The Sibling

by Diane Moody

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your job is here, Aubrey. Take it or leave it.”

  “Fine. I’ll clear out my desk when I return. If I return.”

  She disconnected the call and laughed out loud.

  Peyton gasped. “Did you just quit your job?”

  “Yeah. No. I don’t know?”

  “But you said you’d clear out your desk?”

  She leaned back on her hands. “We do this about once a week. Though I have to say, this is the first time I’ve ever said I quit. Or hung up on him. He’ll call back.”

  As if on cue, her cell rang. She glanced at it, snickered, and drew her legs up.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Won’t he get mad?”

  “He can’t afford to lose me, and he knows it. The thing is, I’m only half kidding about quitting.”

  “Really?” He closed the pizza box and moved it so he could turn to face her.

  “I don’t know. I keep asking myself why I do what I do. He really is the most aggravating person. And that’s only a sliver of what I put up with day in and day out.”

  “Then why do you put up with it? Surely, with your skills and experience you could work anywhere you want.”

  She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I know. It’s just that—”

  The cell rang again. She shook her head as she muted the ringer and set it aside.

  “Wow. Will he keep calling until you answer?”

  “Probably.”

  “You were telling me why you put up with your job.”

  “Who knows. But I don’t think I can leave Braxton anytime soon.” She turned to face him, sitting cross-legged, their knees touching. “Peyton, something is wrong with my mother, and I cannot leave her until I find out what it is. She was just fine this morning, then a little later, she got so angry with me again.”

  “Were you arguing?”

  “No, not at all. It was like someone flipped a switch, and she went into this tirade. When I asked her why she was so upset, she had no idea. So I suggested we make an appointment with the doctor and have some tests run. She went absolutely livid.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s so unlike Faye. I’ve never seen anything remotely like what you’re describing. Well, apart from some confusion, like last night.”

  “What should I do? I can’t drag her to the doctor’s office. I would never want to embarrass her like that.”

  “Well, the first thing you should do is this.” He unfolded his legs and moved so that his legs hung off the ledge again and motioned for her to do the same. Then, pulling her close to his side, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and continued.

  “I think you’re probably right. I mean, you know your mother better than anyone. And if something is going on with her, then it makes sense to have her talk to someone while you’re still here.”

  “I know, but she’ll be so humiliated.”

  “Probably, but let me talk to a couple of people and get a referral for someone who deals with this.”

  “I don’t know, Peyton. I’ve seen how quickly gossip spreads here.”

  “These are folks in Nashville. I’ve got some friends there who can suggest a plan of action.”

  She took a long, slow breath and gently blew it out. “I hate this. On top of losing Dad, now this. The timing couldn’t be worse.”

  “Or, maybe it’s the best possible time. While you’re still here to help her.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder and said nothing for a few minutes. She liked that he held her close, understanding her need for silence. She liked the feel of his soft flannel shirt against her skin, and the rhythmic motion of their legs swinging off the ledge, side by side. She glanced up at the stars above and tried to remember the last time she’d stopped long enough to look up at them.

  “Now I know why you come here a lot,” she whispered. “It’s very therapeutic, isn’t it?”

  He simply nodded then pressed a kiss on the top of her head.

  It was all she needed.

  Chapter 23

  On Saturday afternoon, a steady stream of florist deliveries began to clog the roads leading to and from Braxton House. More deliveries continued Sunday morning causing major traffic delays as a long line of vehicles were backed up on the exit ramp off I-40. Jeff called in assistance from the Highway Patrol to monitor the interstate flow while he and Cameron did their best to regulate the steady flow of delivery trucks on Main Street all the way through town and beyond to Braxton House.

  Though the funeral for Harley Creech was scheduled for three that afternoon, the parking area at Braxton House was already overflowing by two. The logistics of the event would have been a nightmare but for the foresight of his sister Kathleen. In anticipation of unparalleled attendance, she hired a valet service out of Nashville in addition to a catering company for the reception.

  Peyton watched as guests continued streaming in and filling the hundreds of white folding chairs set up in the spacious lawn area behind Braxton House. Standing beside Kathleen just inside the courtyard door, he suggested delaying the start of the service for a few minutes to allow more guests to be seated.

  “Ten at the most,” Kathleen said with reluctance. “I don’t want this to drag on for hours on end.”

  “I agree,” Peyton said. “We’ll let the musicians play another couple of songs, then we’ll begin.”

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, disappearing inside the house.

  Floral arrangements flanked the grand entrance of Braxton House, filled the entry hall and surrounding rooms, and spilled out into the main corridors which led attendees to the back courtyard and lawn area.

  From where he stood, Peyton found it difficult to see much of the crowd due to the grandest of the standing floral arrangements lining the wide porch which stretched across the entire back width of Braxton House. Several more banked both sides of the steps leading down to the lawn area where the guests were seated. As he stepped down from the porch, Peyton noticed a large group of people he didn’t recognize all seated together on the left side of the aisle, many of them sporting colorful blazers. On their lapels, miniature purple irises. That would account for the chartered bus that arrived earlier delivering Harley’s beloved fellow florists from across the state and beyond.

