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Jane had hardly been able to go to Angela and Charlotte’s funeral; even in their death, he had been a coward. If seeing them in the bedroom hadn’t made it real, seeing their gravestones will, he had thought back then. But even if he lived to be a thousand years old, he would never forget just how beautiful a day it had been. A patch of storms that had been threatening Malibu had suddenly reversed course, retreating into the ocean, leaving behind nothing but pearl-white clouds.
Today was just as lovely as that day, if not more. An infernal Texas heat wave had let up last week, easing in endless blue skies and a light breeze from the west. Birds fluttered between the live oaks and cedar elms that dotted the cemetery, clusters of warblers and cardinals swooping between lush branches.
Cho had offered to drive him home or call him a cab at the very least, but Jane had refused. He’d known that Cho had shot Rigsby a look over his head, concerned. Grace had put a hand on Jane’s shoulder for a long time before Rigsby had taken her arm. They were worried about him. He’d heard them discussing as much among themselves as they’d left, thinking him out of earshot. The other attendees had left long ago; her brothers had barely made it through the rite of committal before bolting. Jane could hardly blame them.
He ran a hand over the top plane of her headstone, the pads of his fingertips catching on the soft crust of stone. It was a light gray block of granite with a simple engraving: Teresa Lisbon. 1972–2015. Beloved sister, partner, and friend. Below the epitaph, a small cross had been etched into the stone: nothing ornate, just two sure lines. After all, Lisbon had always valued restraint.
Before Jane had gone into the morgue to see her, Rigsby had warned him that her body was not in good shape. He had said this with a great deal of care before Jane had demanded the truth.
"I almost didn't recognize her," Rigsby had said quietly, his voice trembling. "With injuries to her head and chest like that, the mortician said it would've been instantaneous."
Jane had supposed that a drunk driver plowing into her driver's side door at ninety miles per hour would do that.
When Jane had finally stepped inside the morgue, he'd seen that a white sheet had been draped over Lisbon's body. The mortician had guided Jane to her side, where the only uncovered part of her was her pale right hand. He had grabbed it like he could put her back together by sheer force of will.
Part of him had demanded to tear the sheet back, to see her, see why the mortician was saying hers should be a closed-casket funeral, but he just hadn't been able to do it. Damn his cowardice, but the thought of seeing his world in pieces for a second time had made him want to shatter.
The mortician had cleared his throat, then. "Were you aware she was pregnant, Mr. Jane?"
Lisbon's hand had been cold in his, so cold. It had taken a moment to realize the person screaming was him.
The sky above the cemetery dimmed to gray, then black, and a choir of whip-poor-wills began to sing. Night brought a fresh chill, and Jane's thin vest and suit jacket didn't do much to protect against it. He was curled up with his back against Lisbon's headstone when the security guard making his rounds passed by, shining his flashlight over the tombstones.
"We're closing up, sir," the guard said, not unkindly. "We open tomorrow at eight A.M."
"Her name was Teresa," Jane said. Something flashed across the guard's face. Whether it was sympathy for yet another grieving man or annoyance at his refusal to leave, Jane couldn't quite tell, and so he continued. "She was the love of my life."
The guard considered him for a few more seconds before nodding. "I'll give you one more lap," he said, his voice low. "I'll walk slow."
As the guard left, Jane realized he'd spoken true. Angela had been the love of his past life, that was certain, but Lisbon was the love of this life, this new present. He thought about kissing her in the TSA holding cell, his hand cradling her flushed cheek, disbelieving that she'd returned for him. Her arm linked with his as they sat on her front porch, drinking coffee and talking about getting him a key. How he would just hold her in his bed at the Airstream, not taking her eyes off her for even a second as she slept, her beautiful dark hair curling around his arm. He thought about the life that had been growing inside her, too. Had she known? Was she scared? Was it something she had wanted, too?
Near him, a whip-poor-will let out a high-pitched warble.
"I was going to ask her to marry me, you know," Jane said.
The bird kept chanting, sharp and insistent.
"I was," he said. "I really was."
He rocked his knees to his chest, his eyes burning. The whip-poor-will went silent, and the sky closed over Jane like a shroud as he buried his head in his hands and cried.