But had Sam come? No. Had he longed for her? No. Men like Sam Gold didn’t long for much. Emma knew that from experience, with Sam and since. But still, had he thought of her? In those moments when he least expected it, did her image pop into his mind? Did he long for the shy girl who had been nearly shaking with fear when she’d slipped out of the house and climbed into his pickup for their flight to a justice of the peace that cold spring night?
Unfortunately the justice of the peace had been out of town.
A service station attendant informed them when Sam asked for directions to his house; the same service station attendant who informed Lully and Sam’s mother where the young couple found a room for the night.
Oh, it seemed so romantic, Sam holding her hand while driving to the motel.
“It’ll be all right,” he’d said. “We’ll just sleep. I’ll sleep in a chair. Tomorrow we’ll leave and by noon we’ll be married.”
But by noon Emma was back home crying in her room, and Sam was nowhere to be found. She guessed the ole devil had a good laugh at their expense that night. And it seemed he’d been laughing ever since, because she’d never found anyone she’d felt the same about again.
Emma crawled back between the cold sheets and closed her eyes tightly.
“You might not have thought of me in fifteen years, Sam Gold,” she whispered. She wiggled her toes, inching them lower beneath the blankets. “But I’ll bet you’re thinking of me tonight.”
Chapter Four
Emma stared at the woodstove, a cup of coffee in hand, debating whether to attempt to start a fire. She had forgotten the dying art, and it seemed an intimidating task, but the house was too cold to ignore the stove any longer. Contemplating the iron monster, she bit her upper lip, trying to remember how to begin. Building the fire had been Lully’s responsibility, so Emma hadn’t bothered to pay attention to the mechanics of it, and she was fairly certain there were some.
She jumped when the phone rang. A glance at her watch told her it was not quite 7:00 A.M. She picked up the receiver.
“Make it through the night without clanking chains and images in the hallway?”
She might have known Sam would call. It had nothing to do with her personally; it was his job now. Still, the sound of his voice made her want to soften hers and ask … what? How are you? What are you doing? Where have you been for the last fifteen years?
“What time do you go to work?” Emma yawned.
“Before you get up.”
“Well, smell you.” Early morning was not her thing. Her brain didn’t function until nine o’clock.
She sensed a grin in his voice before his tone sobered. “Are you going to the funeral home this morning?”
“Yes.” What a rotten way to start a day.
“Need some moral support—”
“No,” she interrupted. “Not from you.”
“I was offering Ken.”
“Oh.”
There was an obvious hesitation on the other end of the line. She knew she was being unfair, but the bitterness she thought she’d long misplaced came back to haunt her.
“Well, it’s here if you change your mind.” He hung up.
She hung up. You weren’t there for me fifteen years ago, so why would I need you now?
But then neither was Ken.
Leaving the fire for later, she went upstairs and turned on the small gas heater in the bathroom. By nine-thirty she was bathed and dressed and standing in Mr. Willow’s strange-smelling office in the funeral home. What was that odor? Flowers? Death? Sorrow?
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Mr. Willow said, indicating that she take the chair opposite the desk.
“Thank you.”
He sat across from her, his demeanor clearly offering comfort. She didn’t need sympathy. She needed to get this over quickly.
“Have you thought what you’d like in the way of a casket? We have some lovely—”
“That won’t be necessary.” She drew a deep breath and nearly choked on the scent of lilies. “Lully wanted to be cremated and a small, graveside service.” Was that her voice that sounded so strident and cold? There was no point in having a funeral. Few people would come. Sam probably, out of some misplaced sense of duty, and maybe Myline, for the same reason. “We all return to dust anyway,” Lully had said once. “It’s the Lord’s plan.”
“Of course,” Mr. Willow said. “There are forms and the choice of a resting place.”
Emma was drained by the time the paperwork was completed. Mr. Willow said that he would call when Emma could claim the remains. Emma wasn’t sure when all remnants of Lully, except for a pitiful handful of ashes, would be erased from the earth. She was glad she didn’t know. She couldn’t have stood to think about it.
She walked to the car with a sense of dread and relief. She wanted to hide from curious eyes, but she couldn’t. Instead, she lifted her chin and walked faster, unaware of how close she was to tears. A brisk wind had sprung up and she pulled her coat closer. She studied the sky, catching her breath, knowing that it was bound to get colder, and she shivered. She would not cry. She would not.
Emma’s prediction proved accurate. By the time graveside services were conducted, Emma chose Momma’s grave in the old cemetery in back of the house to sprinkle Lully’s remains. A small group of mourners—more than Emma would have imagined would be interested—came. Sam positioned himself thirty feet behind Emma, far enough, she knew, not to be intrusive, but close enough to make his presence known.
The urn Emma had chosen was encased in a gray metal box. A spray of gardenias and roses lay across the top. The scene seemed surreal; Emma was going to awaken any moment and give Lully that long overdue phone call. Lully was supposed to be alive, eager to forgive her. Instead, the ashes of her too-young-to-die sister now rested in a small gray metal box on an incredibly cold, overcast day.
