Part Two: As long as you know in your heart...

Chapter 1

I sighed as I sank into the couch in the den. The driver had been kind enough to carry my bags upstairs for me, while our trunks were being delivered straight to Runway. Caroline and Cassidy were still at their father's. During the ride home from the airport, I called James and we decided it was probably best if they stay there for the next week or so. So far, the press had left them alone, so I didn't want to cause any additional chaos if I could avoid it.

I kicked off my shoes and softly massaged the ball of my foot. My Prada pumps were the only truly comfortable heels I owned, but after twelve hours, my feet began to ache in them, too. I heard my blackberry ding with a new message. Andrea, I thought.

I dug through my handbag and sighed when I saw it was a text message from Cassidy: "Dad said you called while we were gone. Miss you. Love C&C" Sighing, I tried to force thoughts of the young brunette out of my mind, but even in traffic, she would have made it to her grandmother's home outside Newark before we were able to collect our luggage, go through customs, and leave the airport.

Knowing I would not be able to rest until I heard from the intriguing young woman, I sent a quick message: "Hi, just wanted to let you know I'm thinking about you." In an attempt to distract myself, I made a cup of tea and headed upstairs to begin sorting through what little laundry didn't get thrown haphazardly into the Runway trunk when I was leaving.

When I came back downstairs, there was a new message: "Thank you, Miranda. 3 You have been incredibly kind."

"I hope you can find time to rest. If I wasn't clear, you have the next few days off—as long as you need," I wrote back.

Seconds later, she replied: "I don't think I will need too many, but thank you."

We didn't text anymore that day. As natural as it felt to converse with Andrea, and as much as I wanted to know how things were, how she was doing, I did not wish to take away from her time with her grandma and her family. I did, however, find myself wondering if they held her hand the way I did, or if she cried to them like she did to me.

Sunday morning, I woke up with an unbearable migraine. Barely able to reach over for my blackberry, I typed out an email to Emily that I would not be in. I told her we needed to unpack the trunks, but if she could find time on Monday, she could have the day off as well as the rest of the team. Pulling my pillow over my head to block out the light, I didn't even look to see if she responded. Five minutes later, the phone started beeping. "Nigel, what do you want?" I hissed.

"Miranda," he said, "Is it true? A day off? What's gotten into you?"

"Migraine," I said, trying to focus my breathing.

"What was with Andy leaving?" he asked.

"I do not have the energy for this discussion," I said. "It's personal, leave her be."

Nigel said something else—I'll admit I wasn't entirely paying attention—and I promptly ended the call. Knowing a headache like this wouldn't retreat on its own, I crawled out of bed and fumbled in the medicine cabinet for some pills. I made my way back to bed without opening my eyes, throwing myself back on the mattress.

I don't know if it was five hours or five minutes later, but I woke at the sound of my phone. "Nigel, will you please—"

"Miranda?"

"Andrea," I breathed, opening my eyes. I licked my lips and swallowed before continuing. "I'm sorry, I thought you were Nigel calling."

"It's okay," she said. "Did you see my email?"

"No, not yet. I've been…in the middle of something. Is everything okay?" I asked, fearing the words that would come out of Andrea's mouth, and for some reason hiding my own excruciating pain.

"No, it's not okay," she said. I could hear her voice trembling, and somehow, I could picture her sliding down the wall into a sitting position on the floor. "I'm sorry," she said, "I shouldn't bother you with this."

"Nonsense. I'm sitting here at home, staring at the ceiling. Please, go on," I said, reassuring her that she was not interrupting anything.

"Well, everyone…they're fighting. Yelling at each other, arguing about who knew her the best."

"Oh sweetheart," I said, sighing as my heart broke, listening to her story, "I wish I was there for you."

"It helps just knowing you'll answer the phone," she said.

"Of course. I'm sorry I didn't see your email."

"It's okay. Do you have a few minutes now?"

"Yes, yes," I said.

"So, this morning," she began, "Gram started having trouble breathing. My mom called it 'the death rattle,' and said she's heard it before in other patients she has taken care of. So my aunt did what the Hospice people told her to do, and gave her some morphine. This went on for about two hours, with my aunt sitting next to her, spoon-feeding her more and more morphine. After a while, we were all standing around her bed, just kind of watching her struggle to breathe, waiting for the moment when she wouldn't take another breath. I was opposite my aunt, and my hands were on her right elbow. I was barely touching her, but her skin was so puffy, even the slight touch of my fingertips was leaving a deep impression. Mom said that was common when people died. It was silent. We were all counting in our heads how many seconds between her breaths. My grandpa walked in the room, smacking his gums on a piece of cantaloupe. He said, 'Still breathing, huh?' and I thought my uncle was going to punch him right then and there. My uncle's wife quickly ushered my grandpa out of the room. I had my eyes closed, and I was just praying to whoever was listening that they take care of my grandma and make it so she didn't have to suffer any longer. A few minutes later, my uncle was frantically putting a stethoscope to her chest, saying the heartbeat was still there, it was really weak, but still there. My mom listened and threw the stethoscope back at him. 'You're just hearing your pulse in your ear,' she said. My aunt started crying. I hadn't moved. My mom slowly pulled my hands away from her body and led me out of the room. It was so quiet, I didn't even realize the exact moment when she died. I guess I thought it would be more profound or something." She paused, and I wasn't sure if she was crying or thinking.

