Bella was working on her computer as we drove to Portland, Maine. Her brow was furrowed and she was focused on whatever she was attending to. When I tried to ask what she was doing, she’d smile sweetly and say nothing. It didn’t look like nothing.
“Come on, cantante,” I wheedled. “Tell me!”
“It’s honestly nothing. I’m emailing my dad about the first few shows and I’m reading some more reviews,” she smirked.
“You’re so lying, Isabella Marie Swan Cullen,” I grumbled.
“I’m not. Look, I’m almost done. Then, we can work on High Life,” she bargained. “I know that you’ve worked on it some.”
“Okay,” I said, taking out my own laptop. When I opened it up, I saw that I had a few new emails. The first one was from Garrett Sisko, my mentor and close friend. He was telling me about his wife and their five-year-old girl. He also told me about Mrs. Cope, the lady who worked in the front office and was in love with me. She had had a massive heart attack at school, passing away despite the best efforts of the paramedics and doctors. I frowned when I read that, looking up the information about her wake and funeral. I obviously couldn’t go to the services, but I did send a huge floral arrangement from Bella and me. I also made a donation, in her name, for the American Heart Association, as requested by the family.
I was incredibly sad to read about Mrs. Cope’s death. I always thought that she’d always be there, greeting everyone with a warm smile and a kind word. I blew out a breath, trying not to cry.