by Gayle Trent
“That was sweet of you.”
“Do you know the funeral is tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be there. Will you get to go?”
She nodded. “I took the day off so I could be there for Mrs. Duncan and the rest of Fred’s family.”
“Hey, were you working here when Fred had his car accident last year?”
“No. I came to work here shortly after that time.” She noticed someone approaching her register. “We’ll talk more later.”
I finished arranging the display, and then I went in search of Mr. Franklin to let him know I’d brought the cakes he’d requested. I found him in his office hunched over his desk.
“Daphne,” he said, standing up behind his desk. “Come on in.” His dress shirt was wrinkled and his tie was stained. I thought—not for the first time—that he needed a wife. He wouldn’t be bad looking if he’d try to be a bit neater with his appearance.
“I’ve brought the cakes you requested. Juanita and I arranged them on the display table.”
“Very good.”
“Is there anything else you’ll be needing within the next couple weeks?” I asked. “I’m trying to coordinate my holiday schedule.”
“Ah.” Mr. Franklin sat and indicated I should do the same. “Are Christmas wedding bells ringing for someone in Brea Ridge?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said, taking a seat. “However, Belinda Fremont is planning an extravagant New Year’s Eve party.”
He raised his brows. “This soon after Guinevere’s birthday party? That’s odd.”
“You mean, Belinda’s New Year’s Eve party isn’t an annual affair?”
“No. The birthday party is normally the Fremont social event of the holiday season. There typically isn’t another party until Spring.”
“Does she throw birthday parties for all the guinea pigs?” I asked.
“Nope. Only Guinevere.” He smiled. “You see, Guinevere’s birthday coincides with Belinda’s.”
“So, in a way, she’s actually throwing herself a party.”
“In a way.”
“Wonder why she decided to host a New Year’s Eve party this year then?” I held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad she is, I just wonder what prompted it.”
“Maybe it’s something Richard wants.”
Richard is Belinda’s husband. He seems like a super nice guy—I met him briefly at Guinevere’s birthday party when I brought the cakes. From what I understand, he travels extensively. Maybe Mr. Franklin was right. Maybe the party was for Richard.
“You could be right,” I said. “Belinda mentioned his sister would be coming and that she’s single again. Richard is hoping she’ll meet someone.”
“Maureen is single again?” Mr. Franklin asked. “She’s . . . um . . . very sweet. I knew her way back when. Anyway, I’d be delighted if you could work the Save-A-Buck up some Christmas cookies, candies—maybe some fudge, peanut butter pinwheels, haystacks—things like that—some cupcakes and a few more cakes.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Bring them in as you make them, and let me know what you’ve brought.”
“Okay.” I smiled, glad I’d anticipated this and bought some cookie and candy trays with lids during my trip to the chef’s wholesale warehouse in Kingsport last week. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
At Mr. Franklin’s frown, I added, “At the funeral.”
“I’m afraid not, Ms. Martin. Several of my employees are taking the morning or the day off, and I’ll be needed here. I did send over a pretty peace lily, though.”
“That was nice.”
Mr. Franklin nodded in agreement.
“You know, I was thinking about how you once told me Fred had changed after the car accident,” I said.
“He did change. You can ask anyone.”
“Oh, I believe you. But his cousin was filling me in about the accident the other day, and it made me wonder. Do you suppose some of Fred’s anger wasn’t the result of his brain injury but was caused by the fact that the driver who was at fault was never found and punished?”
Mr. Franklin’s face had turned to flint. “Since I’m neither a brain surgeon nor a psychiatrist, I wouldn’t know.”
“No, of course not. None of us will ever know, will we?”
“No.” His face softened slightly. “I hope he’s at peace now.”
Chapter Six
The first thing I heard when I woke up the next morning was rain pelting the windows. When I was a little girl and it rained on a sad day, I thought all of Heaven was crying with me. Of course, I’m older and wiser now. And I know that some of the saddest days are some of the sunniest. Remember what a clear, gorgeous morning September 11, 2001 started out being?
