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“She did. Not that it worked. Enzo found him anyway.” The room goes still. Happens when you mention the man who murdered your husband. Or murder in general really dampens a conversation. “You know he’s dead. Talking about it doesn’t make him more dead. Enzo murdered him.”

My husband was murdered, and there’s no body because the building was torched. I say it a lot to try to normalize it. I put the small bird on the table.

Tabi puts her feet up on the table and leans back. “Do you think his piece of shit nephew would have killed him if it weren’t for Phil Cady?” Becca gasps at the mention of the man who has fucked up my life forever and messed with all of theirs.

Tabi gives her some side-eye. “Really? He’s not fucking Voldemort. Cady’s just the asshole power hungry billionaire mega egotist fucking with all of our lives. Sam seems to be the only one who hasn’t been royally screwed up the ass by that man.”

Becca clears her throat. “What we do know about him is that he’s ruthless and methodical. I wonder if this is like the moment in horror movies where everything is calm or if the killer is just regrouping?” We laugh but it’s a touch strained.

I want to yell at my friend. I’m not calm. I’m rage and sadness and confusion. But this man who has disrupted all of our lives has now finally taken someone from us. I only pray that the FBI and Mark’s new task force can make it all stop. Mark has doubled his efforts and works all the time. I think he feels guilty for forcing Sal to slow down his process of getting out to stabilize the gang situation in LA. If left to his own timeline, Sal might be alive.

No one says a word, so I talk about something other than the killers.

“I called him Skylark.”

Becca shifts in her chair and says, “That suits him. A naturally camouflaged bird in the wild with a distortive song. They sing all the time.”

Tabi scoffs at her, “Ok, Wikibirdia.”

“They also have an impressive claw,” Becca adds. I show them the little wooden bird Lou carved for me when they were in mafia lockdown mode and stuck in a warehouse somewhere until the threat died down.

Tabi picks it up and I want to rip it from her hands, but I smile tersely instead. She turns it over in her hand and then sees me. “Damn, girl, we’re not helping, are we?”

I might throw up some banana bread just saying it. “No.”

“Pack it up, Bex. We’ll try again in a few days. It will give you time to brush up on your boring bird facts.” She’s trying to make me laugh. Not going to work, but I know she’ll keep trying.

She winks at me, dances out the door, and I exhale.

Chapter

Eight

Poppy

20 endless days (PS)

If I’m not with people, I’m sleeping. It’s all I can do to hold on to the memories of him. Today is an awake day, so no one freaks out about me being sad. There’s no rest for the grieving. You’re either sad or pretending you’re not so you can manage everyone else’s grief. It’s an exhausting cycle and, I’m pissed at Sal for making me have to deal with this.

I’m on the back patio at Gelbert Family Winery. I spend little time here lately, but my mom insisted I visit and get out of my house. It must be the Aunties’ watch today. They’re the matriarchs of the five vineyard families and are the women who know us all best. And each of them brings a different comfort usually.

Auntie Sarah brought me a set of mugs she created in pottery class and some oils for me to smell, to magically feel better. I only find olive oil comforting.

Sarah reaches for the wine to pour more, and my mom takes the bottle, laughing at her. “You never have to pour wine again.” They all laugh. No one ever knows when her muscles will jerk because of her Parkinson’s. Auntie Jana gives her a hearty side hug.

Auntie Theresa laughs and says, “Tina, you and I should come up with a petition to force the industry to make plastic bottles just for Sarah.” My mom laughs.

“Ha. Ha.” She smiles at her friends.

“Then you could be the only one who pours us the wine. Poppy, snap out of your mood. Get with the programs. We have games planned.” I groan as Auntie Goldie, Tabi’s Greek mother, scolds me in her sing-songy voice and rearranges her caftan.

I say, “Look, I appreciate you all. Let’s drink, tell me some gossip but as for games, let’s do that another day. And I assume the Uncles are planning a day for me as well.” I raise my eyebrows at the women, wondering when the dads will take me out.

Sarah points at me, “Kayaking has been bandied about.”

I groan. “I’ll go see them Friday morning at Creekside Café.” All the dads meet for breakfast every Friday and have since long before any of my generation existed. Some of their fathers met there before that.

Auntie Theresa taps out a message to her husband, then looks up at me. “The response is ‘Thank God’. He said he’ll save you a seat and a pancake. He did not want to kayak.”