between James and me, his small hands linked with ours. Everything would be buried today. Another sob tore free of my lungs, reverberating off the church walls, the sound louder than the organ’s withering notes. “I can’t do this,” I wailed in a harsh whisper. Losing James. Feeling everyone’s pitying stares burning my back as I stood in the second pew. The air was stifling, a stale mixture of sweat and incense wrapped in the sweet, syrupy scent of the orchid bouquets artfully displayed throughout the mission-style church. The flowers had been purchased for our wedding, but Claire Donato,
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