  Seated on the front row in front of them were four members of the Nashville Symphony Chorus who would sing today.

  As Peyton neared those sitting in the section on the right side of the aisle, he said hello to Mayor Suggs and his wife Sally. Seated beside them, Sarah and Gordy Denton who’d closed the diner early in honor of Harley’s funeral. Two rows back he spotted Earl Simpson seated beside his wife Sugar who’d worn her funeral hat, a fussy black number with a wide brim swathed in black tulle. Sugar had purchased the hat off eBay from a seller who claimed it had once belonged to Oprah. She was the only guest wearing a hat, which most likely suited her just fine.

  In front of them, on the second row, Henry and Susannah Parker sat with their family—Matt and Julie, Gevin and Emily. And to their immediate left, in the middle of the row, sat Aubrey and her mother Faye. He hadn’t seen them come in, but when Aubrey’s eyes met his, he couldn’t help smiling. He was often emotional at the funeral services he led, but the flutter in his heart at that moment had nothing at all to do with the funeral. He gave her a quick wink and enjoyed the blush that crept onto her cheeks.

  As the string quartet finished playing “Nearer My God to Thee,” Peyton made his way back to the door off the courtyard, meeting Kathleen as she emerged from the house.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, approaching her, immediately aware of the alcohol on her breath. He assumed she’d made a quick visit to the well-stocked liquor cabinet in her office.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He’d seen it all in the handful of funerals he’d conducted in his short time as pastor here. He’d learned early on in his ministry not
to judge anyone for the ways they coped in times of loss. If a glass of wine helped Kathleen get through this day, then so be it.

  “Shall we?” he said, extending his arm to escort her. She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and off they went.

  After seating her on the center aisle seat on the front row, he took the four steps up to the center of the porch area which would serve as the platform today. He stepped behind the podium and looked out on the standing-room-only crowd, taking a brief moment before speaking.

  “I stand here before you on this beautiful autumn afternoon, surrounded by this sea of stunning flowers, in the presence of each and every one of you who have come to honor our dear friend. And I realize, without a shred of doubt, how much Harley would have loved this.”

  He smiled as a subdued, sweet laughter rippled across the crowd. “Because we all know how much he loved a good funeral. But we also know he had some rather strong opinions as to what constituted a ‘good’ funeral. He probably has a framed manifesto of these rules somewhere, though we never came across it. But three of these rules bear repeating before we begin.

  “First, no long drawn-out, open-mic eulogies from people who barely knew him. On that, he was adamant. Right, Kathleen?”

  She nodded with a smile. “Yes, he was.”

  “And no one—absolutely no one is allowed to sing Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “My Way.”

  More soft chuckles, more smiles.

  “And Harley’s rule number one: anyone whose phone rings during the service will be thrown out; anyone answering their phone during the service will be shot.”

  Peyton joined their laughter, shaking his head. “Oh Harley, you were truly one of a kind.

  “Which is why we will not mourn the loss of our friend today, though we already miss him terribly. Instead, we will ask the Lord to bless this time of celebration as we join together to honor his life. We will remember the joy he brought us, the beauty he created for us, the infectious laughter he shared with us, and the memories we will cherish going forward.”

  After a brief prayer, thanking the Lord for His presence with them, he introduced the quartet of Harley’s friends from the Nashville Symphony Orchestra Chorus. “These fine gentlemen will sing a song made famous by Josh Groban. But for us, we will forever remember it as Harley’s best: ‘You Raise Me Up’.”

  Peyton took a seat beside Kathleen as the string quartet played the familiar introduction, so similar to the Scottish hymns of old. The four men dressed in black suits gathered on the other side of the podium. As they sang the hushed first verse in unison, the slideshow Gevin had put together played on the monitor above and behind them. The enormous hooded screen handled the waning light, giving crisp details to the pictures of Harley’s life. The smiling baby with thick brown hair. The beaming little brother gazing adoringly at his curly-haired older sister.

  As the tender melody split into four-part harmony on the prayerful refrain, the screen showed a picture of young Harley singing the lead in a production of Oliver Twist. More theater productions, more concerts. In cap and gown at his high school graduation, his hair touching his shoulders. Photographs from travels abroad. Harley in front of the Eiffel Tower. The Roman Coliseum. At an Italian vineyard. The majestic entrance to Westminster Abbey in London then a castle in Edinburgh.

  As the tenor soloed on the second verse of the song, they watched Harley smiling, dressed in his shop apron, arranging flowers for a bridal bouquet. Harley decorating Braxton Community Church for the holidays with fresh pine wreaths and lighted garlands. Harley singing in the church’s Christmas program, his rendition of “O Holy Night” never failing to bring down the house.

  Next, a succession of photographs of Harley at various charity events with many of Nashville’s celebrities—Vince Gill and Amy Grant, Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman, Martina McBride, the band Little Big Town, and so many others.

  When the next slide appeared, with Harley presiding over an annual convention of the Tennessee Florist Association, the hushed sobs and sniffles of his florist friends across the aisle rose with the modulated crescendo of the song’s final refrain. Harley, receiving the many awards and plaques that covered the walls of his shop. Snapshots with his fellow florists, evidence of their beloved bond and camaraderie.

