Granted, he didn’t see his brother or sister often. Both were still angry that Kit had retained his vast trust fund, while their funds had been bamboozled by dear old Dad. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to mend fences with his siblings. After all, they had a hatred for their father in common.

His gaze swept the empty entryway, the quiet rooms, and he stifled a sigh. Sitting alone at the funeral had been harder than he’d imagined. Arabella had come to comfort Preston, but there hadn’t been a soul to offer Kit comfort or share his grief . . . until Alice arrived. She hadn’t kept her distance or waited for permission, either. Instead, she saw him in the pew and came right up to hold his hand.

Christ, he missed her.

The front bell clanged, startling him. Wasn’t the entire city aware that he was in mourning? Who the hell would be calling today of all days?

Without waiting on his butler, Kit yanked open the door. His anger dissipated when he found Nellie Young standing there, a bag in her hands.

“You are an idiot.” She pushed by him and came inside, not even caring that he hadn’t invited her.

“Not keen on callers today, Nellie,” he said, still holding on to the door.

“Don’t care, Kit,” she said over her shoulder on the way into the salon. “I’m here to toast your friend and leave you to your misery.”

He flung the door shut, which closed with a satisfying snap. She was pulling a bottle and two glasses out of her bag when he threw himself into an armchair. “Not keen on drinking today, either.”

“Yes, your friend died in a drunken accident, I am aware.” She poured a small amount of clear liquid into each glass. “But you will do this.”

He accepted the glass from her and sniffed it. The vapor nearly melted his lungs. “What is it?”

“Poitín. It’s Irish and it’ll burn like the fires of Hell going down. Ready?” She lifted her glass. “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; Love leaves a memory no one can steal. To Forrest.”

He lifted his glass. “To Forrest.” Together, they tossed the liquid in their mouths and swallowed. His throat went up in flames and he was certain his stomach had combusted. Leaning forward, he wheezed and gasped for breath.

By the time he gained control of his lungs, Nellie was already packing up. “Wait,” he said. “Give me a minute. I need you to explain.”

“My mother was Irish.” She pointed to her fiery red hair. “When she died, some of her family held a wake in the house. I remember hearing the songs and the prayers. It was filled with sorrow, but joy, too. I always thought it was a nice way to remember people. So, I never go to funerals, but I like wakes.”