I sighed and rolled over, clutching my pillow. Outside the rain continued beating against the house. I squeezed my eyes shut and came to the only logical conclusion: sometimes Heaven weeps with us and for us; and at other times, Heaven is simply all cried out.
I didn’t want to get out of bed . . . didn’t want to go out in the rain and drive to a church on the other side of town to comfort a widow who was burying her only child. I wanted to wake up . . . have this whole thing be a horrible nightmare. I wanted to relay the entire convoluted dream to Myra and have her ask what I ate before going to bed.
I held the pillow a little tighter, whispered a prayer for Connie, and then I tossed aside the pillow and got out of bed. I ambled to the kitchen and put a dark roast coffee pod into my single-cup coffee maker. I put a cup underneath the spout and emptied two packets of sweetener into it before the coffee began to brew.
As soon as the coffee was done, I took it and a chocolate almond biscotti into the living room and curled up on the sofa. I didn’t turn the television on. I already had all the bad news I could handle this morning.
I was dipping the biscotti into the coffee when the phone rang. I started not to answer it for the very reason that I was dipping my biscotti into my coffee. I mean, here I am getting ready to put this much-anticipated morsel of biscotti into my mouth, and someone has the nerve to call and interrupt?
It rang again, and I ever so begrudgingly answered.
“Good morning,” Violet said, as chipper as a songbird on the first day of spring. “Sorry to call so early, but I wanted to talk with you before the kids get up.”
“Okay.” Since it was Violet, I went ahead and bit my biscotti.
“What was that? Did you break a tooth on the phone or something?”
“I’m eating breakfast?”
“What are you having? Rocks?”
“Biscotti. And it’s wonderful.”
“Oh. Well, what about the game? Do you like it? Is it age appropriate?”
“Apparently, it’s appropriate for all ages. I’m enjoying it, Myra is enjoying it, and I think Lucas will enjoy it, too. Leslie, too, for that matter.”
“Did you say Myra?”
“Yeah. I had to rent another controller so we can both play at once.”
“Myra Jenkins? You cannot be serious.”
“I’m serious. Come over this afternoon and see for yourself.” I dipped the biscotti back into the coffee.
“All right. I’ll come over after lunch.”
“Can you make it about one o’clock? I’m going to Fred’s funeral at eleven-thirty this morning.”
“That is this morning, isn’t it? I sent flowers. I know I should probably go, but Jason and I are taking the children to early church and—”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Nobody said you have to go.” I bit the biscotti. It really was good.
“I know. I just . . . . Well, you’re going.”
“I was there when he died, remember?”
“Oh. Yeah. Oh.”
“So, let’s hang up so I can enjoy my breakfast, and I’ll look forward to seeing you at around one o’clock.”
“Gotcha. Love you. Bye.”
And with that, she was
gone. That’s one thing about Violet. Absolve her guilt or feelings of impropriety, and she’ll happily go along with whatever you say. It’s probably a good thing she’s not Catholic.
*
I arrived at the church at a quarter past eleven. It was already packed. I was somewhat surprised that Uncle Hal and Aunt Nancy had driven all the way from Roanoke to be here. Then I remembered that Uncle Hal and Walt Duncan, Fred’s grandfather, were hunting buddies and had been for as long as I could remember.
I squeezed into the pew beside my bear of an uncle and kissed him on the cheek.
He smiled. “Hey, there, girl.” His white hair and bright blue eyes reminded me so much of Dad.
Aunt Nancy, lean and elegant in her brown tweed suit, leaned across Uncle Hal to pat my hand. “Hi, sweetie. Nice of you to be here.”
I smiled slightly, thinking that even though I’m forty, older relatives still treat me as if I’m in high school. It was like, “Hey, look at Daphne. She did the mature thing by coming to a funeral. What a good girl.” I decided not to let it bother me and instead be grateful someone still thought of me as being young.
