Brooke was about to argue, but Lucy placed a hand on her shoulder and cut her off with a “Fine, big brother. It’ll be your call.”
Twenty minutes later Brooke looked into the mirror over the sink in the tiny bathroom. A stranger stared back at her. “You made me…” Her voice sounded different. Lower, more sensual.
Lucy stood behind her, looking into the mirror as well. “I was going for sultry.”
She’d nailed it, the transformation astounding.
“Good genetics made you girl-next-door pretty,” Lucy said. “By pulling your hair away from your face and into a French braid, I took the focus off of your dark, wavy, envy-inducing curls, which played a prominent focal point in your picture.” She’d styled it down her back rather than over her left shoulder like Brooke typically wore it.
“I intensified your eyes and added drama with a classic smoky eye and dark black lengthening mascara, which is waterproof, by the way, so you should make it through the service without a problem.”
“You made me…beautiful,” Brooke managed to finish, unable to look away from her reflection.
“I made you more beautiful,” Lucy said, collecting the eyeliner, shadows, and mascara she’d used, placing them in a small plastic bag. “I don’t have time to teach you now, but take these. There are tons of tutorials online. Just search for ‘smoky eye’ and you’ll be able to re-create this look on your own. I threw in a few makeup remover pads for later.” Lucy placed her hands on her hips and smiled, obviously pleased with her work. “My brother is going to flip when he sees you.”
“Thank you.” Brooke gave Lucy a hug. When she went to let go, Lucy held on. “We got off to a bad start. I’m sorry I called the police.”
If Brooke had walked in and seen what Lucy had, and then Charlotte had screamed out a command, she’d have likely made the call, too. “I understand why you did it.”
Lucy stepped back. “Thank you for that, and for being so good for my brother. It’s like he’s come back to life since you’ve come here.”
Hearing that made up for all the bad that’d happened on Friday night.
A loud, quick knock at the door made them both jump. “Let’s go, girls,” Patsy yelled. “It’s going to be a madhouse. If we don’t leave now we’ll have to park miles away.”
Brooke walked out first, down the hall, to the open area by the entryway, outside the kitchen. She stopped short at the sight of Shane in his green army service uniform. She’d researched them online, trying to imagine….Nothing could have prepared her for how prestigious, how honorable, and how respectable he looked. His blazer fit perfectly. His shoes shined. His hair neatly combed; his handsome face cleanly shaved.
He was absolutely the most impressive, most attractive and desirable man she’d ever seen.
Charlotte’s voice interrupted her admiration. “They don’t look like they’re breathing.”
“You like?” Lucy asked proudly.
Brooke tilted her head up to see Shane staring at her, looking as dumbfounded as she’d felt looking at him.
Patsy marched in through the door. “Everyone into the car.”
Shane told his mom, “Brooke and I will go in my Jeep.”
Yes!
“Nonsense. Daddy will drop us off in front of the church. If we squeeze—”
“We’re taking my Jeep,” Shane said again, more firmly this time, never taking his eye off Brooke.
“Fine,” Patsy said in a huff. Outside on the porch Brooke overheard her say, “You did a fabulous job, Lucy. No one will ever recognize her.”
Brooke stared back at Shane, neither of them moving or speaking. Until the door closed behind his family and they were alone.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “About last night. I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk about your dream. And you were right. I know nothing about dream analysis. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
Shane placed his hand gently on her cheek. “I’m sorry I wasn’t fit to be around polite company. You look extraordinarily gorgeous, a mysterious beauty.” He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “You have no idea how much I want to drag you up to my room and spend the rest of the morning making love to you.”
“We can’t.” But, oh, how she wanted to.
They drove to the church in silence, the hand Shane used to hold hers unusually cool, his posture tense. Brooke decided it best not to fill the quiet with unnecessary chatter.
Within a few minutes they were in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Crowds of nicely dressed men, women, and children weaved through the slow-moving cars. A group of men dressed in black leather motorcycle attire lined the road up ahead, holding American flags.