A pastor, one Emma had never met, stood under the bare branches of a spreading oak and spoke of Lully and of how no one could ever understand why someone so young could be taken. Trust in God’s will. Faith in eternity. Assurances punctuated by the snapping of the overhead canvas. Emma wondered if the pastor ever met Lully? Was he new to Serenity? The woman he was extolling as a “beloved member of the community” and “a lovely and upstanding young woman with many gifts” didn’t sound like her sister. No. He quite obviously hadn’t heard the lies and hateful remarks, the taunts that had plagued Lully all her life.
Funny how lies had a way of gaining validation when repeated often enough. She hadn’t understood that until years later. Or the mean-spirited teenagers who had thrown rocks through the front window, rang the doorbell and then disappeared. Where were they today? Thinking up more mischief or enjoying warm homes with loving families?
Once, she and Lully had gone to the door to discover a cross on the porch. The cross itself was beautiful. A twelve-inch creation made of cut glass that sparkled in the porch light. Emma was struck immediately by its delicate craftsmanship and eagerly picked it up, but Lully snatched it away in anger and flung it off the porch as if it were venomous. Though she’d heard it shatter, Emma tried to rescue the cross, but Lully dragged her back inside the house.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Emma whirled on her sister. “Why did you do that? Someone brought us a present!”
Lully’s eyes had flashed bitter resentment. “It wasn’t a present, Emma!”
“It was! It was too beautiful to be anything else!” She faced her sister defiantly. “God will be mad at you, Lully. Really mad!”
“That cross didn’t mean what you think, Emma.”
Defeat slowly replaced anger in her sister’s face. Lully drew a protesting Emma into her arms and held her.
“What do you mean it doesn’t mean what I think?” Emma snuffled.
“Whoever put that cross on the porch didn’t mean it as a symbol of grace and salvation, like the cross on which Jesus died. They meant it … they meant it in a mean way.”
&nb
sp; Emma figured it; putting something beautiful on their porch was meant as a talisman to drive away a curse. That was cruel and mean. Emma wiped her nose and face, thinking about what Lully said. The cross was bad. The pretty glass cross was meant to hurt, not bring happiness. “They’re being mean, aren’t they?” she said, her tone flat.
“They are, sweetie. Folks can be hateful sometimes.”
Then Lully held Emma at arm’s length to search her face. “You know the stories about me aren’t true, don’t you? You know I’m not bad or any of those things ignorant people have said, don’t you?”
Emma nodded little by little.
Lully combed her fingers through Emma’s tangled hair. “I’m sorry you have to hear those ugly things. I’m sorry Momma is dead and Daddy has gone away. I’m sorry I’m sixteen and I don’t know how to be a mother to you. I try. I promise to try harder, Emma. I’m going to do my best. We’re all we have—each other—and we have to believe in ourselves because … because nobody else ever will,” she’d ended in a whisper.
That had been at Christmas, and it was one of the best Christmases she and Lully ever celebrated. Lully baked her first turkey, a small one that was a bit overdone, and they’d made stuffing … though it turned out dry and way too much sage. But they’d set the dining-room table with the best china and crystal goblets, the real silverware, the red-linen napkins Emma hated to iron. Emma broke the gravy boat when they were washing the dishes and cried because it had been Momma’s. Lully dried her tears and told her it didn’t matter; it was only a dish. Momma would be in their hearts forever.
“I don’t know what forever is,” Emma sobbed.
“More time than we can imagine. Everlasting,” Lully had whispered, “Tootsie Pop.”
Emma’s attention returned to the minister’s soft words. She hadn’t thought about that Christmas for years. Thinking of it now brought a knot to her throat. How Lully had tried to make their lives better. She’d read the Bible aloud every night. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Lully found comfort in Scripture. Emma listened because Lully insisted.
Touching a shredded tissue to her eyes, Emma focused on the remainder of the brief service. Lully was gone. Emma knew that, understood that. And she wanted so hard to believe that Lully was in a better place. A place where there were no accusations, no cutting words, no hateful gossip, and no judgmental people. No pain. No tears. And the only cross there was the one that represented grace and mercy.
“Let us pray,” the minister said.
Those huddled against the wind bowed their heads. The minister prayed for Lully’s soul and petitioned the Lord to forgive sins. Then it was over.
The preacher’s ears were red from the cold, his fingers like ice when they took her hand. She felt a force cup her right elbow, and she was only vaguely aware that Sam was leading her away from the site. Two bouquets, her gardenia spray and a bouquet of carnations from Sam and his brother, Ken, marked her sister’s remains.
Someone pressed a plant into her hands. “Honey, I want you to have this,” a gray-haired woman said. “It’ll just die out here.”
“Thank you,” Emma managed, accepting the plant.
“That’s Elizabeth Suitor,” Sam murmured near her ear. “She owns the bookstore, Elizabeth’s Corner. Lully ordered books from her.”
Emma nodded, not trusting her voice at the moment. She stumbled on the uneven ground, but Sam’s grip kept her from falling. She’d forgotten to pack dress shoes, so she was wearing a pair of Lully’s, which were a half size too small and pinched her toes.
“The coroner’s report came back.”
