They took the largest “suite” at Frank Campbell’s, the funeral parlor on Madison Avenue, where people came to pay their respects for two days. Ariana could be there only for a short time, and then would go back to her father’s apartment, and try to sort everything out in her head. Nothing made sense. All she knew now was that her father was dead and she was alone. How it had happened, why they had gone to Buenos Aires, and everything that had happened there were all a blur, a jumble of people and parties and places that meant nothing to her now. The only voice in her head was Jorge’s. The aviator’s box she had brought home with her was hidden in her closet. She didn’t have the courage to open it and read his journals and letters to her, but she wanted to keep them safe, to read one day. She had come back to New York to become everything he hated, the spoiled rich girl she had been before she left, and that he had accused her of being and told her she had to change. She felt as though she was betraying him just by being there, even though this was her home.
