I went to school with some of them.”
The rise of organ music signaled that the service was about to begin. A minister strode down the aisle and stopped to shake hands with Peter and with Angela’s parents before ascending to the podium. He read a short, dry eulogy in a detached monotone and as he droned on, Carlotta realized that the man had probably never met Angela Ashford or, if he had, that he didn’t know her. He divulged no personal details, nothing to conjure up images of Angela as a living, breathing human being.
The same was true for the three women (all of them with names ending in “i”), who had apparently requested or had been asked by the family to talk about Angela.
“She loved Peter more than anything,” Staci gushed into the microphone. “The day they were married was the happiest day of her life.”
“She worked out and took care of herself,” Lori said. “Everyone on the tennis team is really going to miss her.”
“Her house was her pride and joy,” Tami said, “down to the last flower arrangement.”
“Egad,” Hannah whispered behind her hand. “If that was her life, she’s probably glad she’s dead.”
Helplessness tightened Carlotta’s chest as she remembered the two sentences the radio announcer had used to sum up Angela’s life and death. The indifference was heartbreaking, but Carlotta had expected more out of the woman’s friends.
“Would anyone else like to share their memories of Angela?” the minister asked, giving the audience a cursory glance.
Stand up, Carlotta willed Peter. If you had any feelings for this woman, don’t let people leave here thinking that the sum of her existence was being your wife, going to the gym and living in a big house.
“Very well,” the minister said.
“Wait,” Carlotta said, lurching to her feet. She felt everyone’s heads turn toward her and the weight of their attention fall on her.
“Yes?” the minister said. “You’d like to say something?”
Now what? her racing mind screamed. Her gaze flitted over the expectant crowd and to the bewildered expression on Peter’s face.
“Go ahead,” the minister urged.
Carlotta wet her lips and clamped her hands on the back of the seat in front of her. “Angela and I were friends a long time ago,” she said, her voice high and shaking. She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “A lifetime ago really—we were just kids, trying to make sense of things.” She gave a little laugh. “Angela had a talent for drawing cartoons. She would make up characters and stories about them and put together her own little comic books. She was really good at it, and said that she’d like to draw comics for a living someday.”
The room was deadly quiet now, and Carlotta’s throat tightened. Fervently wishing she’d never stood up, she pressed on. “Angela bit her fingernails to the quick, she always dreamed of owning a pinto-colored horse and she could hit the high note in ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’I remember her saying that one of her favorite movies was Awakenings—she was captivated by the fact that people could be frozen inside themselves, and how agonizing it must be to want to get out and not be able.”
People were gaping at her now, and she realized that this crowd didn’t really want to hear anything deep or meaningful about the woman in the casket. They simply wanted to do their duty as neighbors and club members and put in ass-time at the funeral. Some of them were already glancing at their watches. Angela’s parents seemed confused and although Peter was smiling, based on the way people were looking back and forth between them, she wasn’t so sure that was a good thing.
“She’ll be missed,” Carlotta finished abruptly, then sat down.
“That was memorable,” Hannah muttered.
As the minister brooked the awkward pause with a thank-you and some throat-clearing, she could feel people’s sideways glances land on her and whisperings ensue.
“Who is that?”
“Is she drunk?”
“What was she talking about?”
In front of her, the Clone Club was practically buzzing. Her face flamed as she shifted in her seat. In trying to reveal a side of Angela that no one else seemed privy to (or would own up to), she’d simply made a spectacle of herself. And the kicker was, she couldn’t explain what had made her do what she’d done.
At the side of the room, she caught the eye of Cooper Craft, who was staring at her with a little smile. He inclined his head as if to say “well done,” but she couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t making fun of her.
She stared at her hands for the rest of the service, standing at the end to join in the processional past the casket and to shake hands with the family. Her feet felt like lead as she made her way up the aisle, but she shuffled along until she stood before Angela’s parents and Peter. Even as she shook hands with the stoic couple, she felt Peter’s gaze on her. When she finally looked at him, his blue, blue eyes bored into her, and she could sense that he was holding himself back from embracing her. He clasped her hand and squeezed her fingers, sending wholly inappropriate sensations tumbling through her body. Her heart expanded painfully.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, just as if she were anybody…or nobody.
“You’re welcome,” she said, then pulled her hand away and followed the crowd out into the parlor where people were pouring out the front door, moving toward their cars, already discussing where they might have lunch. On the other side of the foyer, Cooper Craft stood erect with his hands folded in front of him, a serene expression on his face, the picture of poise and comfort.
“There won’t be a graveside service?” an older woman was demanding to know.
“Um, no, ma’am.”
“Why not?” the woman pressed, clearly affronted.
“Mrs. Ashford requested that her body be cremated, ma’am, rather than be buried.”
“Cremated? Burned alive?”
He wiped his hand across his mouth, but to his credit, kept a straight face. “It’s a very respectful procedure, ma’am, and good for the environment.”
The woman hmphed and walked away, shaking her head. Coop smiled in Carlotta’s direction, and Hannah nudged her from behind. “Introduce us.”
Carlotta threw Hannah a withering look, then stepped toward him. “Hello,” she said as they walked up.
“Hi,” Coop said, his light brown eyes crinkling in a smile. The man had nice eyes, she conceded, and wondered what he looked like without his glasses.
Hannah bumped her from behind. “Oh, um, Cooper Craft, this is my friend Hannah Kizer.”
Coop stuck out his hand. “How do you do?”
“Thoroughly,” Hannah cooed, practically licking her lips as she clung to his hand.
Carlotta laughed nervously. “I didn’t realize that Motherwell’s was your family’s