They inched up slowly.
The church was a modern tan brick building and much larger than she’d expected, considering it sat in the middle of a residential neighborhood. Shane put on his signal to turn into the parking lot to the right only to be stopped by a police officer, who walked over to his window. Shane rolled it down.
“Only a few spots left. You need to be on this list to get one,” the police officer said holding up a clipboard.
“Name’s Shane Develen.”
“Whoa, Shane, it’s me, Kenny.” A big smile replaced the police officer’s scowl. “Wow, man, I didn’t recognize you.”
Because he’d lost an eye and had on thick glasses? What a horrible thing to say.
Apparently Kenny wasn’t done. “I heard you made it home in one piece.”
“Luckier than some” was all Shane said in reply, eyeing the road in front of him.
“Right.” Kenny’s expression sobered. “Sorry about Tommy. He was a good guy.” Kenny looked at his clipboard. “Here you are.” He checked something off. “Let me move the barrier.” He looked relieved to walk away.
Shane found a spot toward the back of the huge lot. After he parked he made no move to get out of the Jeep. So Brooke sat there, too, following his lead, watching the clock, waiting…until she couldn’t take it anymore. “The service starts in five minutes.”
“I’d prefer to wait until most everybody’s found their seats.”
Okay.
“I’m not a big fan of crowds lately.”
Got it.
Ten minutes later he opened his door. Once again, Brooke followed his lead, opening hers and joining him while he stood beside his Jeep, getting himself ready for the walk. “You look very handsome in your uniform.”
“Thank you.” He showed no emotion when he spoke or when he took her hand and started to walk toward the entrance. But the closer they got, the tighter his grip. Lots of people milled around outside the church. Shane shouldered his way through, stiffly and quietly. Brooke followed behind him.
The priest had already started the service as they walked down the wide center aisle lined with wooden pews. To the right and left were two more aisles on the diagonal, with more wooden pews on the far side of each. Mourners occupied every available space, even lining the walls at the back and along the sides of the cavernous room.
Luckily, Patsy had saved them seats in the second pew, middle right, and she and the rest of his family slid over to make room, leaving space on the aisle for Shane.
Brooke half-listened as the service dragged on. She stood when people stood, kneeled when they kneeled, and sat when they sat. When Shane’s right leg started to bounce in a nervous jiggle, she touched her leg to his. When his right hand started to tap out a rapid beat on his thigh, she covered it with her own, offering her support, doing what little she could. All the while she studied the poster-sized picture of Tommy, a formal portrait of him in his army dress uniform that sat on an easel front and center on the pulpit.
So young and handsome.
She wondered about his family, if he’d had a girlfriend, and what he’d be doing with his life had he not entered the military. Had he not died so heartbreakingly young.
Shane shifted beside her and stood up.
He approached the pulpit, taking the st
airs slowly, to a dull murmur of whispers and hushed voices. Likely most people were seeing him for the first time since his injuries.
Shane shook the priest’s hand then turned to face the audience, looking so handsome and dignified, making her proud to be “Shane’s girl,” even though she wasn’t, at least not in his mind.
“Since I have everyone’s attention,” he started. “I think now’s a good time to come clean about the mystery of Miss Bomont’s, now Mrs. Tinker’s”—he eyed someone to his right—“disappearing garden gnome and admit that…Tommy did it.”
A rumble of laughter flowed through the crowd.
Patsy leaned over, blotting her eyes with a tissue. “Back in high school, whenever Shane got into trouble he blamed Tommy. And whenever Tommy got into trouble he blamed Shane.”
Lucy leaned over Patsy. “And they both used to get into trouble a lot. It became a town joke.”
Shane went on. “I’m not saying Tommy did it alone, mind you, because that thing was a lot heavier than it looked.” More people laughed. “But it was his idea. Really.”
It felt like the mood in the chapel had lifted.
