IN truth, Mac had half expected Mr Higgins’ chair to be empty when he arrived on Friday Morning. After all, he himself had said he would be gone until Monday, and no one on

The skyscraper’s forty floors needed his assistant while he was away. Not a single person would notice his absence, not even Mac.

Regardless, there was Higgins, working away as Mac stride into his office to retrieve his laptop. Good, Mac thought. Maybe mountains of paperwork will help him forget.

Mac strode toward his office with all of his usual swagger and confidence, hoping beyond hope that he had finally passed his treacherous emotions. 'Morning, Mr MacIntire,' Higgins offered quietly.

Mac returned this pleasantry with the same curt nod as always and continued on his way. That was, until the knot that had settled itself in the pit of his stomach a few days prior tightened. It gave him enough pause to stop before entering his office. It’s what she would have wanted… Stifling a sigh, he pivoted on his heel and walked back to his assistant’s desk. 'Mr Higgins, I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you have plans tomorrow. Would I be correct?'

A small crease formed between the man’s eyebrows. 'No, Sir. I have no plans at the moment. Should I?'

'Yes, Higgins, I should think that you do.' As his assistant’s frown deepened, it became apparent that he was confused. Mac, in turn, became increasingly aware that he was going to have to spell things out for him and rolled his eyes accordingly. 'My mother’s funeral is tomorrow,' he supplied, focusing intently on not giving away any of the emotion that he had foolishly let slip just days before.

The tell-tale panic that he had come to expect in his assistant suddenly rose to a peak. 'Sir, I— I don’t think— Well, you see, it’s not—'

'You and I both know that it isn’t your place, Mr Higgins,' Mac cut in like a hot knife through butter, 'but she would have wanted you there. And I believe that, by this point, I should be long past denying my mother’s wishes, don’t you?'

'I— I suppose so, Sir.'

'I’ll send a car. Be ready by eight.' Higgins merely nodded dumbly in reply. 'Good man,' Mac said curtly, then turned on his heel and continued inside, letting the door of his office click shut behind him.

AS he attempted for the third time to tie his tie, Mac cursed his shaking hands. How could he possibly give his mother’s eulogy with a poorly tied tie? He had hoped that his nerves would have died down when he reached the church, but they had only heightened. His constant fidgeting with his tie had finally been its literal undoing, forcing him to attempt to remedy the situation. As if on wings of angels, Salma, his best friend and sister in everything but blood, left the pew and came to his rescue.

‘You are impossible, mon frère,’ she lilted, her light French accent like sugar.

‘I just can’t stop shaking. I can deliver the most pointed of boardroom lectures without breaking a sweat, but this?’

‘It is a little different, Mac. It’s not like you have to sum-up your own Mum’s life every day. Did Ally help you with the speech?’

He shook his head. ‘Stuck in Beijing, I’m afraid.’

She scoffed. ‘I’m sorry, but an art gallery opening does not trump a passing, no matter what country it’s in.’

‘Plane tickets halfway around the world are expensive, to say nothing of last-minute tickets. Besides, Ally wouldn’t have made it back in time. I only said something yesterday.’

‘You— You didn’t tell your fiancé that your mother had died?’

‘Not my fiancé yet, thank you. Nothing’s been settled, no matter how many hints have been dropped. And, besides, with the time difference and the demands of the gallery…’

‘Excuses will not help you here. Ally should be here! Even your assistant came!’

‘Because I insisted that he do so.’

‘Regardless—’ But something behind her gave her pause. ‘It sounds as though the priest is about to announce you. Are you ready, mon amour?’

‘Not remotely.’ He made his way to the podium with a heavy heart, his hands continuing to tremble. But today, he didn’t care much what anyone thought of him, contrary to his normal state of being— certainly not the people in attendance, at the very least.

Looking out at the crowd before he began, he saw his father and his extended family. For whatever reason, the sight of his blood relatives didn’t provide him much comfort at that moment. What did was Salma, taking her seat quietly next to his paler-than-usual assistant. Knowing that he had someone there who understood him, and another who understood his pain, helped to fortify him enough to finally speak.

He unfolded the carefully prepared speech, reading the first few lines. It was well-written, calculated, and somewhat devoid of strong emotion: the opposite of what his mother would have wanted. With a sigh, he took the pages, crumpling them and returning them to his pocket. 'Most of you know— knew my mother as Ana MacIntire. But to me, she was just Mum. I want to start by saying that Mum would have hated all of this. Except for the flowers, of course. She always did have a soft spot for beautiful things. All the rest of this, though…' He waved a hand over the tearful, mournful crowd. 'She wouldn’t have stood for it. No, Sir. She never allowed anyone to be unhappy, especially if it was her fault. She thought she could fix anything with chocolate chip pancakes and a smile. She was almost right.' His voice cracked slightly as he repeated himself. 'Almost.'