“And?” Emma swallowed, bracing herself.
“Lully’s heart was weak. Apparently it was congenital, and she had known for a long time that her life would be cut short.”
A sob caught in Emma’s throat. Heart? Did the disease run in the family? Did she need to be examined for the same gene?
Sam read her thoughts. “Doc Radisson said to stop by his office before you leave, and he’ll run some tests.”
“I have my own physician, thank you.” She’d had a yearly physical six months earlier and everything was normal—for now.
When they reached her car, Sam opened the door for her.
“Thank you.” She couldn’t look at him.
She slid behind the wheel, set the plant on the passenger seat, and fumbled for the ignition. She could have walked the short distance to the house but Lully’s shoes were killing her, and she didn’t want to traipse through the cemetery, knowing all eyes would be on her. The engine caught and she flipped the heater on high. Sam continued to hold the door, but she refused to meet his gaze. Her emotions weren’t exactly granite, and she’d be either crazy or just plain sadistic to open herself to further distress by looking at him. She’d lost her only family, and she hadn’t yet come to terms with that.
Blood is thicker than water, Toostsie Pop. We may not be the normal family, but we’re all each other has.
Emma looked back on Lully’s grave. Mr. Willow had thought she was not thinking clearly when she’d requested burial on her mother’s grave. He argued that the old cemetery hadn’t been used in fifty years, but Emma insisted. This would be Lully’s preference. She’d never strayed far from the house in her lifetime; she wouldn’t want to be in the new cemetery on the other side of town.
Bye, Puddin’ Stick.
“I’ll stop by the house tonight; make sure you have everything you need.”
Emma blinked; Sam’s voice barely penetrated her bruised senses. “I’d rather you didn’t. It’s been a long day.”
The silence stretched between them. Strained, filled with unspoken accusations, old resentments yet unvoiced. Yet his manner indicated that he was sympathetic to the fact that she’d just laid her sister to rest. “Then tomorrow night. We need to talk.”
She looked up in surprise. “Can’t we do that over the phone?”
Sam stared over the top of the car, toward the house, then back at Emma. “It needs to be in person. We have to discuss the house.”
“What about it?”
“We need to make some decisions—do we list the house or give the town first dibs?”
“Sell? Who said anything about selling?”
Sam looked at her in amazement. “That’s what we’ll do, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think about it.”
“You haven’t shown your face around here in fifteen years, and you’re thinking about keeping the house?”
“Did I say I was going to keep it?”
He took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “What exactly are you saying, Emma?”
Sam wore his sheriff’s uniform: cocoa brown shirt and khaki slacks with a sheepskin-lined, all-weather coat. A wide belt carrying a cell phone and a gun snapped in a leather holster circled his trim waist. Everything about him spoke of authority.
“I’m saying—” She didn’t know what she was saying. Her head hurt, and if she didn’t get these shoes off, she was going to scream.
“Okay,” Sam conceded. “You think about it and I’ll call you later.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
He stared at her as if he wanted to say more, and then seemed to abandon the effort. He released a sigh. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do to help?” he asked.
“Thank you. No.”
He turned to walk away and she had second thoughts. “Look. I haven’t had time to think about the house—give me a little space. Okay?”
He frowned. “You would actually consider keeping it?”
In many ways, she detested the old monstrosity and what it represented, but still, it was her childhood home and she wasn’t necessarily ready to let it go. It was all that was left of her family, of Lully, and she wasn’t about to auction it to the highest bidder. Not yet—not until she had time to think.
It wasn’t as if the house meant anything to anyone except
her. It never had—not then, not now. Sam had no right to have a say in what happened, no matter what Lully had put in her will.
She shrugged. “It might make an ideal tearoom.” Where did that come from?
She glanced up to see an incredulous look on Sam’s face—a look that only strengthened her stubborn refusal to consider selling the house.
“A tearoom?”
“Certainly. They’ve been very successful when opened in a Victorian atmosphere. Some renovation—cosmetic things like paint, pale walls I think, lace curtains, small tables with floral tablecloths.” Her favorite Seattle tearoom—she could pattern the same theme. “Bud vases, fresh flowers. Delicate china, French pastries, quiche and sandwiches on the menu.”
“You think Mrs. Masters and Molly Montgomery are going to sip tea and eat cucumber sandwiches among hundred-year-old tombstones?” He stared at her. “Somehow it doesn’t strike me as the right … ambience.”
She hated it when he was right, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Besides, she couldn’t let go. Not yet. It would be as if she’d abandoned Lully and every family member who had lived in the house and called it home.
“Turning it into a tearoom is better than selling it. Who knows what the new owner would do with it?”
“I’ll tell you what they’ll do with it. The mayor wants it for a municipal parking lot.”
“A what?”
“Parking lot—the town needs one badly, Emma. The old house is a prime location. We can get a good price out of it if you’ll use common sense.”
“I don’t think so,” she snapped back.
“Don’t use that tone with me,” he said very softly. “Whether I want it or not, Lully left me half of the house. I have a say in what happens to it.”
“You’re not selling my house to bulldoze down for a municipal parking lot!”
Lori Copeland Page 6