“For those of you who aren’t familiar with the mystery,” he glanced at Brooke. “Miss Bomont’s garden gnome had a way of disappearing from her yard and winding up in Mr. Tinker’s yard across town.” He eyed someone to his right again. “Sir, I commend you for getting it back to her on your own each time. You must be a lot stronger than you look.”
After more laughter, Shane said, “You see, Tommy decided that if Mr. Tinker had a girlfriend, maybe he wouldn’t such an…such a hard grader. And who better to soften him up than Miss Bomont, the nicest teacher in the high school?” He looked to his right a third time. “Belated congratulations on your marriage, by the way.”
Shane scanned the attendees. “But those of you who knew Tommy know he had a temper.” People nodded and voiced their agreement. “Which is the reason why the garden gnome went missing one rainy June night, never to be seen again.”
A male voice called out, “What happened to it?”
Shane answered, “Tommy got a little upset about having to spend the summer after his junior year in summer school doing trigonometry…with Mr. Tinker. Later, he felt a little bad about what he’d done, especially when he saw those ads in the paper, telling the love story behind the gnome and offering a reward for its return. But by then it was too late.” He shook his head sadly.
A female voice called out, “Where is it?”
Shane hesitated, as if thinking about whether to answer. Then he leaned in, as if sharing a secret with several hundred of his closest friends, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “It’s sleeping with the fishes. That is, if there are any fishes at the bottom of the Passaic River. Now, I don’t know this because I drove the boat or anything.” He stopped, looked up as if sharing a mental exchange with God, then admitted, “Okay, I drove the boat, but only to protect everyone out on the river. Trust me, in the mood he was in, Tommy didn’t belong behind the wheel that day.”
Shane looked down at the podium. “Tommy and I had some good times over the years.” He looked up. “He was my best friend, my brother, in every way that mattered. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Shane glanced at Tommy’s picture.
“The first time we talked about dying was the night before we headed out for our first deployment over to Iraq.”
They couldn’t have been much more than eighteen years old. While Brooke and her friends had been preparing to head off to college, dreaming of their bright, promising futures, their whole lives ahead of them, Shane and Tommy had been preparing to head off to war and thinking about dying. Another reminder of how different their lives were.
“We talked about it a couple of more times over the years, most recently a few months ago.” Shane shifted his weight in a move Brooke had come to recognize as a sign he was in pain. “Tommy didn’t want people sitting around all sad, mourning his death. He wanted a party to celebrate his life.”
A man called out, “That’s what we’ll be doing at Sal’s Place later on.”
The crown rumbled with agreement, a few cheers mixed in.
All the funerals and memorial services Brooke had attended to date—granted, there weren’t many—had been staid, somber affairs. Nothing like Tommy’s, which, while respectful and still highly emotional, felt more real, like a family gathering together in grief, supporting one another, trying to add a little humor to ease the sadness.
“Mrs. G.,” Shane said, looking at a red-haired woman in the row in front of Brooke.
Patsy whispered, “That’s Tommy’s mother.”
Shane went on, “Tommy felt bad about never finding time to fix all the stuff around the house that needed fixing the last time he was home on leave. But he couldn’t stand to be away from Molly.” He looked out into the crowd. “Maybe we could get a couple of guys together to take care of that?”
From the response, no doubt Mrs. G.’s house would be in tip-top condition in no time.
“He loved you very much,” Shane said. “And often mentioned he wished he were a better son.”
“He was the best son,” Tommy’s mother said, clutching a pack of tissues to her chest.
Shane shifted his gaze to a young man who looked to be in his very early twenties sitting next to Tommy’s mom. “You’re the man of the house now, Nick. If Tommy were here he’d tell you to stop screwing around and do something with your life—make it matter. Value your life; you’re lucky to have it. Make your mother proud—make yourself proud. You know Tommy. He’ll be watching.”
Nick, shoulders hunched, looking down at his lap, nodded as his mother rubbed his back.
“Molly,” Shane said, turning slightly to look at a very pretty brunette sitting on the other side of Mrs. G.
