The Last Detail

by Lisa J. Lickel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Genesis 2:18

  Copyright 2014 LISA LICKEL

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  AUTHOR BIO

  For Reflection or Discussion

  Starved Rock State Park

  Thank You

  The Last Detail

  Lisa J. Lickel

  Genesis 2:18 “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.”

  Copyright 2014 LISA LICKEL

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Cover Art by Joan Alley

  Editing by Marcy G. Dyer

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version, NIV, Copyright©1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Published by Prism Book Group

  ISBN-10: 1940099447 ISBN-13: 978-1-940099-44-6

  2nd Edition, 2014

  Published in the United States of America

  Contact info: contact@prismbookgroup.com

  http://www.prismbookgroup.com

  Dedication

  For Andy and Joanna—your heart for the Lord and each other is a joy.

  Special thank you for the people who came with me along the way: Ruth Keeley, for our trip to the area all those years ago; my early critique partners, especially Ann Schrock and April Gardner, Rev. John Ott, and members of the Moraine Writers Guild who worked on this—Dawn, Jane, Dave, Rodney, Bob, Susie; and much appreciation to my early readers, especially Robin Steinweg, and Kristy Vogt. Your time, encouragement, and support have sustained me.

  ONE

  Seven seconds. Merit counted silently from the time the last missile whined past his ear. Senna’s goon needed seven seconds to reload. Merit ignored the flash on his right and kept his eyes on the child who sat in the dirt about a dozen long steps in front of him, waving her tiny fists.

  After the next barrage of fire went silent, Merit took off in a crouching run, grabbed Tangra’s youngest granddaughter, Mardra, and rushed toward the nearest pile of rocks. The punch and stabbing sensation in his left shoulder, followed by a thud, let him know he had almost made it. As he was lifted off his feet, he thrust the baby he’d delivered last spring into her father’s outstretched arms. Gravity reclaimed him. His left foot plunged between stones, the ankle twisting viciously as strong hands pulled him to relative safety amongst the band of defenders.

  The child began to scream when her uncle fired his weapon close to her little ears. Merit felt like doing the same as his ankle thrummed and ground with every movement. Broken, at least. No competition for the shoulder wound. He took Mardra back into his arms so her father could aim his US-made hunting rifle, meant for small game—not humans—back toward Senna’s position.

  Merit hunched over the little girl as a brilliant flame arced overhead. A ground-shaking explosion followed, then smoke and men’s shouts and the acrid scent of the rocket’s accelerant. He hoped he wouldn’t have to run, because he couldn’t. Nothing he could do but pray between the throbs of searing pain and deep anger at Senna.

  The baby wiggled, tugging Merit’s heartstrings away from his fury. It wasn’t her fault her grandfather’s rival destroyed Merit’s life work. Both factions were going to miss the little missionary medical clinic Merit ran in the mountains of Nehrangestan, a tiny spot on National Geographic’s map of Asia.

  Something tickled. Wha—oh, right—blood from the shoulder wound. He touched the front of his blue shirt then looked at the blooming red stain. Tentatively, he reached behind his collarbone and hissed at the gouge. Not serious. He’d probably get a nice scar out of it. Senna’s pound of flesh. Merit shifted the baby and tried to flex his ankle. He bit back a scream and panted while sparkles pulsed in the fringe of his vision. Yeah, broken.

  Well, that answered that question. If he got out of here alive, the mission board would make him go home for treatment. Question was, how soon could he get back to rebuild the clinic? Mountain life was treacherous enough with a steady gait. He’d have to heal up good before he could negotiate the trails again. Nehrangesi medical facilities were…lacking. Amputations solved most compound breaks. Merit shuddered and bit his lips.

  Tangra’s granddaughter had quieted. He held her gingerly against his right side, keeping her face away from the bloody mess of his left shoulder. Adrenalin had masked the worst pain, but he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. At least his leg had gone numb. For now.

  Mardra’s father touched his arm and beckoned. The gunfire had stopped. Senna must be running low on ammunition. Merit gave the girl to her uncle, who slung her under his arm and led the village defenders back to the small cluster of wood and stone huts that clung to the terraced hillside. Women and children climbed down the path from small caves overhead.

  Merit hopped, supported between Mardra’s father and his teenage son, until they reached the first hut. There he slumped and held his elbow while he watched great black billows of smoke from the former clinic belch into the sky. He guessed the three-room block building a complete loss.

  Tangra clucked his tongue and shook his shaggy, gray-bearded head at Merit. The elderly tribal leader called for his nephew to bring water and a roll of bandages. Women, including Mardra’s young mother, stood at a distance. Tangra had adopted Merit as a foster-son after the first year of working at the clinic so he could treat them. He mentally reviewed his cases to distract himself.

  Effie, Tangra’s nephew and one of Merit’s occasional medical assistants, brought a roll of white cotton bandaging material. “Was anyone hurt?” Merit asked.

