by Debra Webb
Herman was coming at eleven to help with the Whitt funeral preparations. The service wasn’t until one, but there was a great deal to do before deeming the chapel ready. The cleaning team would arrive soon, though they wouldn’t need Rowan to supervise their work. She considered going back to the lake, to the place where she’d found the bones.
In all likelihood the area was cordoned off as a crime scene. She wandered over to the three small crosses that her father had painstakingly made on the far side of the backyard. This was the family’s pet cemetery. She and her sister had had three pets over the years, two dogs and a cat. After Raven died, Rowan decided she couldn’t bear to lose anything else, so there had been no more pets until she bought her place in Nashville. She watched Freud sniff around the fenced perimeter of the yard. She was glad she’d made that decision. She loved him like mad.
Her father had always told her there were other pets buried in the backyard. In the South it was common practice for folks to bury a beloved pet in the backyard. Rowan had never found any markers. Maybe they had been removed over the years.
Rowan smiled, though the memories had sadness streaming through her. “I miss you, Daddy.” Her father had been a good man and a great dad. She wasn’t always the best daughter, but she had made him proud no matter that she’d chosen a different route for her career in the beginning.
Walking back into the house, through the corridor and into the lobby, she decided she might have some breakfast, after all. She hadn’t really felt like eating when she first woke up. The dreams had been too fresh, too strong and disturbing. Her chest had felt tight and her pulse had been racing. The fresh air had been exactly what she needed.
As she reached the lobby staircase, a key turned in the lock of the front entrance. Freud growled. Beyond the glass in the double doors, she spotted Herman. He waved a paper sack at her. She smiled. It looked as if breakfast was already here. Freud whimpered as he, too, recognized Herman.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he called as he walked in. He glanced at Freud. “Mr. Furry.”
Freud trotted over to him for the snack Herman always brought in his pocket. He dug out the treat and Freud took it gently from his fingers. “There you go, boy.” Herman gave him a scratch between the ears.
Rowan smiled. Herman was the most cheerful man she had ever known. “I hope that’s breakfast for two I smell in that bag.”
“Bagels and cream cheese.” He shook the bag. “Strawberry fruit spread.”
Even after all these years he hadn’t forgotten her favorites. Whenever she had visited, her father had always picked up bagels at the bakery on the town square. Rowan could already taste the tang of the sourdough bagels and the smooth cream cheese, not to mention the sweet and tart strawberries.
“We should take this party upstairs.” The cleaning crew would be here any moment and she felt confident there were not enough bagels in that small bag to share. Not to mention, Freud wasn’t fond of vacuum cleaners.
They climbed the stairs side by side, Freud bringing up the rear. Herman chatted on and on about the weather and how he intended to go fishing later that afternoon. On the second-floor landing, Rowan couldn’t help glancing at that railing once more. But she exiled the memories that attempted to intrude and led the way into her kitchen.
Her kitchen.
This was the first time since she’d returned that she had officially considered the kitchen or any other part of the place hers.
“You still drinking decaf?”
Herman placed the bag on the counter. “Only when I’m with my wife.” He grinned. “The rest of the time I do as I please.”
Rowan would just bet he did as he pleased. “Decaf it is, then.” He made a face and Rowan added, “I’m not going to have Estelle asking me if you’ve been behaving and be forced to tell her you haven’t.”
He sighed and sat down on one of the two stools at the counter. “I swear, getting old is hell.”
Her father always said the same thing. The two men had been so close, they were like brothers. “Well, in my expert opinion—” she shoved the basket of decaf coffee grounds into place and pressed the brew button “—it’s far better than the alternative.”
They both laughed. You learned to have a few jokes handy when working with the dead. It was part of staying sane, her father had advised when she and Raven were working alongside him. Every DuPont for four generations had passed down this funeral home to their son or sons. Until Edward DuPont had a set of twin girls and no other children. Rowan was the fifth generation DuPont to serve as undertaker.
The aroma of the rich, dark blend filled the room as she poured, refilling her own cup and another for Herman. She asked, “How is Estelle?”
Her father had mentioned Herman’s wife was battling cancer. But that had been nearly two years ago. Shamefully, since returning home, Rowan had been too busy to think to ask how Estelle was doing. She really, really needed to stop allowing the investigation into Julian’s history and whereabouts to interfere with her life. She understood the need to be careful but she also had to move on.
It was time she started looking forward rather than back.
“She’s doing great.” Herman nodded as he opened the bag. “We were really lucky to find the right doctor and treatments that could keep her healthy. I want her with me as long as possible.”
Rowan reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Me, too, darling. Me, too.” Herman placed the bagels on bread plates and doled out the packets of cream cheese and fruit spread. “Since we couldn’t have any children of our own, she’s all I’ve got.”
His comment spurred a thought she’d long ago tucked away. Rowan frowned. “Why didn’t my parents ever have more children?” She’d always wondered but never asked the question. They might have ended up with a boy if they’d gone for a round two.
