by G. F. Frost
Father Patrick gently laid her on the parlor sofa and covered her. As he stood to walk away, Massey reached for his hand. Dark earth from Marie’s grave covered both of their hands. Massey pulled his hand to her face and laid her cheek on it. Father Patrick laid his hand on her head and smiled. She glanced up into his eyes and at that very moment realized what was in his heart. She smiled back.
Theo walked into the parlor with a bottle of wine and glasses. As Massey sat up, he poured her a glass. Father Patrick pushed his glass towards Theo and nodded as his was filled. The three sat silent in the room together drinking their wine. They all knew that there was no need to speak of any of it. There was nothing left to say.
After the bottle of wine was empty, Father Patrick went to the washroom to clean up, and Theo sat beside Massey on the sofa. He placed his arm firmly around her back and pulled her to him as he looked over at the picture of Marie and Joseph. Massey laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. His broad, safe shoulders were just what she always needed. She knew the same kind of love Marie had known. Theo kissed her head as he squeezed her closer to him. She knew just what he was trying to say, and she felt the same.
By the time Father Patrick came back into the parlor, Massey had fallen asleep on Theo’s shoulder. Father Patrick looked at Theo, secretly wishing it were him. He smiled, and as he pulled his jacket on, he reached for Theo’s hand. Theo stood up and laid Massey’s head on the sofa pillow. He turned to Father Patrick and reached his hand out to the priest.
“Maybe her dreams will be nice ones from now on,” Father Patrick said.
“I think they will, Padre,” Theo replied.
“Don’t forget that I expect to see you at the Christmas Cantata,” Father Patrick stated.
“I guess I owe you that one and so does Massey.” Theo smiled.
“She doesn’t owe me a thing.” Father Patrick looked down at Massey sleeping.
Theo nodded as he looked into the priest’s eyes. He closely followed Father Patrick through the foyer and outside onto the veranda. They walked into the yard, and Theo watched as Father Patrick strolled slowly to his car. He turned to wave to Theo as he opened the car door.
The priest couldn’t resist glancing toward the cemetery as he pulled the door closed. Driving away, he looked at the mound of dirt that covered Marie’s grave. His eyes moved to his mirror, hoping to see Massey standing at the front door one last time. Instead, he saw Lovesong House shining in the morning light as if it were showing itself to him for the first time. It looked serene and prominent, just the way an old plantation home should. He saw Theo enter the house and close the door. He thought of Massey and smiled.
“The life of a priest,” he said to himself as he drove away.
* * * *
The days and weeks that followed were happy ones. There were no sounds from the attic, no lights in the cemetery, no singing, and no dreams. Lovesong House was shining with Christmas lights and ribbons and garlands. The tree was up and presents wrapped, and Sadie was on her way for the holidays. Family, friends from town, Father Patrick and Mrs. Purdue and children were all making plans to attend the Lovesong House Christmas party.
Massey and Theo had profited well from an auction of some of the jewelry and put the rest aside for Sadie’s inheritance. All was calm and peaceful and happy. After all they had endured, the house had brought them unexpected wealth and even more valuable, a deeper respect and love for one another. The picture of Joseph and Marie still stood on the parlor mantel alongside Marie’s diary, but they’d packed the mirror and the baby crib in crates and stored them in a building far away in New Orleans. Lovesong House belonged to them now.
The morning before the Christmas gathering, Massey stepped out onto the back veranda with an armful of potted poinsettias. She walked to the small cemetery with Jenkins fast on her heels. She placed the flowers beside each headstone twisting the bottoms to level them, and as she placed the one on Marie’s grave, she felt a warm sensation sweep just across her cheek. Massey stopped and placed her hand on her face, she wondered if Marie was giving her a little kiss. She smiled and reached to pat Jenkins’ furry head. She looked down at the grave and then turned to look at Lovesong House.
“Come on monster dog, I’m hungry. Let’s go back inside the house, Sadie and Dad will be home soon.”
“Home,” she repeated as she touched her cheek once more.
About the Author:
Originally from Louisiana, G.F. Frost now lives with her husband and golden retriever in Texas.
She spends most of her time writing, reading and cooking. She studied literature and library science in college. She has spent most of her life reading books ranging from the classic works to modern mysteries or horror, and her passion for storytelling is only exceeded by her passion for studying all things paranormal.
G.F. recently enjoyed participating in a ghost investigation with a well-known British investigator of haunted places while living in England. She thoroughly enjoys cooking and spending time with her family and friends in Louisiana and Texas. She has always considered herself a lost soul searching for more lost souls, and in order to find them, she must sometimes make them up and write about them. As often as possible, she tries to give these lost souls a voice.
You can learn more about G.F. by visiting her website:
http://www.spiritofthesouth.net
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