Mephisto shook his head. “He’s not okay. He died around five o’clock this evening. I’m so sorry.” They were such inadequate words. He embraced her, meaning to comfort her, but she went wooden, rigid. She pulled back and shook her head.
“That can’t be. He was perfectly fine this morning. There’s got to be some mistake.”
“No, Molly.”
“Another patient. Mistaken identity.”
“It’s not a mistake,” he said. “I’ve just come from there. If you want to go see him, I’ll take you. You should probably go see him one last time.”
Still she stared at him. She didn’t believe. He turned back to Mrs. Jernigan, standing near the foyer wringing her hands. The frail woman shook her head at Mephisto and ran away, into some back hallway. Molly stood like a statue, her hands pressed to her mouth.
“I can’t believe it. No,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“I’m here to help you. I promised Clayton I’d help you if anything ever happened to him.”
He reached out to touch her but she skirted his grasp, turning her back on him. He watched her draw in deep breaths, her slender shoulders rising and falling. She shook her head, a small, hypnotic movement.
Denial. First step.
“Honey.” He moved closer to her again. “Do you have clothes to put on? I’m afraid if you don’t see him one last time to say goodbye, you’ll regret it later. It’s up to you, but—” His voice cut off. He was giving her choices, which was probably the last thing she could handle at the moment, this girl whose choices were all made for her by the man who’d died.
“Where are your clothes?” Mephisto asked instead. “Please get dressed.”
“He has them,” she said. “My Master.”
“In his room?” Mephisto set off down the hallway. Molly came after him, grabbing his arm.
“He doesn’t let me in there. Not without him.”
He stopped and turned to her. “Listen, Molly. Your Master left you in my care. I’m taking you to the hospital to say goodbye and sign papers and do all the things a wife has to do. You owe him this, to do things the right way.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended. She paled and stepped back while he continued down the hall. A moment later, he heard her behind him. He barged into Clay’s bedroom and paused. Pristine, as he’d expected it to be.
Molly stepped aside as the housekeeper pushed through, the wrinkles beneath her eyes damp with silent tears. “I’ll get some things together for Mr. Copeland. He would want his best clothes. His favorite cufflinks and shoes.”
“Thank you,” Mephisto said.
Molly stood at the door, eyes wide, while the housekeeper moved around the room gathering items for Clayton.
“I’m sorry,” Mephisto said. “I don’t remember your name.”
“Rose Jernigan. I’ve been his housekeeper for twenty years. It’s not right, him gone so soon. He’ll be missed.” She clamped her lips shut then, running a lint brush over a black wool suit.
“Mrs. Jernigan, I need to know where he kept Molly’s clothes.”
“She’s got plenty of clothes in the second closet. Very nice things.” She pointed to a door adjacent to the bathroom. Mephisto found another full dressing room.
He turned to Molly. “Come pick something out. What did he like you to wear? Did he have a favorite outfit?”
Mephisto just wanted to give her something to think about besides the tears choking her, and Mrs. Jernigan’s somber work collecting Clayton’s clothes. Molly crossed to a bureau and took out panties and a bra, and smooth stockings with lace at the top. He could see her fingers shaking from across the room. Mephisto turned away and let her dress, helping Mrs. Jernigan pack Clayton’s things in a high-end travel bag. “Will you come?” he asked the housekeeper. “You’re welcome to come with us.”
She hesitated and shook her head. “I’ll need to get the house in order for callers. Have you told his family?”
“If you have their contact information, you should call them. They can call his lawyers and business partners. Everyone will need to know.”
A stifled sob sounded from the closet. They both turned. The more Molly dressed, the harder she cried, and the bleaker Mephisto felt. She pulled a dark cardigan over a silk shell and fumbled with the placket. Mephisto crossed to her and fastened the row of small black buttons one by one. Then Molly went to an ornate wooden jewelry box and opened the lid. So many priceless pieces for a wife who probably only wore clothes a handful of times a year. Mephisto helped her put on a pearl necklace and earrings, thinking of Clayton and his love for her. It was so unfair. So unfair. Couples that loved so hard should have forever together.
“I can’t...I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Mephisto said, kindly but firmly. “I’m sorry, but you don’t.”
Chapter Two: Choices
At the hospital, Molly touched Clayton’s cold, still hand and drew away. It was only then, Mephisto thought, that she finally believed. She stared and cried, and stared and cried, refusing to leave but unable to get more than a foot or two closer. “I want him back,” she said to Mephisto at one point. “I want him back. I don’t want this!”
Anger. Second step.
And there was still a lot of disbelief. Molly stared as if she expected Clay to somehow revive himself. He was her all-powerful, unflappable Master, after all. Finally, Mephisto had to make her leave so the funeral home could come. One last time, Molly touched Clay’s hand. Still cold. Still dead. His heart ached for her.
He took her back to the home she and Clayton had shared, and his heart ached harder. Molly’s whole life had revolved around serving Clay, and now that he wasn’t there, she floated like a ghost lost in the wrong plane. She wouldn’t let Mephisto come near, wouldn’t let Mrs. Jernigan comfort her either, although the old woman puttered around with tea and refreshments, none of which were touched. Molly finally settled on the edge of the couch, pulling at her clothes, looking at the door. Waiting.
“Molly, I know this is terrible for you,” Mephisto finally said, “but he’s not coming back.”
“I know that. I’m not stupid.”
He and Mrs. Jernigan exchanged glances. He replied to her snapped retort with utter calm. “It’s late. I know it won’t be easy to sleep, but you should try.”
“But my Master’s not here,” she said, as if Mephisto were an idiot.
Molly needed sleep. She was stretched to the breaking point. Her mind was rebelling against a reality she didn’t want to accept, even as tears flowed down her cheeks.
Mephisto stood. “Come on.” He held out his hand but she wouldn’t take it. She finally rose from the couch and went before him. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, took off her clothes as if in a trance, hung up the garments neatly. She took off her jewelry, placed it away with care. Then she moved toward the bed and froze.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t. It’s his bed. He didn’t say I could.”
Mephisto sighed. “Molly—”
“You don’t understand. Every night, he told me, sleep here. Or sleep there.” She pointed to a pallet on the floor.
“He’s not here tonight. He can’t tell you those things anymore. Just get in his bed, lie down and rest. That’s what he would have told you to do.”
She climbed in, quickly, guiltily, like she was breaking some rule. She promptly burst into tears again. “It smells like him.”
For half an hour more, Mephisto held her as she sobbed. She was conflicted, turning toward and away from him in dizzying changes of mood. She spilled out watersheds of words. It’s not fair. I don’t understand. What am I going to do? Who will plan the funeral? Where is his body right now? By the time he quieted her, Mephisto was exhausted himself. He pulled the covers up over her.
“Where are you going?” She grasped at him as he stood.