A Willful Marriage. Peggy Moreland
to the bleak landscape surrounding it. The casket itself bore a blanket of yellow roses. Inside, he knew, lay his grandfather. Brett waited a moment, testing himself to see if he felt anything. A glimmer of recognition. A stab of grief. A sliver of regret. But nothing came. Not one blessed thing.
With a philosophical shrug, he let his gaze move on. A couple of rows of folding chairs beneath the canopy seated those who had arrived early enough not to have to stand out in the cold. None of the chairs’ occupants appeared to be less than seventy years of age.
Except one.
His gaze settled on the woman in the front row—the area usually reserved for family. Although people stood on the perimeter of the tent huddled under dripping umbrellas and shaking from the cold, the seats on either side of her remained empty. She was a striking woman; young, dressed all in black. Her hair was the color of spun gold, a halo of sunshine riding a sea of black.
Even from his distance, he could see that her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but she kept her shoulders straight, her chin high and her eyes on the minister who was now reading from the Bible. Occasionally, her gaze would slip to the casket and her eyes would fill. Quickly she would look away, back to the minister, in an obvious attempt to keep the grief at bay.
Something about the woman pulled at Brett, and he found he couldn’t look away. Although others might be swayed by the fact that she was crying, he knew that wasn’t what held him. He’d had years to become immune to the debilitating power of a woman’s tears.
What was it about her that was so intriguing? he wondered. Maybe it was the way she held herself, he decided, her chin lifted just a fraction higher than, good posture required. As he studied her, he couldn’t help wondering whether it was pride or defiance that kept her chin at that angle.
Being isolated as she was from the other mourners only added to the mystique that surrounded her. Brett knew if he were sitting in a bar or roaming a cocktail party instead of standing on the edge of a cemetery plot, he would already have made his move.
Who was she? he wondered. As far as he knew, Ned Parker had no relatives to grieve over his passing—other than himself, of course, but Brett didn’t consider himself a relative. It took more than blood to make a family, and blood was all they had between them. By his estimation, the old man would have been about eighty-three, and this woman couldn’t be much more than twenty-five, so it would be ridiculous to think she’d been a friend…Or maybe she had been a friend of sorts, he thought, as a new possibility surfaced. Like a mistress, maybe. From what his mother had told him, it would be like the old goat to keep a young woman around to entertain him.
And now, here the woman sat in front of the whole town, grieving for a man old enough to be her grandfather. His suspicions rose a notch higher. Maybe she was crying because with his death, her life of leisure and luxury was at an end. He knew the old man was worth a bundle. His mother had told him that. But she’d also told him how stingy he was. He wondered if that stinginess extended to his mistresses. If so, then maybe she was putting on a show to win the town’s sympathy in hopes that if the true heirs didn’t show up, she could get her hands on his money.
He turned away in disgust. As far as he was concerned, she could have it all.
At the last amen, signaling the end of the service, Gayla lifted her head and stood on rubbery legs numbed by the cold. She took the hand the minister offered and squeezed her gratitude. “Thank you, Reverend Brown. I know Ned would have been pleased with your remarks.”
The reverend patted their joined hands. “I doubt it,” he whispered for her ears only. “But one can always hope.” The comment was so full of the truth, Gayla couldn’t help but smile, for Ned Parker probably wouldn’t have been pleased to hear kind words spoken over his grave. If he’d had his way, he would have been buried in a pine box with no one but the gravediggers on hand for the ceremony. But Gayla had been equally determined that he would receive a proper and Christian burial, and the Reverend Mark Brown had honored her request.
With a last squeeze of her hand, the reverend stepped aside to let the rest of the mourners pass by the casket for one final view. A few offered their hands to Gayla, but most ignored her presence. Their coolness didn’t offend her; she’d had years to grow accustomed to the town’s constant censure.
The sight of the last man in line, though, drew a quivering smile. John Thomas, Ned’s attorney. John had served as Ned’s attorney for more than twelve years, ever since the death of John’s own father who had originally carried the responsibility.
When John reached her, he not only took her hand, but drew her against his chest for a tight hug. The tears that Gayla had fought throughout the service broke through.
She stepped away, dabbing at her eyes and cheeks. She dragged in a shuddery breath, keeping her arm at John’s waist while angling her body so that they both faced the casket. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Neither can I.” Gayla tightened her hold on him, sharing his sorrow and offering silent support. “The old codger put up a good fight, didn’t he?” he said gruffly.
Fresh tears welled and Gayla could only nod her agreement.
John’s chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. “Heaven will never be the same,” he said with a shake of his head. “He’s probably already got a poker game going and is stripping the angels of their golden harps while he calmly smokes one of those damn stinking cigars of his.”
Gayla couldn’t help but laugh, for John was probably right. She looked up at him, grateful to him for giving her a reason to smile when her world seemed to be crashing down around her. “Thanks, John. You’ve been a good friend, to Ned and to me.”
“And I’m still here for you. Don’t forget that,” he warned, shaking a finger beneath her nose.
“I won’t.”
The gravediggers appeared, anxious to finish their work and get out of the cold. Unable to watch this final scene, Gayla turned away. John seemed to understand her need to escape. He took her elbow and they walked in silence to the waiting car. “Have you heard from Ned’s daughter?” she asked, trying her best to keep her tone light and free of the fears that nagged at her.
John frowned. “No, though I’d hoped she’d at least have the decency to come to the funeral.”
“Ned always said she wouldn’t come, even for that. I guess he was right.” At the car door, she paused, not wanting to ask, but needing an answer to the question that still plagued her. “When will I need to move?”
John opened the door for her, a frown furrowing his forehead. “Don’t you worry about that now. Until Ned’s daughter shows up to claim her inheritance, there’s no need to make any changes. When you feel up to it, open Parker House for guests again. We’ll take care of the rest as the need arises. But for now,” he said, urging her into the car, “why don’t you go home and get out of the cold? You’ll feel better once you’ve had some rest.”
Brett had gone to the cemetery on a whim. Why, he wasn’t sure. The old man meant nothing to him. Yet, for some reason the service had left him restless and out of sorts. Eventually hunger drew him to a restaurant where he stopped to grab a bite to eat before finding a place to stay the night.
On the way inside, he plucked a local newspaper from a rack for company during his meal. Once the waitress had seated him and he’d placed his order, he settled back to thumb through the pages. Most of the front-page news was local stuff. On the second page, though, a headline caught his eye. Services Scheduled For Longtime Braesburg Resident. The obituary carried a picture, although anyone’s photograph could have been placed there and Brett wouldn’t have known the difference. He’d never seen his grandfather in person and if his mother had owned a picture of the man, she’d never shown it to Brett.
He read the article more out of boredom than anything else. Member of the Chamber of Commerce, Kiwanis Club. It appears the old man was at least civically, if not family oriented, he thought