I could certainly wait to start worrying about it until after Bob Kline’s funeral.
Pauline and I drove to the church together. She sat stony-faced in the passenger seat. “I did all my crying last night,” she said. But I could see tears glittering in the corner of her eye.
The small church was nearly overflowing with people. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, and fragrant lilies spilled out of tall vases in the sanctuary. Everything looked so beautiful, it almost seemed like a celebration—except for the fact that there, front and center, was the coffin I’d watched Bob make, white rose petals scattered across the lid.
When it came time for the eulogy, Kit Adams couldn’t speak; she shook her head mutely, tears streaming down her face, until a man rose and carefully helped her down from the pulpit. Then he took her place and stood there silently for a moment, looking out at all of us, a faint, sad smile on his lips.
He was tall, with dark hair that had obviously been cut for the occasion. He wore a dark suit but no tie. He was tan, like someone who worked outside, and he gripped the sides of the pulpit with strong, calloused hands. I felt a flicker of recognition when his eyes met mine, because I saw again Bob’s intense, dark-eyed gaze.
The man took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “My father was a lucky man,” he began. “Although it didn’t start out that way. His childhood wasn’t easy: He was the kid with the too-big shoes, newspaper stuffed in the toes, and the pants that were more patches than pants. The kid who ate government cheese and who didn’t have a dad. The kid whose mom worked so hard, trying to provide for him, that she was hardly ever home. But she loved him and encouraged him, and he worked as hard as she did. He went to school and he studied like crazy and—” The man stopped and shook his head. “Oh, boy, this sounds pretty boilerplate, doesn’t it? Another story of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. The cliché of the American Dream. Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true. My dad believed in luck, without a doubt, but only if you worked hard enough to deserve it—which he did. One day when he was twenty-two, he had the luck of walking into the Kansas City Star about five minutes after the old crime beat reporter had quit in a huff. That’s how he became a journalist.” He looked up and almost smiled. “Although my dad would have me remind you that he was also a very good carpenter, especially once he retired.
“Anyway, not long after he became a reporter, he had the luck to get his Friday night plans mixed up, and he met my mother on a date she was supposed to be on with someone else. After they married, he went to Vegas for a conference, where he played craps for the first time ever. He walked away with enough money to buy a BMW—a used one, but still. When I was six, I wanted to play baseball, so he got a glove and started playing in the backyard, and pretty soon he joined a club team for kicks. He got so good that a scout from the Royals farm team came out to take a look at him.” He paused, and this time he smiled for real. “They didn’t want him, because he was too old, but that’s beside the point.” Laughter now mixed with the sound of sniffles.
“And he was beyond lucky to know and love all of you,” the man went on. “Even having a bad heart was lucky. My father didn’t want to die, any more than you or I do, but when death came for him, it was quick and merciful. I believe in luck and magic because he did. I am a lucky man because Robert James Kline was my father.”
Bob Kline’s son stopped, turned toward the coffin, and held his hands over his heart. And then he stepped down from the pulpit and sank into a pew.
I cried hard then—for Bob and his family most, but also for everyone in that church. Because we’d all lost a lot over the course of our lives, and we would lose still more. Not even luck would save us from that.
But the tears were cleansing, and I welcomed them.
Chapter 30
WHEN THE service was over, everyone moved to the church courtyard, where a buffet lunch had been set up under a large white tent. I wasn’t hungry, but I could appreciate the spread of fried chicken, ribs, baked beans, and potato salad—the kind of old-fashioned, stick-to-your-ribs dishes I hadn’t had in years.
Pauline walked over to me, followed by Bob’s son, who, unlike the rest of us, had made it through his eulogy without crying. But he looked paler now. Exhausted.
“This is Anne,” she said to him curtly, as if neither he nor I needed any other explanation for the introduction. And then she walked away, wiping her eyes and sniffling. A moment later, she turned back around and called, “You know what to do.”
I looked at Bob’s handsome son and thought, I hope she’s talking to him, because I sure don’t.
The son offered me a slightly discomfited smile. He was probably a year or two younger than me, and at least eight inches taller.
“Hello, Anne,” he said as we shook hands. “I’m Jason. Jason Kline. Though I guess that last part’s obvious.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. I knew he’d heard it a thousand times today, but what else could I offer?
“Thank you,” he said. He sounded genuinely grateful. Then he added, “My dad told me about you.”
“He did?” I asked. I shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “Did he say, ‘So there was this crazy lady who walked up and asked me about the coffin’?”
“It’s technically a casket, actually. A casket has four sides, but a coffin has six, plus the top and the bottom. Think of what Dracula slept in—that’s a coffin.” Then he stopped. “Sorry, does that seem condescending? Or maybe just morbid, even for a funeral?”
“I don’t know. I’m feeling confused in general,” I admitted. “Like why I’m so sad, and why I’m even here. I mean, your father was a wonderful man, that was obvious to me. But I met him for all of an hour. And here I am, thousands of miles from where I live, mourning him in a dress that isn’t even black because I’ve been traveling and I don’t have one.”
Jason’s smile grew warmer. “He told me you were ‘a good one.’ He said I ought to tell you that if I ever met you. I know he’d be glad you were here.”
“That’s so kind, though I barely understand why.”
“He just liked you right off,” Jason said. “He fancied himself an excellent judge of character.”
“As well as an excellent carpenter,” I said.
“Exactly,” Jason said. “I also think you gave him a chance to appreciate his life. Not that he hadn’t before, of course. But looking back on it with you—a perfect stranger—he saw it all over again for the wonderful thing it was.”
“So maybe the moral of the story is ‘be kind to strangers,’” I said. “I feel like that’s something I’ve been learning lately.”
“Be grateful for what you have, and be nice to people,” Jason agreed. “I think most people are pretty decent at heart, don’t you?”
I nodded in agreement. Everyone I’d met on this trip had been damn near great.
Jason looked down at the ground for a moment before looking up and meeting my eye again. “My dad said something else. But it’s going to sound crazy.”
I said, “I don’t mind crazy.”
“He said that I was supposed to ask you out for dinner.”
“Really?” I asked, taken aback.
“Really. He said, Son, take my advice for once.”
I had to laugh then. “You have trouble with that, too?”
“Very much,” he said.
“So in that case you’re not asking…,” I began.
“Yes I am,” he said. “I’m asking you out to dinner. At my dad’s funeral. I know it’s nuts. I know you live a thousand miles away. And I know I’m going to start crying halfway through the first course. But I’m doing what he told me to do, because I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. And I know I won’t see him ever again. So, will you go? There’s a nice little Italian place…”
I paused. I thought about all I’d done and seen on my journey so far, and how every single day, I’d had to be open to chance.
To sorrow, too.
And to luck.