her hand and led her through the bar area and to a back room, much quieter, with a row of secluded, leather booths near the window. Tables were also set up throughout the space, but the voices were low murmurs, not part of their private world for two. She heard only a quiet tinkling of cutlery as other people dined, and the faint rattle of ice buckets as champagne glasses were filled and refilled.
Now was her moment. The tension in Jessica’s neck subsided. Just before Christmas, Sebastien had casually asked her what kind of engagement rings she liked. She’d thought maybe he would propose to her at Christmas, but he hadn’t. New Year’s Eve passed without a proposal, too. Valentine’s Day—their anniversary—was the most logical day...
Relaxing into the booth, she accepted a goblet of wine from Sebastien.
Over the candlelight, he lifted his glass. His eyes looked deeply into hers.
Usually, she let her gaze drift away. It was embarrassing to let people stare into her eyes for too long. Off-putting. But Sebastien seemed so insistent that this time, she didn’t look away.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
Her heart was pounding. Would this be the moment she’d been waiting for? Her gaze flicked to the pocket of his suit jacket. No telltale bulge from a jeweler’s box.
She glanced back to his eyes, holding her breath...
“Is everything okay with you?” he asked.
“Of course!”
“You were in the bathroom a long time. I was concerned.”
“Was I? Please don’t be.”
Just then, a loud gasp went up from the table behind her. It sounded like a feminine expression of happiness.
Jessica turned in her booth. The couple behind them were hugging and kissing. The woman had teary eyes. She was glancing with pleasure at a new round solitaire with a platinum band settled around her beautifully manicured ring finger.
Jessica couldn’t lie, her first emotion was bone-deep envy. A longing for what she didn’t have, so familiar from the emptiness of her childhood. But she fixed her smile and turned back to Sebastien. “Isn’t that nice?”
Sebastien’s gaze had shuttered. He’d put down his wineglass. Whatever had been between them in those earlier moments when they’d first sat down, had somehow broken.
Sebastien picked up his menu. “Good for them,” was all he said about it.
JOE MANSELL’S WAKE was in Wallis Point’s sole funeral parlor, a refurbished Victorian mansion that, one hundred years ago, had been built by Wallis Point’s wealthiest citizen.
Kyle stood in the back, away from as much of the action as possible, feeling suffocated in his suit and tie. He’d wanted to cut out early, but as the only family member, he couldn’t. The funeral director had tagged him the moment he’d walked in the door and pulled him aside, giving Kyle the day’s agenda.
Evidently, Kyle had duties. Joe had planned the whole thing, and Kyle was to stay for the prayer service to speak his part.
He was in hell.
Kyle shifted onto his good leg. Maybe he had a bad attitude where Joe was concerned, but Kyle still hadn’t forgotten years of his stepfather’s verbal abuse. Joe had been like a drill sergeant. The fact that Joe had been a Vietnam veteran might have explained it, but didn’t excuse it, in Kyle’s opinion. Still, after Kyle had attended boot camp himself he’d understood Joe a little more.
Joe had always needed that sense of order and discipline. A world where the rules were clear and the consequences for breaking them were set out.
But Kyle had always thought Joe had taken it too far. He’d been rude and angry most days, and Kyle didn’t want to be angry, not like him.
He shifted his weight to his other side.
A lot of people had shown up for the service, and Kyle was taken aback by the show of love and support for the cranky old man. Then again, Joe had behaved like a good guy to mostly everybody else. He’d liked to sit in his office in the front of the rink and listen to anybody who came to him with a problem. Jessa Hughes, for one.
“He wanted to be cremated,” Kyle heard one of the mourners say. “Didn’t want people seeing him in a casket.”
Joe’s ashes were in a gold urn on a central table covered with a maroon cloth. A photo of Joe, a candid, taken at the rink about thirty years ago judging by the haircut and his youth, sat beside it. It was a good shot, and it captured what a good guy Joe could be. A lump formed in Kyle’s throat.
The funeral director, Henry, brought over Reverend Ellsworth to introduce them both.
“Joe chose two scripture readings and a song,” the reverend informed Kyle. “He asked if you would please read the Twenty-third Psalm. Are you comfortable with that?”
Kyle stiffened. He hadn’t been to church since his mom had made him when he was young. After she’d died, he’d sort of been against it. Joe had, too. Kyle was lost, and he wasn’t ever going to be found.
“Reverend Ellsworth will be giving the eulogy,” Henry said.
“Fine,” Kyle replied. “I’ll do the psalm reading.” Psalms were short, after all.
“Then we’ll be ending the service with a song that Joe chose. Are you familiar with the Byrd’s Turn! Turn! Turn! Lyrics taken almost verbatim from the Book of Ecclesiastes.”
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven, Kyle thought.
He hadn’t known that Joe had embraced religion again. Kyle just wanted to get through this day. Honestly, he’d been through too many military funerals these past years, and each of those had been a special kind of suck, but this one...it reminded him of being a kid at his mom’s funeral. Twelve years old. Standing beside Joe. Joe had arranged that one, too. Kyle had been too devastated to be of much use. He’d thought his life had ended. In a sense, it had.
Henry led him to stand before Joe’s gold urn. Henry was a tall, polite man who was good at his funeral director job. His demeanor was calm and peaceful, so composed at dealing with bereavement. Comfortable with death.
Kyle gritted his teeth.
People that Kyle had forgotten approached him to offer their condolences. Mostly these were people from his old rink world. Guys who’d run the Zamboni, the snack bar. Lots of skaters and hockey players. They all shook Kyle’s hand.
There were a bunch of mourners Kyle didn’t recognize, too, but they looked like figure-skating people. Joe’s rink had two ice surfaces. Technically, the place was called the Wallis Point Twin Rinks. One rink had been mostly used by the local figure skating club. Periodically they hosted competitions and then they would take over both rinks. And when there were hockey tournaments they took both rinks, too. That was Kyle’s world back then. He’d wanted nothing more than to be an NHL player, but once he’d joined