Herman made a face. “I don’t recall either one of them ever mentioning why. I know your momma was traveling a lot for her writing after you girls were born. Maybe she didn’t want another pregnancy to interfere with her work.”
Rowan tried not to laugh at the idea. “Do you think she was serious about her writing? I mean, I know she spent a lot of time working at it, but she never published anything.”
He chewed for a moment, washed down the bite of bagel with the freshly brewed coffee. “Mostly I think she just liked the distraction. You know, she was from a family of farmers. They cultivated the land, grew things. Living in this house and spending so much time surrounded by the dead, it was tough on a soul not accustomed to such darkness.”
“It is a macabre profession,” Rowan agreed. Kids in school had been ruthless with their teasing. Raven had lashed out at anyone who made a smart remark. Rowan had hung her head and pretended not to hear. She had never liked controversy. Still didn’t.
“Or maybe your momma and daddy just decided not to mess with perfection when it came to their kids.”
Rowan did laugh then.
After a couple of bites of bagel, she asked, “Did my parents get along well enough?”
Herman shrugged. “They had their ups and downs like most married couples. Your father was so serious and committed to the business. Your mother was different. She was a free spirit. She spoke her mind whether anyone wanted to hear it or not. Wouldn’t join any of the clubs the other ladies in town joined and never attended church as I recall. Most considered her a rebel, I expect.”
Rowan hadn’t remembered her mother being so outspoken. She did recall that she always seemed to be deep into a story on Sunday mornings and never had time to go to the services with them.
There was one more thing she had to ask. “But they loved each other?”
Herman sat down his coffee cup and studied her, surprise evident on his face. “Well, of course they did. Why would you ask?”
“My mother has
been dead for more than twenty-six years, almost twenty-seven, and I had never once dreamed of her until right before Daddy was...died.” She shrugged, cradled her cup with both hands. “Now I dream of her nearly every night and it’s almost always the same. I hear her arguing with someone. A man. Daddy, I assume.”
“Well, now, they had some arguments rightly enough. Your daddy didn’t agree with her going off on all those trips and leaving you girls to fend for yourselves. He thought y’all needed your momma around more.”
Seemed a reasonable expectation to Rowan. “But she didn’t see it that way.”
Herman shook his head adamantly. “Not at all. She said just because she had children didn’t mean she was giving up her life. She’d already given up a whole lot just marrying an undertaker.”
Rowan winced. “That must have been a painful admission for my father to hear.”
The older man, who had always been a big part of her family, made one of those faces that said, not so much. “He took her eccentricities in stride. Never complained unless she planned too many trips too close together.”
Rowan thought about the other questions she wanted to ask. “Did you notice that Raven seemed to change toward me the year she died?”
Rowan had always felt as if their relationship had gone through a inexorable shift that year. Raven was suddenly popular and running with the who’s who at school while Rowan still lurked in the shadows. Billy had been her only friend and he’d been so busy with football and the charity rodeo, he really hadn’t been around much. That year, it felt like everything changed. Her mother was gone more often than ever. It was as if something had happened to disrupt the algorithms of their lives and then they were both gone. Rowan had often wondered if her mother had loved her more, would she have stayed instead of following her favorite daughter into death? Her father had insisted that her mother had loved her just as much and would have done the same if Rowan had been the one to drown...but deep down she still felt that wasn’t the case.
As a psychiatrist she understood it wasn’t that simple. Unfortunately she would likely never understand why her mother had taken her life, leaving a child who needed her so much.
“No, girl, you are worrying yourself for nothing. Adolescence is a tough time. All siblings have difficulty during those years. You know that.”
She did understand, yes, but like most girls on the verge of being a teenager who have siblings, it had felt exactly as if her sister had started to hate her. Looking back, she recognized that her emotions had been exaggerated.
Apparently sensing the conversation needed to be changed, Herman said, “Was that Billy’s truck I saw here last night after Mr. Whitt’s visitation? I was going to come by to see if you needed a hand, but I thought maybe you were busy.”
Rowan rolled her eyes. “You are as bad as Daddy was. Trust me, it was official police business.”
“About those bones you found? Or about Geneva?”
“He’s still investigating both. As of last night there was nothing new on Mrs. Phillips, but it turns out there’s a strong possibility that the remains I found are those of Julian Addington’s daughter.”
Surprise claimed the older man’s face. “You can’t be serious? Your daddy always worried that Addington wanted you all to himself. That he would one day try talking you into marrying him. Guess he already had a significant other.”
Now Rowan was the one surprised. “Daddy thought Addington and I were more than friends?”
“No, no, now, don’t take this the wrong way.” He held up his hands and moved them from side to side in emphasis. “He knew you only looked at the man as a friend and a mentor, but he figured Addington wanted more. Something about the way he looked at you, he told me.”