I scanned the rows of pews. I saw Connie, Fran, Carol and Mr. Duncan sitting on the front pew, along with a few other people I didn’t know. Juanita was a couple rows in front of me with a couple other people I recognized from the Save-A-Buck. I saw China York and Myra come in together and sit near the back. There was no sign of Ben, though. Maybe something had happened at work, and he wasn’t going to be able to come after all.
Members of the church choir began singing “Standing On the Promises.” Fran turned, scanned the crowd and smiled briefly when she spotted me. She turned back around to face the choir.
I nudged Uncle Hal and whispered an invitation for him and Aunt Nancy to come back to my house for lunch after the funeral.
He thanked me but said he and Aunt Nancy had “filled up at a Cracker Barrel at about ten-thirty.” He promised they’d be back to see me soon.
I understood. Uncle Hal didn’t like to linger after emotional events.
In one way—the literal passing of time—the funeral seemed to be mercifully short. In another way—watching Fred’s family and friends weep into tissues and handkerchiefs—the service seemed to last for hours. Upon concluding the funeral, the preacher invited the congregation to join the family at the Brea Ridge Mausoleum for interment.
The pall bearers solemnly stood and took their places around the casket. They slowly carried Fred down the aisle and out the front doors. The family followed.
I wanted desperately to go home. I was obligated to speak with Carol about having Fran help me with Belinda’s party, but this was neither the time nor the place. I’d leave Carol a phone message after I got home.
Uncle Hal, Aunt Nancy and I walked to the vestibule. I hugged them goodbye and extracted another promise they’d come to visit me soon.
Ben was standing to the right of the double doors looking angry. I concluded this wasn’t the ideal time to introduce him to my aunt and uncle, so I waited until they’d gone on to the parking lot before approaching Ben.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. I knew it was a stupid question, but I didn’t want him to realize what bad vibes he was sending out.
“Your friend Cara Logan got here about the same time I did,” he said. “I didn’t even make it into the sanctuary because I was out here preventing her from taking photos of the casket and the grieving mother.”
I merely stood there gaping.
“She finally left when I called 9-1-1. Threats weren’t enough for her. I actually had to make the call.”
I was still speechless. Ben placed his hand at the small of my back and escorted me to the parking lot.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” I said at last. “I had no idea Cara could be that heartless.”
“Well, she can.”
“I wonder if Dr. Holloway has seen that side of her?”
“Who knows? Who cares? I just want to put this whole fiasco out of my mind.” He shook his head as if he were truly shaking the thought from his mind. “Pick you up at five o’clock?”
I smiled. “That’ll be great. Thank you.”
He kissed my cheek and strode toward his white Jeep. I could tell by his walk that he hadn’t fully succeeded in putting Cara’s callous behavior out of his mind.
I got in the Mini Cooper and cranked the heat. That rain was cold. It made me think of Sparrow and how much I needed to convince her to trust me and come inside the house.
*
As soon as I got home, I called and left a message on Fran and Carol’s answering machine. “Good afternoon, Carol. This is Daphne Martin. I realize this isn’t a good time, but I’ve been hired to cater a party for Belinda Fremont. If Fran is willing to learn, and if you’re willing to grant her permission, I’d love to have her help. It would be a sort of paid apprenticeship. If Fran is interested, please let me know.”
I hung up the phone and went to the bedroom to change clothes. It was a jeans, sweatshirt and wooly socks kind of day . . . until four o’clock anyway. I padded back into the kitchen and popped a couple slices of bread into the toaster. I got a salad plate, the orange marmalade and a knife and then stood in front of the toaster waiting for the toast to get done. And, yes, I sometimes think the microwave takes too long also.
After several seconds—or probably minutes even—the toast was done. I spread marmalade on each slice and sat down at the kitchen table to eat.
What nerve Cara had, coming to the funeral and attempting to get photos of Fred’s mother.
