Part of her longed for the simplicity of Colby or the complexity of the ranches nearby and Slate…
“Becky? You made it. That was fast. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.” John just appeared before her.
With a blink, Becky cocked her head. “John? Are you dead or something? Where’d you come from? You just came out of nowhere like a ghost.” She stumbled over her disbelief as she struggled with consolidating the image of the man before her to the memory of the kid he’d been.
His low voice rumbled with a chuckle. John jerked his thumb toward a doorway. “I was in the restroom washing my hands.” His hair was dark – not as dark as Slate’s but brown like a chocolate bar. He’d always hidden it under a football helmet or a baseball hat. Odd how she’d never noticed the crooked eye tooth when he smiled. Slate’s teeth were straight and solid.
Enough about Slate and John. Enough about men. “My mom’s not on the list. Didn’t you say she had a heart attack?” Becky glanced behind her at the silent, dark family room off the elevators. “Dad’s not out here and I can’t find a friggin’ nurse to save my life.” She cleared her throat at her inappropriate choice of words.
John’s eyes tilted down at the edges and his cheeks softened.
A wave of inevitability crashed over Becky. She swallowed. A significant burning raced up her body.
He stepped toward her, his hand outstretched. “I’m so sorry, Becky. I tried to call you.”
She shook her head and slid along the counter away from him. She closed her eyes. “What? Did she go home early ‘cause it was just a mistake? Mom didn’t have a heart attack, right? Heartburn. No, gallbladder problems. Hell, she was pregnant again, right?” She held it together. Nothing escaped her but the questions. If she gave in to the emotional wave threatening to pull her under, she’d never resurface.
John’s voice softened. “No. I’m sorry, Becky, but your mom died about an hour ago. I drove your dad home. He realized he’d left his overnight bag here and needed his prednisone pills so he could sleep. I came back for that.” John stopped advancing toward her. He dropped his hands to his sides and waited.
For what? She wasn’t going to go crazy. She offered a smile, forced as it was. “I’m okay, John. Dad’s at home? I’ll take the bag.” She scooped the small black bag from his feet. She hadn’t noticed it until then. She needed things to do, something to accomplish.
“Okay. Hey, if there’s anything I can do. Well, you know where I live. I’ll walk you to your car.” He waited until she headed toward the elevator and fell into step beside her. His silence out-of-character for the loud, boisterous jock he’d once been.
Becky glanced at him. “Thanks.” For the bad news and not asking me too many questions.
Hell, her mom had died and she couldn’t assimilate that, let alone the changes she was encountering upon her return home. For some reason, she longed for the comfort Slate would’ve offered. What would he do to make her feel better? Talk science? Make her dinner? Maybe just be there as a strong shoulder to cry on?
She sighed. No matter what he would’ve done, she would rather be dealing with the MacAllisters and James than coping with her mother’s death.
~~~
A single-knuckle-knock on her dad’s bedroom door was all she could bring herself to do. He didn’t answer. And Becky didn’t blame him, nor did she want to push the issue. The attempt at contact had been half-hearted at best. She didn’t want to see her dad, see her misery reflected in his eyes.
Because the misery was just the beginning.
~~~
“Dr. O’Donald? We have your mother set up in the viewing room, if you’d like to start there.” Becky stared at the smiling man, his hand outstretched toward an open doorway with light spilling through. Like Heaven? No, too satirical. It was just a room lit up brighter than the hall.
“Thank you.” The words felt unnatural. Speaking required monumental effort. Becky had wallowed in her parent’s house for nearly twenty-four hours, ignoring her phone, the door, email, her dad, and responsibilities – and sleep. She rubbed her eyes, itchy with lack of rest. Between dreaming of Slate and not sleeping because of the odd ambience of the house, Becky’s exhaustion reached a level she hadn’t hit in quite a while.
She hadn’t thought about the viewing much. Or the funeral. She hadn’t cried yet. Maybe her denial was holding her in a frozen moment of expectancy, but she hadn’t been stung by the loss as bad as she’d thought she would be.