He cleared his throat and pressed the pads of his fingers against his eyelids for a moment, the words harder to find than he had hoped. 'Mum was never really a spiritual person, but she did believe in a sort of afterlife. She liked to believe that even when a person passes, they never really leave us. That when we see something they would have liked, or stop to think of them, they’re still right there with us. I don’t know if that’s true, but, for what it’s worth, I’d sure as hell like to believe it is.' The photo near the casket drew his attention, and he suddenly felt the need to address it. No, the stiff, posed portrait near the altar wasn’t her, but neither was the lifeless body in the casket next to it. 'Mum, I know I haven’t been the best son, but, despite my faults, I vow to spend the rest of my life being someone that you would be proud of, for the right reasons. And you can take that promise to the bank, all right?' He laughed humorlessly as tears trailed down his cheeks. He quieted quickly, however, returning his gaze to the crowd as he remembered that he was far from alone. He gave a nod of acknowledgment to the crowd before the priest said his final piece.

As he took his position as a pallbearer, a sickening irony crossed his mind. After the number of times that she had carried him to bed, carrying his mother to her final resting place left a hole in the centre of his being. The very thought of it made him nauseous enough that he could have sunk to his knees and dry heaved at the drop of a hat. Thankfully, though, he managed to keep it together long enough to see the casket lowered into the ground. Through every second of it, he wished that he could take her place.

The rest of the service was beautiful enough to be worthy of the woman it honoured. By the end, there wasn't a dry eye to be found. As the last of the mourners made their way to their

vehicles, Augustus MacIntire IV made no small effort to cross the cemetery to his son. ‘Augustus,’ he said curtly.

‘Father,’ Mac replied in a similar tone.

‘Your eulogy was well said. A bit off-the-cuff for my taste, but you were never one for preparation.’

Mac pursed his lips, preventing the words Don’t worry, Father, I’ll have yours written well in advance from crossing them.

IV stared openly at the gravesite in front of him. ‘I noticed that you came alone. I thought you were seeing someone. Abby? Addy?’

Mac’s heart clenched in his chest. ‘Ally. Out of town, unfortunately. Unable to get away. But sends sympathies, all the same.’

‘It would mean more if the two had ever actually met. How long have you been together?’

‘Nearly four years, now.’

‘About time you did the honourable thing, don’t you think?’

‘Father…’ Mac’s throat suddenly became dry, not wanting to continue the conversation.

‘Your grandparents’ rings are available to you. Simply ask the solicitor and he will have them delivered.’

‘Father, I’m not sure that Mum’s graveside is exactly the time to be discussing—'

‘And when, if not now? If death does not encourage you to live, what will?’

The harsh words and tone caused Mac to finally look at his namesake. His father’s knuckles were white, nails dug deeply into his palm. Everything about his demeanour told Mac not to argue. The younger man gulped hard, lowering his head and his voice. ‘Yes, Father. Of course.’

This seemed to satisfy, causing the elder to finally relax his palm and nod. The two remained silent, simply looking at the woman they both equally loved.

Chapter 4.5: Zed - Promises

A short distance away, Zed stood over the freshly tilled earth. The polished stone bearing the name ‘Ana MacIntire’ gleamed in the sunlight, reminiscent of the glimmering smile he remembered so vividly. Somehow, that smile reminded him so much of his employer. Though, why, he couldn't say. He had never seen MacIntire smile as brilliantly as she had. Now, perhaps he never would.

His thoughts continued to swirl as he thumbed the edge of the envelope in his pocket. The envelope he had received only hours earlier, but whose contents he had already read to the point of memorisation. The other hand extended to wipe a small speck of dirt from the top of the stone. His voice was quiet and reverent as he spoke, knowing that, no matter how soft, his words would not fall on deaf ears. 'I'll do my best, ma’am. Truly, I will. I only hope that he lets me.’

MacIntire stepped to his assistant’s side, looking more than a little shaken. ‘Mr Higgins.’

The man so named shifted uneasily, as he so often did in the other’s presence. ‘Sir?’

‘Remember we have the Smith presentation on Monday morning.’

He sighed silently. ‘Yes, Sir.’

MacIntire nodded, walking a bit further before pausing. ‘And… thank you. For coming.’

Zed merely grimaced, tightening his grip on the letter as his employer made his way to a waiting car.