The thought stopped me immediately. I dropped my toast back onto the plate and grabbed the phone.
“Ben,” I said when he answered the phone, “what about the mausoleum? Do you think Cara went there to get her photographs?”
“More than likely. But I’d already let Officer McAfee know what was going on, and he was keeping an eye on her.”
I expelled a breath. “Thank goodness. I’m so glad you’d already thought of that.”
“I was way ahead of you on that one.”
We said our goodbyes. I was just finishing my toast when Violet came to the door.
She gave a perfunctory tap before coming on in. “Hi. What’s up?”
“Cleaning up my lunch mess,” I said, putting my plate in the dishwasher.
“Hmm. I wish meal cleanup was that easy for me.”
“Would you like some toast and marmalade?”
“No, thanks. We stopped for lunch on the way home from church.” She looked down at my feet and giggled. “Love your socks. Leslie would say you have Who feet . . . you know, the Who’s from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas?”
I wriggled my toes. “You can call me Cindy Lou. Come take a look at this guitar game.”
Violet followed me into the living room. I opened the armoire that housed my television and turned on the game. While waiting for it to boot up, I took the guitar controllers out of the coat closet.
“Are you ready to rock?” I asked, handing Violet a guitar.
“I guess so.”
I rolled my eyes. “Myra was much more enthusiastic than you, and she’s nearly twice your age. Get with the program.”
“All right, all right. Show me what to do.”
I started the tutorial for her, but she remained blasé.
“Okay,” I said. “You’re ready for a song.” I turned on the dual controls and brought up my alter-ego Jessie.
“She’s a little trashy, isn’t she?” Violet asked.
“A little,” I admitted, “but the kids probably see people like her—even on cartoons—all the time on TV and the media. I mean, have you seen the Justice League’s latest incarnation of Wonder Woman? Even Linda Carter never looked that good.”
“I guess you’ve got a point.”
I scrolled to Myra’s character, Lizzie Bourdain. “This is Myra’s gal.”
“She looks downright scary.” Violet tried to appear stern, but burst into giggles.<
br />
“Come on,” I said. “Pick a character, and let’s get started. I won’t try to influence you either way. You can make up your own mind about whether or not the game is appropriate for Lucas and Leslie.”
“Deal.”
She chose a character who reminded me of Japanese animé. The woman was dressed in an outlandish purple outfit; but unlike most of the other female characters, her body was completely covered from neck to toe. She even had fuchsia elbow-length gloves. Her hair was long and pink with streaks of white. Her name? Sumi.
I put the game in beginner mode—Myra and I had already progressed to “medium”—and started the song, “I Love Rock-N-Roll.” Sumi and Jessie began to play.
Violet was hesitant at first, but then she began to hit her stride. By the time the song had ended, she was ready to play it again.
“I think I can do better this time,” she said. “Hit ‘replay’ or whatever you do to start it back.”
“Same song?” I asked.
“Of course. We want to be able to do this one well before we move on to the next one.”
And so we played “I Love Rock-N-Roll” five times. By the fourth run-through, Violet had us not only playing the song but singing it as well.
After the fifth rendition, Violet looked at the clock and gasped. It was three-thirty.
“I should’ve been back at home an hour ago,” she said.
“What’s your verdict of the game?”
“Even though the lyrics to some of the songs may be a bit questionable, Jason and I have instilled strong values in Lucas and Leslie. They know right from wrong. I believe they’ll have fun with this game.” She grinned. “As a matter of fact, I think we all will.”
*
For my date with Ben, I wore a red jersey wrap dress and black velvet heels. I pulled my hair back from my face and secured it with a silver clip. I wore silver hoop earrings to match the hair clip.
When Ben came to pick me up, he handed me a manila envelope. “Copies of the articles you wanted.”
As I started to open the envelope, Ben took it back and placed it on the counter. “Later,” he said. “I’ve got reservations.”
I frowned. “Since when does Dakota’s require reservations?”