With the viewing upon her, Becky’s overconfidence in her control pushed her toward the doorway to where the funeral home had placed her mother.
She breathed. Because what else was she going to do?
Oh, calla lilies, how lovely. The white blooms curved open in vases wrapped in blue and yellow ribbons. The colors and the flowers were her mom’s favorite. White curtains drawn over the windows framed the dark ebony of her mother’s casket.
Her mother’s casket.
Set at a distinct angle to the doorways, so one couldn’t look in with a voyeuristic need but had to actually walk by, the casket imposed on the room with a mass akin to a large Cadillac. It promised safety at an exorbitant price. Even with her mom dead, Becky couldn’t get dollar signs out of her head or the fact that she and her dad had more bills pulling them into the red.
She stepped closer to the head of the casket, just a small set of inches at a time. Two feet more and she’d see her mom for the first time in three years. Her knees wanted to bolt the other direction. Okay, Becky, it’s just the parasympathetic nervous system. It’s okay. Just —
“Becky? Long time no see.” The tinny screech of her cousin’s voice ripped the moment apart.
Turning, Becky didn’t try to hide her gratitude for the small reprieve, even if it was a woman less like a cousin and more like a rival. “Shiranda. How are you?” Becky didn’t care. Even a little bit.
Flicking her fingers in Becky’s general direction, Shiranda simpered. “Well, you know how it is. I have the kids at home for spring break – even with all this snow and I had to come to your mother’s funeral. I had to bring the kids, because I only had twenty-four hours notice.” She puckered her lips like a fish, her tone dripping candy-coated derision.
“You know, they’re asking for the guests to wait in the lobby until the family has time to get settled.” Becky pointed toward the hallway.
“Thank goodness. Can you imagine the germs out there?” Shiranda shoved her hand on her hip and bared her horsey smile.
“No. Immediate family only in here, Shiranda. Thank you.” Becky took a seat in the front row, leaving no room for argument or further conversation.
“Well, fine.” Shiranda huffed out, her cloying perfume lingering as if she’d marked her territory by pissing perfume into each corner.
Becky pushed her fingers to her temples. The pressure pounding inside was unbelievable. If she’d had more time, she might have grabbed a coffee or something with caffeine to release her capillaries, but it was a luxury she’d have to wait for.
A small scuff to her right startled her. She raised her eyes.
Raven, her smallest nephew who had grown a lot in the last few years, raised up on tiptoe beside the casket. His winter-white skin paled further as he peered in at Becky’s mom. His shoelaces were untied on one foot. Tails of an untucked white dress shirt peeked from under his black suit jacket.
Becky was close enough to hear him, but not up high enough to see into the casket. She froze when he began to speak.
“Why are you sleeping, Miss Laney? I want to come to your house for tea again.” He traced his little finger around the metal bracket inches from his face. He looked in and then down at his hand, then back in. His whisper carried throughout the room. “I miss you.”
Flattening his feet, the small boy fished into his pocket and pulled out something he clenched in his hand. “Here, I brought you one, like I said I would.” He flashed a toothy grin, dropped the offering in the casket and bolted from the ro
om.
Unsure what to make of the moment, but certain she wouldn’t be upstaged by a six-year-old, Becky stood and approached her mom.
Looking at her mom had always been like looking at herself in a mirror that told the future. Her mom was only fifty and didn’t look a day over thirty-five. The funeral cosmetologists had softened her lines with a more natural makeup choice than her mom would have chosen, but she looked young and restful.
Becky didn’t have much to say. What would she say? I have no idea how to get us out of this debt? Your medical bills have swamped me my entire life and I resent you for it? Why couldn’t you get insurance? Why didn’t you get a job to pay for them? Why did I have to tack everything onto my student loans so you wouldn’t have to have collectors calling you? How come I had to think ahead and worry about the large amount of debt I was going to be drowning under and I couldn’t have any fun? None. I had to be a doctor because the debt needed to be paid and it seemed like the smartest way to make money.