  Effie’s smile shone white in his deeply tanned face under wiry black hair. “Only you.” Effie pushed a pad of wadded cotton against Merit’s shoulder and called for one of the watchful boys. “Here, hold fast.” The boy gingerly touched the wad. Effie directed, “Harder. Like this.”

  Merit managed a wheezy chuckle. “Praise God.”

  Effie nodded, grim now as he pulled Merit’s pant leg away from the damaged ankle. Effie tsked, never a good sign. “God could have spared you and let someone else receive his attention.”

  “God has his reasons, and I would never wish…ahh…”

  Effie tugged off Merit’s boot with more force than necessary. Effie shrugged. “My apologies.”

  “It hurts me worse than you,” Merit said.

  Effie looked away and frowned. He’d never appreciated Merit’s attempt to teach him English colloquialism.

  “I’ll be all right,” Merit said in Nehrangesi. “Just grab the other med pack an
d see that everyone else is safe.”

  Effie removed his jacket and wadded it. “They are. For now. Lie down.”

  Merit concentrated on staying conscious. “I think…you should go for the emergency med kit in the cave. I’m going to need a blanket…shock.”

  Effie shouted at the closest woman—Bolla?—for a bed cover and more water.

  “Senna won’t be back today. I’ll send Josef down to contact your people.” Effie tied off the bandage and arranged Merit’s arm across his chest. “Remain still. I will try to stabilize your leg wound.” He flashed a somber grin. “Maybe save your foot.”

  Merit watched him work, feeling hazy with the throbbing pain. Smoke from the burning clinic switched direction with the wind and taunted him. All the work of the past decade, started by his brother and carried on alone the past five years, disintegrated to dust and ash. This destruction was no mere landslide or flood or storm, an act of God. Merit had failed in the worst way to proclaim the redemptive nature of the Lord. The fragile peace between Tangra and Senna appeared to be over.

  * * *

  The twin thunks of Hudson’s knees hitting the carpet of Frederick’s Fine Dining main floor seemed to echo in stop-motion time. Amalia Kennedy closed her eyes in trepidation of the moment she’d alternately longed for and dreaded the past ten years.

  “Amalia, say yes to my proposal. In two years you’ll be thirty. I’d like a son to carry on the business.”

  Of all the places, times…of all the unromantic words he could say…if one of those sinkholes could open and swallow them right now…if the Fox River would flood and cool the heat of her cheeks…just make this end, Lord. She opened her eyes. “Get up, Hudson, please. This is so unlike you. Think of your reputation. People are looking.”

  Dinner guests around them stared curiously but had the good manners to look away when Hudson began to plead. “Please, listen—”

  “Can we have dinner? In fact” —Amalia threw her napkin on her plate and blew out the sputtering candle— “I’m not hungry anymore. I’d like to leave.” She stalked two steps before taking a deep breath, pasting on a smile, and walking with dignity, all with an inward grimace at his explanation to the waiter.

  In the vestibule, she waited, hugging her middle and contemplating an arrangement of roses on the credenza while Hudson retrieved her coat. What on earth had he been thinking? Why bring this up now after all these years?

  Even though Amalia had committed to tell him she couldn’t marry him if he brought it up, she trembled at the finality of it. Would her refusal ruin their business partnership? She needed him a lot more than he needed her. But did he have to ask her in public? And…and make it sound like one more business deal?

  Just because they’d grown up together, and their parents had been best friends, didn’t mean she had to marry him.

  Hudson remained quiet while he slipped her wool coat over her shoulders and asked the valet to bring his car around.

  She shivered in the damp February thaw when they left the building.

  He opened the door for her and tipped the young man before he drove away.

  Amalia clutched her seatbelt and turned her head when they passed her street. “Where are you going?”

  “Home. To discuss this like rational adults.”

  She stared at his profile and pursed her lips. “I’d rather go to my own house.”

  “My home will soon be yours, as well.” He unlocked the front door of Demarest Funeral and Cremation Services and led Amalia through the elegant maroon and sage lobby, as if he were staging a scene for that old show her parents liked, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

  Once through to his private quarters, he left her in the living room while he excused himself to make coffee. Amalia paced. She stopped to frown at the framed pictures on the mantel. Their parents cutting the ribbon to The Last Detail’s opening. Herself at two, being pulled in a Red Flyer by ten-year-old Hudson, already meticulously safe and righteously sober. Good grief. Where was the wagon safety harness?

  Amalia whirled back to a chair. Perhaps some of her disillusionment stemmed from the fact she could predict him so well. He was certainly handsome enough in his own way, with a neatly trimmed beard and tousled, thick, black hair that might have belonged to a pirate. Amalia smiled at the notion of the gleam of a gold ring in his ear, something he’d never dream of doing. Come to think of it, Hudson wouldn’t do well on any kind of ship, since he had motion sickness. Hmpf—a pirate in pin stripes.