Patsy whispered, “That’s Tommy’s girl.”
“Tommy loved you, too,” Shane said. “But he was adamant. If he didn’t make it back, he wanted you to move on with your life. He specifically told me to tell you he hopes you’ll never forget him—”
“I won’t,” Molly said.
“But he didn’t want you loving his memory. He wanted you to have a full life and to be happy.” Shane shifted his gaze to the dark-haired man sitting with his arm around Molly’s shoulders. “Barry, Tommy said you’d better give her next guy as hard a time as you gave him, because Molly deserves the best.”
“You know I will,” Barry said, tightening the arm he had resting on Molly’s shoulders.
Patsy said, “Barry is Molly’s brother.”
Shane looked down at the podium again, as if trying to collect himself. After a few seconds he looked up. “I have lost a lot of friends to this war. Good men and women who didn’t deserve to die. But losing Tommy…” He took a deep breath and let it out, then started again. “Losing Tommy…” He looked back down at the podium, shaking his head, squeezing the edge with his right hand as he drew in a shuddering breath. No one spoke. No one moved.
Brooke wanted to run up and hug him, comfort him, and somehow divert the attention off of him.
The seconds ticked by in uncomfortable silence until Robbie, dressed in a nice dark gray suit, approached the pulpit. Once he reached Shane, he put his arm around his shoulders, leaned into the microphone, and said, “Tommy’s physical form may be gone, but we’ll never completely lose him as long as we remember him.” He called out, “Bring ’em in, boys.”
While most people turned around to see who Robbie spoke to, Brooke watched Shane sneak a tissue from his pocket to wipe his eye and then his nose.
A bunch of men walked in carrying cases of Budweiser. “Bring me one,” Robbie said. A man handed him a brown beer bottle that had a black ribbon tied around the neck with a gold-colored medallion hanging from it.
Robbie held up the bottle and said, “Thanks to Sassy and her Sewing Seniors, who agreed to put down their sewing needles and pick up some glue guns, we have a memento for everyone of legal drinking age. If
you’d sit tight a minute while the boys hand them out.”
Brooke got her bottle and couldn’t help but smile. Right there in the center of the gold medallion was a round picture of Tommy, grinning, holding up an identical beer in a toast.
When all the beer bottles had been distributed, Shane cleared his throat into the microphone. After the crowd settled, he said, “Tommy’s biggest fear was dying and being forgotten, as if he’d never lived.”
Robbie leaned in and added, “So Shane and I came up with an idea for all of you to remember him. An idea we’re sure Tommy would have approved of.”
“Drink it. Don’t drink it. It’s up to you,” Shane said. “But every now and then, take it out and have a beer with Tommy, remember the good times, let him know he hasn’t been forgotten. Tommy wasn’t a hero because he got killed in combat. Tommy was a hero because of how he chose to live his life. So let’s celebrate that life.” He thrust his hand holding his beer bottle into the air. “To Tommy!”
The crowd thrust their beer bottles into the air and yelled, “To Tommy!”
The priest joined Shane and Robbie at the podium and shook both of their hands. Robbie came down the steps and returned to his seat. Shane followed, but, eye focused straight ahead, he passed their pew and kept right on walking.
Brooke turned in her seat to watch him.
The priest started to speak.
Shane reached the door and a man opened it for him.
He was leaving, going God only knew where. Alone. Hurting.
Thinking only that she had to get to him, without a care for good manners or proper church etiquette or her promise not to embarrass him, Brooke slid from her pew, hurried down the center aisle—head down to avoid the hundreds of eyes watching her—and exited the church a minute or so behind him, praying she could still catch him.
Chapter Twenty
With the cheer of “To Tommy!” still ringing in his ears, Shane limped down the aisle, barely holding it together. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Focus on the door. Breathe. Get to the Jeep. Get the hell away from the pitying looks and the head shakes that seem to say, “What a waste. He used to be a strong, decent-looking guy.”
Loving You Is Easy Page 20