  And finally, as the song quietly mellowed to its sweet final words, a familiar, up-close photograph of Harley’s happy face. His salt-and-pepper goatee, neatly trimmed, and his infamous toupee perfectly placed. His wide, contagious smile. His kind, warm eyes crinkled with humor.

  Peyton waited for Kathleen to dry her eyes then escorted her up the steps to the podium. Once she composed herself, she turned to the singers now seated on the front row.

  “My dear friends, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.” She dabbed her eyes again with her handkerchief. “Somewhere my brother is boasting to those around him about that beautiful send-off you gave him. Truly, you have touched our hearts today with your voices, and I thank you.”

  She turned to the string quartet seated on the platform to her right. “And thank you, gentlemen, for sharing your extraordinary talents with us today. I’d like to think the glorious background music in heaven will sound just as your instruments have played today. Bless you, gentlemen.”

  As she looked over at Peyton, she offered a teary smile. “Pastor, you are so right. Harley would have loved this. I thank all of you for being here today. In many ways, my brother was larger than life. At times, when he entered a room, with that great big personality and that boisterous laughter … as the saying goes, he would light up the room, wouldn’t he?”

  Heads nodded as guests smiled in agreement.

  She took a deep cleansing breath then continued. “I shall leave the eulogy to our pastor who is far more capable of wording the goodbye we must share today. But of all of us gathered today, I can honestly say I knew Harley the longest. He was my baby brother. And like most brothers and sisters, we had our good times, and our … not-so good times. But even on those days when he aggravated me enough to send smoke shooting from my ears, I couldn’t stay mad for long. I could never resist his attempts to make me laugh. If Harley Creech had a spiritual gift, it was surely that of laughter.”

  Kathleen straightened, fixing a smile on her face as she continued. “But I’m happy to tell you today, that the gracious board of trustees here at Braxton House has granted me permission to set up a room in tribute to my brother, which will be open to the public in just a few weeks. My heart’s desire is for us to remember how he blessed all our lives and to pay it forward, if you will. To bless others in all the ways in which we are individually gifted. I shall look forward to sharing more about our plans at the reception following the service today. Thank you … all of you, for being here today. I’m forever grateful for each and every one of you for spending your afternoon with us as we say goodbye to my brother.”

  As one of the singers helped Kathleen down the steps to her seat, Peyton took her place at the podium.

  “Thank you, Kathleen. I would like to echo your comment about paying it forward. As Harley’s pastor, I must admit he wasn’t one to talk about his faith. Instead, he walked his faith in the many kindnesses and behind-the-scenes services he performed day by day.

  “What a powerful legacy that is—for any of us—to leave behind an example of generosity and kindness and beauty that enhances the lives of those around us. And let’s be honest. Harley had his faults. He wasn’t perfect. But neither am I, and neither are you. What matters is what we do with the life God gave us. What matters is what we do when we fail or falter. When we mess up. Will we let these ‘sins that so easily beset us’ define us for the rest of our lives?

  “Or will we take the hand of forgiveness God offers us through the saving grace of His Son Jesus? The decision is ours to make. He will not force Himself on us. It truly is a gift with no strings attached. It is up to us to receive that gift and allow it to wash us ‘whiter than snow,’ as the scripture says. To give
us freedom over the sins of this world. To give us a future and a hope.”

  He paused for a moment, silently asking God to help him choose the right words.

  “For Harley, the end came tragically and much too soon, in the blink of an eye. I hope that he made his peace with God before he died. The reality is that none of us know the day, the hour, or the minute that will be our last. But let us learn from the loss of our friend. Let us make sure our hearts are in tune with the Lord. Let us make sure we have asked His forgiveness for the sins in our lives. And let us be found ready when at last He calls us home.

  “Is it possible that God is speaking to you today? Is it possible, even here and now, as we’ve reflected on Harley’s life and the suddenness of his passing, that God is tugging at your heart? Don’t miss what He’s offering you. Don’t walk away from the greatest decision you’ll ever—”

  “Oh, LORDY, am I late?”

  He hadn’t seen her until she spoke. The wall of flowers must have hidden her from view, but suddenly, there she was. Approaching the center aisle there in front, at the foot of the steps, twisting and turning on sparkly silver stilettos. Bouncy blonde curls danced with each turn of her head, darting back and forth along the plunging neckline of her bright pink dress.

  “May I help you?” Peyton asked.

  “Is this Harley Creech’s funeral?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Whew! For a minute there I thought I was in the wrong place! Hey, I’m real sorry for busting in like this. I think I got my times mixed up. I never can figure out the differences between time zones.”

  She turned slowly around to face the crowd, placing her hand over her heart. “Oh, hey y’all, I’m so sorry. But I just had to come, what with being Harley’s wife and all.”

  Dead silence.

  “Charlene?”

  The blonde curls whirled again as she approached Kathleen whose face had gone ashen. “Oh my goodness, you must be Harley’s sister! Oh you poor thing,” she said, bending over to hug her, which caused the back of her short dress to slide up her legs.