“He never said a word to me.” Rowan was a bit shocked.
“I guess he didn’t want you to think he was being overprotective or nosing into your personal business.”
Rowan recalled a number of particularly ugly arguments she and her father had during her college years. Especially after what she had done. Instinctively, she tugged at the sleeves of her blouse to ensure they covered the scars on her wrists. Though there were no physical scars related to her second attempt—she’d used sleeping pills that time—she had come far closer to success.
“I hurt him. I regret that more than you can know.”
Herman nodded sagely. “You did, but the two of you got past those painful times. You can take my word for it, Ro, he did not harbor any ill feelings about those days. He didn’t even talk about them, ever. He treated the situation like it never happened.”
On some level, that knowledge comforted her, but on another, she would give anything for one more day with her father to make sure he understood how very much she had always loved him. “You know, there are parts of my childhood that are blank. I’ve tried to fill in all the spaces but it’s like some things are missing.”
“Wait until you get to my age,” Herman said, “and then you’ll be trying to recall what you did yesterday or an hour ago.”
Rowan laughed, couldn’t help herself. “Professionally speaking, I recognize the blank spaces are normal. All children have traumatic or hurtful moments that they block. You could ask six children who lived through a particular event to describe what happened and you would most likely come away with six different versions. Still, I wonder.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I was here most of the time, working with your daddy. If anything too awful to remember besides your sister’s and your momma’s deaths happened, I don’t have any recollection of it, either.”
“Thanks, Herman, that makes me feel better.” Still, there were those damned dreams. They were coming from somewhere.
He stared into his coffee cup a moment before meeting her gaze once more. “You still dream of your sister?”
“More often now than when I was in Nashville, but with being home and doing the work we once helped my father do, that’s to be expected.” At least that was what Rowan told herself every morning when she woke from a fretful sleep and disturbing dreams of Raven and their mother still lingered.
“I suppose so.” He finished his coffee. “I should get on my way. I’ll be back in a couple of hours to help.” He stood and carried his cup to the sink and his napkin and paper to the trash. “You canceled Mrs. Phillips’s visitation?”
“No choice. There has to be an autopsy.” The procedure made the death even more painful for her daughters. But it couldn’t be avoided. Geneva Phillips deserved justice. Until they understood what happened to her, it was difficult to build a profile of the person who had killed her. Rowan hoped it didn’t take long.
“Let me know if you need me to pick up any supplies. I’m happy to do it.”
“We’re good,” Rowan assured him. “I had Woody restock everything before he started his vacation.”
Rowan and Freud walked Herman down the stairs and to the front door. She waved as she watched him drive away.
Maybe there was a way she could fill in the blank places in her memory. She could dig through the mass of journals and notes her mother had kept and perhaps find some insights. She had started to once, years ago, but preparing for medical school had distracted her, and she’d never gotten back to the task. She had a couple of hours before Mr. Whitt’s funeral. Now was as good a time as any to dig around.
Maybe she would discover some big secret that explained everything.
Rowan stilled. She wasn’t entirely certain she was ready for everything.
Seven
Rowan hadn’t gone into her parents’ bedroom since the day she and Billy selected the suit for her father’s funeral. Standing in their room now felt like an invasion of their privacy. She turned on the light and crossed the room. Norah DuPont had created a writing nook in the big bay window. Rowan wasn’t sure the window was original to the house, but it had been here for
as long as she could remember. Knowing her father, he probably had it installed just for his wife. He’d gone out of his way to cater to her needs.
Norah had been a beautiful woman and, as Herman said, a free spirit. Rowan was sure her father—the undertaker—had been overly grateful to have her as his wife. But Norah was the one who should have been grateful. A burst of anger fired in Rowan’s chest. As much as she had loved both her parents, she could not help but resent her mother’s selfishness.
She sat down at the small writing desk her mother had used. The most painful part was that Rowan had done the same thing to her father. Seven months after her sister and her mother were dead and gone, Rowan had tried taking her own life. The only thing she had accomplished was to leave ugly scars on her wrists and to hurt her father. She’d been thinking only of herself at the time. Her twin had left her, her mother had left her and rather than see the loving father who had not, she’d selfishly decided she wanted to die, too.
Thinking of how badly she had hurt him still twisted her heart. So very, very selfish of her. He had found her and stopped the bleeding, stitched her foolish work and nursed her so that no one would ever have to know what she had done. He’d wanted to protect her from what others would say. Only Billy and Herman had known. Rowan was immensely grateful that she and her father had discussed that hurtful past while he was in Nashville visiting her right before his...death. Any lingering doubt as to whether he had forgiven her had been dispelled. And though she would always regret her adolescent decisions, deep in her heart she knew he had forgiven her.
Rowan opened the journal in which her mother had made her last entry.
This place—this house—has drained the joy and the life from me. I cannot go on.
“Thanks, Mom,” Rowan muttered.
