Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I blame that off-kilter feeling for the fact that I don’t see Laura’s question coming before she asks it.
“It would mean so much if you’d speak at the graveside service tomorrow. I know you told Mark you’d rather not, but could you possibly reconsider? For me? And for your brother?” She dabs at her cheeks as more tears stream from her pink eyes. “It would mean so much to him. To both of us.”
She looks like a miserable rabbit and is probably the only person in the room genuinely grieving. Rodger cheated on her and treated her like a prize as much as a person—a doll he’d trapped in his mansion of a dollhouse—but he’d denied her nothing. She was his most treasured possession.
I have no idea how she’s going to function without him, but that isn’t my problem. Her misery and grief aren’t my problem, either, but I’m not as coldhearted as most people assume. I feel for her…just not enough to spew a bunch of lies at my brother’s grave.
“I can’t, Laura,” I tell her gently, but firmly. “I didn’t know Rodger well enough to deliver a eulogy with the integrity it deserves.”
“But he was your brother!”
“A brother I’ve barely spoken to in over a decade,” I say, hurrying on before she can voice the protest I can see forming on her lips. “But I could do a short reading. I have a passage by Henry Scott Holland picked out that I think Rodger would have enjoyed. It was inspired by a sermon Holland gave at the funeral of King Edward VII.”
She sniffs again and dabs at the corners of her eyes. “Well, that sounds nice.” Her lips wobble into a smile. “He was our king, after all.”
I suppress a grimace and rest a hand on her slim shoulder. “I’ll speak to the minister now and see where to slot that into the service.”
Laura reaches out, gripping my wrist as I start to rise. “Please, Weaver. Give Mark a chance to prove he can fill his father’s shoes. I know he’s young and still has so much to learn, but he loves this town and so desperately wants to make his father proud.”
A part of me wants to remind her that Rodger is dead and no one will be making him feel pride—or anything else—ever again. Instead, I force patience into my tone as I remind her, “You knew Rodger better than anyone, Laura. Do you think he would have left me in charge if he wanted it to be any other way?”
Her brow furrows and her lips wobble again—down this time—but after a moment, she gives a slow, small shake of her head.
I rest a hand on her back. “I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t wait for me here. I’ll meet you at the cemetery.”
I rise, moving as quickly as possible through the crush of people to the minister sipping coffee at a corner table. We confer briefly, decide my poem should close the section of the service featuring speeches from family members, and I duck out the back door.
Dusk is falling but the children are still running wild through the grass, screaming with laughter, providing the cover I need to ignore Aunt Wendy’s call for me to come say hello.
I have nothing to say to Aunt Wendy or any of these people. The only person I’d actually like to speak to isn’t here. I scanned the crowd a hundred times, but there was no sign of wild, sandy blond hair or clear blue eyes.
None of the Sullivans were here.
Rodger would be pissed.
Or maybe he would have relished the fact that he was able to turn an entire family against him. Rodger didn’t mind making enemies…a fact I’ve been learning the hard way. When I emerged from the trail this afternoon, one of my tires had been slashed in a way that made it pretty clear the damage was deliberate.
And now…
I scan the rental car, covered from hood to bumper in a thick, gloppy gray mess that stinks of sour cream and rotten fish, and sigh. I should have parked closer to the funeral home, but this spot farther down the street felt like a better bet for a fast getaway.
“Chowdah,” a scratchy voice says from behind me.
I turn to see a couple as old as the sea sitting in the shadows on their sagging front porch. Their home is the same faded, dark beige as their skin and the man’s shirt, but the woman’s pink sweater draws my eye to their rocking chairs. “Excuse me?” I ask.
“He said it looks like chowdah,” the woman says in a voice nearly as rough as her husband’s, thick with an old-timer’s New England brogue.
“Ayuh,” the man says with a nod of his gray head. “Smells like it, too. Wicked awful when it starts to turn.”