Just stop.”

Rosie moved next to Colleen, slipped under her arm and rested her head against her chest. “I miss Grandy.”

“Yes, love, we all do.” Colleen drew her niece closer and felt warm wet tears sear across her sunburned cheeks.

Chapter Thirty-four

In the end, we’ll all become stories.

Margaret Atwood, Moral Disorder

DAY OF THE PARTY . . .

The day before Gavin’s memorial had passed in surreal hours of visits by friends and family, of decisions made and an obituary written by Colleen. They notified the entire guest list about the change—how a celebration was now a memorial at Dad’s sacred place. As Colleen surveyed the scene of the gathering in full swing, she figured that if there was anyone in town who hadn’t shown up, she didn’t know who it could be.

It was Rosie and Sadie they worried about most—losing Grandy and moving away from their dad into a new home, both within a few days, would be overwhelming for anyone. It was all too much, Hallie had said over and over. Too much. But they’d surrounded the girls; let them cry and held them close. Now they ran through the crowd of people handing out the poppers that were meant for a different kind of celebration, for a birthday party. The guests took the brightly colored party favors and patted the little girls on the head as if they were puppies.

Colleen scanned the room for her sister and brother and found them on opposite sides of the pub. Each time she tried to move, another person came to offer condolences or tell a story about Gavin. Over and over again, as Colleen balanced her weighted arm with the cast, she thought of life’s tenuous threads, of the easy snap of that thread that tied us to the people and places we love the most. In the middle of things, when all was stable, it felt like nothing would ever change. But it always did and always does and always will.