Aspen Allegations - A Sutton Massachusetts Mystery
Page 10
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I had barely made it onto the Christmas tree bridge and the first straight-away of my ride home before I was finding him in my recent calls list and pushing the button.
“Hello?” Jason answered.
My voice echoed with joy. “I know what I’m going to do.”
“And what is that?” he asked, a smile coming across the speaker.
“I’ll write his biography for him,” I revealed in triumph. “I will finish what he began; what meant so much to him.”
There was a pause, and then his voice came, slow and steady. “That’s kind of you to offer; I can see his death touched you deeply.”
“He deserves to have his story told,” I expanded. “I will ask his son for permission, of course. But I feel as if I’m involved, somehow, and this seems right to me. I hope it will bring me the closure I’m seeking.”
“His funeral is tomorrow, with the burial at the Sutton Cemetery.”
“I know; I intend to be there.”
“So do I. I suppose we will meet there?”
My heart warmed at the idea, and I nodded, although of course he could not see the motion. “Yes,” I added out loud. “I would like that.”
“Then it’s a date,” he confirmed, and I smiled at the thought of a date at a cemetery. I supposed that all life was cyclical, with its beginnings and endings and rebirths.
My car rumbled onto the Jamestown bridge and I chuckled. “I blinked, and I missed Jamestown again,” I teased him.
He gave a low laugh. “Those islanders may build their tunnel yet and be completely free of all you interlopers,” he warned.
“I wouldn’t blame them in the least.”
The road stretched out before me, dark and deep, but I put aside the allure of keeping him on the phone the whole way. “Until tomorrow,” I offered.
“I look forward to it,” he agreed, and he was gone.