Chapter 6 - The Woman in the Lavender Perfume
Two years after Diane died, Beverly invited me to dinner.
I assumed other people would attend.
Nobody did.
She wore lavender perfume.
The same perfume from the funeral.
That made things complicated.
Dinner was good.
Conversation easy.
Then she asked:
“Do you feel guilty?”
I almost dropped my fork.
“For what?”
“Enjoying yourself.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Me too.”
Her husband had died twelve years earlier.
I hadn't known grief could remain loyal that long.
Beverly and I became friends.
Then something more.
Slowly.
I told Darnell before anyone else.
He stared.
“Beverly?”
“Yes.”
“Mom's Beverly?”
“She doesn't own her.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
He thought.
Then smiled.
“Mom would probably approve.”
“Don't tell me what the dead would understand.”
His smile vanished.
He remembered Europe.
“Right.”
Then:
“I approve.”
That mattered more.
Beverly never moved into Diane's place.
That was important to both of us.
She didn't use Diane's mug.
Didn't remove photographs.
Didn't ask me to stop saying my wife's name.
Love after loss wasn't replacement.
It was addition.
Darnell and Vanessa eventually had a daughter.
They named her Diana.
I cried when they told me.
Not Diane.
Diana.
Close enough to honor.
Different enough to belong to herself.
I became Grandpa Ray.
Terrible influence.
Excellent snack provider.
Darnell complained I spoiled her.
I told him:
“Apparently that's hereditary.”
But we learned boundaries.
Diana heard no discussions about inheritance.
No promises that Grandpa's house would someday be hers.
When she asked whether she could have my old record player after I died, Darnell nearly choked.
I laughed.
“Maybe.”
She frowned.
“Why maybe?”
“Because I might leave it to Deshawn.”
She considered.
“That's fair.”
Darnell stared at me.
May you like
“She's seven and already healthier about inheritance than I was at thirty-six.”
“Your mother would be pleased.”