  Several minutes later he brought her a cup of decaf made the way she liked it, with a spoonful of cream and a dusting of cocoa. He settled opposite on a matching silk peacock patterned wing chair, crossed his legs, and took a sip from his cup before fixing her with his best wounded look. “Now, tell me what’s going on. I didn’t even get a chance to show you your ring.”

  “I realize there’s been a long-standing agreement between our families—”

  “It’s just you and me. I think I’ve waited long enough.”

  “But why? Why have you waited at all? If you really loved me, you would have asked me long ago.”

  “Amalia, you’re upset. I see that that but I don’t understand. This was the happiest moment of my life so far.” Hudson set his cup aside and leaned forward to reach for her hands. Amalia resisted the childish impulse to snatch them away as his warm breath brushed her cheek. “Like you said, we’ve always known that someday we would marry.”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “I’ve waited out of…respect. When your parents were ill, you didn’t want to plan a wedding then, did you? And you needed time to adjust, to know what it was like to be alone. I needed time as well to finalize the takeover of the business when my parents retired to Florida.”

  This time Amalia did pull away. She stood and looked down on him. Know what it was like to be alone? What was this, some Bronte novel she’d stepped into? She had worked hard for everything she had after growing up with her parents’ business. In fact, she had added on to The Last Detail, offering more than end-of-life services, but also help with home downsizing. She clenched her hands. Hudson had never evoked this feeling of disbelief before. “All you’ve mentioned so far is business. Respect is important in a marriage,” she said. “But what about love? Passion? Hudson…I want to know desire, impatience, for a change. And I need to feel useful. Maybe even explore the world outside of Fox Falls, Illinois. Maybe I don’t even want children.”

  “What are you talking about? Everybody wants children. Who else will take over when it’s our turn to retire?” Hudson rose, forcing Amalia to retreat several paces.

  She could never explain her restlessness to Hudson. He wouldn’t understand she had no desire for a safe and…and boring mate for life. If she wanted one at all.

  “What’s come over you? Think about what your parents wanted…what our parents wanted for us.”

  “I do think about that. You’ve been my friend, and you’ve been there when I needed you. We work well together. I like you, and I don’t want to do anything that will damage our…our friendship. Or our business relationship.”

  “I love you, Amalia. I’ve waited my whole life for you.”

  “I don’t love you. At least, not that way. And I’m sorry, I never meant to lead you on or betray your trust, but I can’t marry you.” Amalia grabbed her purse and ignored his outstretched hands. “It’s not right, or fair to you. Or me.”

  “I have the ring. Let’s sit down and discuss this.”

  “I can’t talk about this any more tonight. We’ll continue to work together. We have to, out of respect for our parents and the families who need us, but there can’t be anything else. Good-bye, Hudson.”

  Amalia held her head high and waltzed to the door. It was only six blocks home. She stopped and winced at the thought of the next time she had to see him. So much for the grand exit. She turned back. “That is, until tomorrow at Bruce Campbell’s funeral.”

  TWO

  The next aft
ernoon, Amalia waited for Hudson’s nod, then ushered the Daytons to a side room at New Life Church so he could adjust Uncle Bruce’s glasses one last time and lower the lid of the casket. Prudence, Bruce’s great-niece, had thankfully been practical, and sad, but not overcome. She’d been the first to say Bruce had certainly enjoyed a great long life. Her husband Tom was a cuddly teddy-bear with their two kids, a pretty young girl named Tricia and a sweet studious little fellow named Lawrence, not Larry, who informed her he was in kindergarten.

  The five of them discussed the number of bouquets and the large gathering of Bruce’s friends for five minutes until Amalia led them back into the sanctuary for the service.

  Pete Thompson, the pastor of New Life, did his usual bouncy, positive spin on a message and invited others in the assembly to share their memories. As expected, someone brought up the first funeral, the one Bruce and Amalia planned together. Bruce Campbell had signed with The Last Detail three years earlier when he moved to Piney Rest Haven, but said he wouldn’t pre-plan his funeral with Hudson unless he could attend the funeral.

  Poor Hudson hadn’t a clue how to deal with the old man’s quirky request, and left it to Amalia, who’d convinced Bruce to at least place an order for the style of casket he’d wanted. The service had included not only hymns but favorite folk tunes with the church band playing You Are My Sunshine, smoothly transitioning to The Old Rugged Cross. Amalia had planted his friends in the audience to share their favorite Bruce Campbell anecdotes, such as the time he’d accidentally melted the altar cloth at a church service instead of lighting the Christmas candles in the dark, and the time he’d programmed the New Life clarion to play Georgia On My Mind for Mrs. Hensen’s funeral, Mrs. Georgia Hensen, instead of What a Friend We Have in Jesus. No one had ever gotten to the bottom of the rumor that he’d once had a thing for the late Mrs. Hensen.

  Amalia brushed a tear. He’d been a good guy for sure, one of the old set who’d believed she’d be every bit as good as her parents in business. He’d encouraged her to add the downsizing sideline, as well as to go for her Certified Financial Planner degree.