It was demanding.
Strange, but true and also somewhat startling.
This was because, not only was his frame big but his features on the whole were aggressive. I’d never seen the like. His brow broad and strong. His jaw hard and sculpted. His neck and throat muscled and corded. His cheekbones cut a line from his square chin to his dark sideburn. His nose had clearly once been straight but it had been broken and not set well, he’d gone with that and it was not a bad choice by any stretch of the imagination. And he had a scar across his left cheekbone that stood stark against his formidable features, taking rugged to extremes.
He was not close to me, he was also not far, the day was sunny but from his distance with his sunglasses on, I couldn’t imagine he could see my tears.
Yet I knew without doubt the way his shades were locked to me, he was watching me cry, his face impassive, his gaze unwavering.
I found this strange, his attention and the fact that even if he couldn’t miss I was looking at him, he didn’t look away.
Strange and again somewhat startling.
In order to breathe, with some effort, I tore my eyes from him and saw at his side a young man, perhaps twenty years old, wearing a dark gray suit, a light blue shirt and a rather attractive tie. Although not the spitting image of the man next to him, with his thick black hair, his height, his frame and his features, he could not be anything but the man’s son.
I pulled my eyes from the young man and looked the other direction only to see a young woman, maybe fifteen, sixteen, long red hair and delicate features set firmly at bored. She was standing slightly away from the man, arms crossed. I didn’t know why I knew, she looked not a thing like him, but I still knew she was also his.
Down my gaze went and I saw standing in front of the man was a boy, maybe eight, nine years old. Again, the dark hair, the frame that would grow to be tall and strong, it was impossible not to see he was another offspring of that man. It helped that he was leaning against the man’s legs and the man had his fingers curled around the boy’s shoulder.
The boy seemed uncomfortable and—I peered closer without giving away I was doing it—his face was red. Either he was crying or he had been.
He knew Gran.
Obviously, they all did, being at Gran’s funeral, but that boy, at least, knew her well.
Gran and I talked regularly, several times a week, and she’d told me (in some detail) about a variety of people in her town. I’d also lived there for a time when I was young and visited her frequently over the years, so I knew many of them personally.
She’d never told me about that family.
I would remember that family.
I looked no further, turning my eyes back to the casket. I didn’t want to see the woman that was undoubtedly somewhere at that family’s side.
I didn’t need to see her to know her.
I knew she’d likely be a redhead. That was the only “likely” thing I knew. The rest of what she would be was certain.
She’d be unnaturally slim or attractively curvy, depending on what that man’s preferences were. What she would not be was a woman who looked like she’d borne him three children over twenty years and had let her body or herself go in any way. Not that, never that. If she did, she’d lose him. For certain. His eye would wander and she’d be replaced. Therefore, she’d do all she could do to make certain that didn’t happen.
She’d also look younger than her years. She’d go to pains to do this. Most definitely.
And, considering his suit and how well their children were turned out, she’d be stylish, her clothes and shoes expensive, as would be her hairstyle (and she would have no gray), her manicure, pedicure, everything.
He would accept nothing less, that man. He would have what he wanted and if he didn’t get it, he’d throw what he had away and he’d find it.
I put him out of my mind as the preacher thanked people for coming, on behalf of himself and me.
His speaking for me might annoy me if I didn’t know that Gran liked him so much, not to mention went to church regularly. And when that became hard for her, I knew that Reverend Fletcher had arranged for someone to pick her up, take her to services, take her out to breakfast and then take her home. Sometimes, when no one was to be found or just because she liked doing it, this someone was Reverend Fletcher’s wife.
It was a nice thing to do. Gran needed to get out. She was social. But she was also independent, stubborn and didn’t like to ask for help. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t accept it if offered. And she accepted it from the Fletchers.
Reverend Fletcher nodded to me and I stood, feeling the tears drying rough on my face, making the skin scratchy. I still didn’t touch it. I could do that later, when I was alone. Now, I had my hat and my sunglasses to hide behind. And I would use them.
I felt people milling about as I made my way to Reverend Fletcher. When I got close, I offered my hand. Just my hand, I kept the rest of my body distant to make a point.
I was not a hugger, not touchy, not affectionate.
Not with anyone but Gran.
He got my point. He took only my hand, closing his around mine firm and warm, and he murmured, “Lydia will be missed, Josephine.”
He was correct.
She would be.
I swallowed and nodded once. “She will. It was a lovely service, Reverend. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear.” His hand squeezed mine. “And please, if you’re staying in town a while, come over to Ruth and my house. We’d enjoy having you for dinner.”
“That’s a lovely offer, Reverend. I’ll think about it and let you know,” I replied quietly as I put pressure on my hand for him to release it, knowing as I said it that I would most definitely not be having dinner with him and his wife.
Gran was social.
I was not.
He let my hand go.
I gave him a small smile and turned away. I wanted to get to my car and get back to Lavender House. Fortunately, Gran had instructed that she didn’t want a maudlin get-together after her funeral and this meant that I could get away from that place and these people and not have to endure munching on hors d’oeuvres and listening to people tell me what I already knew.
How great Gran was and how sad it was she was gone.
This desire of Gran’s was probably for me. She knew her two sons wouldn’t show. My dad and uncle had long since disappeared from her life and mine. And if they did show (which, thankfully, they didn’t), the idea of them socializing, even at a post-funeral get-together, would be alarming. Neither of them was young and I’d not seen them in decades but I knew without a doubt that if they were still alive, they had not changed.
They never would.
They were apples that fell right to the root of the tree. Not Gran’s tree. My grandfather’s. And he was mean as a snake, selfish, controlling and all of these to the point where it wasn’t in question he was mentally unstable.