She said the least inflammatory thing she could think of. “’Bye, Mom.”
And ran from the room, the depth of emotion from her nephew and her mom’s palpable disappointment chasing her out the door, down the hall, around the corner and smack! Into a solid expanse of male chest.
Chapter 22
A gasp escaped Becky’s swollen lips.
Slate wrapped his arms around the trembling She-Doc and guided her into an open doorway. “I got you. It’s okay. Come here.” He supported her leaning form and closed the door behind them. The room was small, like a church classroom and had a couch along one wall. “Shhh. Let’s just sit for a second.”
Her sobs started small with a slight hiccup and increased in strength.
Pulling her to the couch, Slate drew her down to his side.
She threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. Hot tears soaked through his tee and undershirt. After a few minutes of hard, heart-breaking insanity, she surfaced and wiped at black streaks on her cheeks.
Sniff. Hiccup. “I’m sorry. I… I wasn’t expecting to see you here and…” Sniff. She adjusted her black shirt which enhanced the color of her hair. “I just…” She eyed him, pulling back and pausing in her crying jag. “Slate, why are you here?”
He didn’t care why he was there. He’d forgotten the pain from when his parents had died a few years back. Nobody had been there to let him cry on them. Becky needed a shoulder. She didn’t need the drama back in Colby. Slate rubbed his hand down her arm and gave a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing important. What can I do to help?”
Thankfully, she didn’t push the issue but leaned into his embrace. The chilly doctor from Montana had melted into the pliable grieving woman beside him. A tendril of hair at her temple took five to ten years off her life and Slate could see how she was in high school.
Becky sighed. “I don’t know. I have to stand in line and pretend I care about anyone coming today. Dad’s AWOL and my cousin, Shiranda, is here and she’s not nice – not even a little bit – but especially at a funeral. Unh.” She wiped at the colored moisture on her face and glanced at her fingers. “Oh, crap. I look like hell now, don’t I? Don’t look at me.”
Slate regarded his suddenly empty arms. Becky had moved by the window where someone had stashed a box of Kleenex. She yanked at the squares, one – two – three, and busied herself behind the shadow of her hair.
“Why can’t I look at you? I was just thinking you’d never been more appealing. And if it wasn’t an inappropriate time, I’d consider propositioning you.” He’d never been one to give in to solemn moods. Jokes and inappropriate comments made up his MO for anything remotely sobering. It’d been everything he could do to contain himself during Mac’s surgery.
Mac. His nephew’s situation returned to the forefront, but Slate couldn’t ask her. She didn’t do it. No way had the woman worrying about her makeup and the people coming to the funeral and the one who Ronan claimed had done something unethical were one and the same.
She sniffed again and looked over her shoulder with a small smile.
Chapter 23
The man with salt-and-pepper hair wasn’t even vaguely familiar. “Oh, Becky, we’re so sorry for your loss.” He grabbed her hand like they’d known each other for years. Holding on a little longer than necessary.
Becky looked over the crowd for Slate’s comforting face.
The next person pulled her from the search. “Honey, you let us know if there’s anything we can do for you, you hear?” Honey? Like bees make?
“Don’t worry, darlin’, your mom’s in a better place. God wanted his angel home.” Come on. Marianne wasn’t an angel. She was sweet and hard working, but she had her devilish streaks, too.
Where was Slate? He’d laugh with her, if she needed him to.
“Ms. O’Donald, I’m so sorry.” That’s doctor, jackwad.
If she shook one more set of hands – Becky shot a glance down the long line of mourners and sighed – she’d eat a chocolate for each one instead of shooting the remaining ones like she wanted.
Condolences washed over her. But she was immune. Maybe the two tablespoons of sugar-mixed brandy had helped. Or maybe it was the mug full before that. Whatever. The numbness was welcome, cozy even. Maybe she had a drinking problem.
Slate would know. Where had he vanished to?