"Andrea, I'm so sorry for everything you've been through today, and I wish I could be more supportive," I said. I paused, waiting for her to respond, but she didn't. "Did you say your family was arguing about something now?" I asked, trying to bring her out of her thoughts.

"Oh…yeah. My grandma wanted to be cremated. We all knew that, or at least my mom, my dad, and I did. We saw her the most. She practically raised me while my parents worked. But my grandparents made my uncle the executor of their wills, and he also has power of attorney. I guess because my uncle is an accountant, she just figured he would be the best person for that. Well, my uncle has three kids of his own, works crazy hours, coaches football, and sees my grandparents maybe once a month for a few hours. So my mom called the funeral home, and when my grandpa overheard her say "cremation" he flipped. He started screaming 'You can't burn her! It's a sin!' and crying and getting all emotional. Then my uncle takes his side and says that Gram never wanted that, that my mom was making it up. Hence the fighting and screaming and yelling. I had to come sit outside, there were just too many people in that tiny house."

"Do you think they'll come to a resolution on this?" I asked.

"I mean," she chuckled, "they have to at some point."

"True. You must be exhausted," I said. "Can I send some clean clothes or anything? You never sent your address."

"I'm fine. My aunt and I are actually going to back to my apartment later tonight. It's just thirty minutes away, and I think she wants to get away, too," she said.

"Okay. If there's anything at all," I said, letting my voice trail off.

"Thank you, Miranda. I really appreciate you even answering my calls," she said.

"Of course," I said. "I should get back to work," I lied, "but call me if anything else comes up."

"Okay. Thank you again," she said, hanging up the phone.

I turned over onto my side and felt the pressure begin to flow through my head once again. Flopping back down on my back, I closed my eyes, letting tears stream down the sides of my head. Andrea was what, twenty-three years old? I could just tell by the way she spoke of her family that she was very strong at home. Not physically, but emotionally. She was a rock for her family, a decision-maker, a rational thinker, a doer. She was—I sighed—like me.

Before I fell back asleep, I called Smith & Wollensky and ordered a simple dinner for twelve people—roast chicken, roasted potatoes, green beans, and fresh fruit—to be ready for pickup in one hour. I texted Roy and asked him to pick up the food and deliver it to the same address he left Andrea yesterday. It wasn't much, but food was always appreciated when there was unexpected company.

I stayed in bed all day Sunday, half recovering from my migraine, half from the time change. It never used to affect me, this "jet lag" everyone speaks about, but in the past few years, I have realized that my body is not as resilient as it once was, and even minor disruptions to my daily routine leave me exhausted. I took two painkillers before falling asleep Sunday night, and when my alarm went off at 5:05AM Monday morning, I felt significantly better. I had not heard from Andrea since early Sunday afternoon.

When he picked me up in the morning, Roy informed me that he delivered the food exactly as I had asked. I wonder why she hasn't called to thank me—not that I require thanks, but it just seems like something she would do, I thought to myself. Taking a deep breath, I knew I needed to keep my head on today as there would be a lot to catch up on at Runway.

At 11:30AM, I shut my office door to enjoy my lunch in quiet. The truth was, I was hoping to speak with Andrea. I sent her a quick message before sitting down in my desk chair: "How is today going? Not the same here in the office without you."

She quickly typed a lengthy reply: "I can surely agree that things would be very different here if you were here. Mom and sibs went to meet with funeral director, but they were fighting so much, he asked them to leave and come back when they've figured it out. I hate when people are afraid to make a decision."

"I completely agree. I'm sorry it's all being dragged out," I wrote.

"BTW, did you send food last night by any chance?" she wrote.

"Yes, was it okay?" I asked.

"Apparently delicious. My sister and I had already left, but they all devoured it, not even bothering to see who sent it. I'm sorry for their poor manners."

"Don't worry about manners right now. Glad it was enjoyed. Is there anything I can do for YOU?" I asked.

She did not reply right away. As I chewed my steak, I worried I had crossed some invisible line, stepping too far with that last question. Then, she responded: "If it's not too big of a deal, do you think I can take off until Wednesday or Thursday? The funeral service will be Wednesday afternoon."

"Sweetheart, do what you need to do. Your job will be here when you return, and I know you've more than put your share of overtime in. Don't worry about work—I look forward to seeing you whenever you return."

"Thank you," she replied.

TBC