Huh, there was John. Stupid man wouldn’t stop staring at her. Well, that wasn’t nice. He was a sweetheart, had offered to help with whatever she’d needed. Okay, she’d lost her train of thought. Hmmm. Cake.
Another set of hands clasped hers. A new set of arms pulled her in for a hug. Lips brushed her cheeks. What the hell? Someone had grabbed her ass but her reflexes were too slow to catch who’d done it. The crowd passed by, one by one, like marbles pouring from a pop bottle. Plop. Plop. Plop.
The owners of the funeral home really needed to do something with the lighting. One of the women had such a gray pallor to her skin, Becky considered giving her a consult right there, or maybe over on the table.
Finally, after an eternity of hands and hugs, the number of people dwindled and waned. She sighed and sat down in the nearest fold-up chair. Alcohol combined with emotional stress and physical exhaustion plastered her. Energy didn’t exist to even look around for Slate again. He’d stuck to her side through the entire program and then disappeared while she’d manned the receiving line.
Through the whole drunken fiasco she’d wished he’d show up and rescue her from the line. But the fact that he’d shown up at all had warmed her heart. What a sweetheart to come so far because he’d worried about her. He must’ve heard from Shelley.
The alcohol made things fuzzy, but he must have said that’s how he’d known about her mom. She hadn’t told anyone else. Why else would he be there?
“Ma’am, we have another service in twenty minutes. Would you like us to throw the flowers away or would you like to take them with you?” Twisting his hands, the funeral director contrasted with his somber suit and tie while his red face and bright eyes suggested he’d been imbibing the same things as Becky.
Flowers. Okay. “I’ll take them to the hospital. People don’t get enough flowers there.” She forced herself to stand from the surprisingly comfortable metal chair.
He offered a nervous laugh. “Just don’t let anyone know they’re from a funeral. They might think it’s bad luck.”
Becky swiveled at his inappropriate comment. She’d just attended her mother’s funeral and he had the audacity to make comments about other people dying. Maybe she was too drunk, but if he didn’t walk away, she would go crazy and beat the crap out of him. She clenched her fists at her sides.
Frustratingly, he left at that moment, taking with him the only real chance at physical release in her future.
He’d left two blue and white flower arrangements on the table beside the door. Becky clutched one in each hand and pushed the door open with her elbow. The sweet perfume of the bouquets swo
oshed around her with the wind as it whipped through the doorway.
Becky hated dresses. Hated how they tangled up around her calves and then flew up to her knees, further up to her thighs and then dropped again, as if more drunk than she was. Her hair danced with the material of her skirt, whipping and flying around her. At her truck, she put one of the collections of flowers on the floor and punched her security code into the door panel. A click sounded as the door unlocked.
Bending down to retrieve the flowers, Becky sighed. One more time bending over and she’d lose her cookies. Standing, she faced the door.
The open door.
The open door framing John.
Becky stepped back, blinking. Where had he come from and why didn’t his sudden appearance feel… right?
Late afternoon sunlight sparkled on clean snow as it peeked through the patches of dirty ice.
He leaned toward her, leaning his forearm against the edge of her truck. “I’m here for you, Becky, if you need me.” John surveyed her form from her toes to her hair, the whites of his eyes more pink than white. He fingered the silky edge of her collar, close to the curve of her neck. Light as a feather, his thumb pad grazed her skin, sending unpleasant shivers down the backs of her arms.
Suddenly more sober than drunk, Becky swallowed. “I’m good. I don’t need anything. Just heading home.” She stepped around him and climbed into the cab, placing the flowers on the floor of the passenger seat.
Trying to sit upright, Becky jerked as John’s arms fell to either side of her waist and his weight settled on her lower body. She pulled back. “What are you doing?”
He lurched above her, his smile pushing the limits of a leer. “I’m giving you what you need.” Brushing a stray chunk of hair from her shoulder, he reached up and with surprising suddenness yanked the clip holding her hair to the side.
Spurs and Lace (Lonely Lace Series Book 1) Page 14
