so much about her.
“Thank you,” she said softly. She tipped her head to look at him and he saw gratitude in her eyes.
Well, maybe she cared a little.
“I’m very sorry about your grandmother. She was one of a kind.”
Catherine smiled faintly. “She certainly was. I still can’t believe it’s true.” She looked at the massive home before her, its gleaming windows and glossy gray porch floor sparkling back at her. “Maybe once I’ve been inside I’ll realize she’s gone.”
I wouldn’t count on it, he thought grimly as he followed her into the house. This place was as alive with memories of Abigail as a house could possibly be.
Still carrying her shoes, Catherine stared up at the mansion that was her childhood home. This was where she belonged right now, she realized, as she was swept up in an overpowering sense of rightness, of home. This was the repository for her family’s history, this quaint step-back-in-time place. It was particularly true of her great-grandfather, Obadiah Elias Stanhope.
Obadiah had come from Illinois in the late 1800s and opened a small bank on Main Street. A savvy man who wasn’t afraid of either risk or criticism, Obadiah had, during the Great Depression, amassed a number of failing banks and invested prudently. Thus the Stanhope banking fortune was born and the Stanhope name embedded in the very fabric of the town. He’d built a mansion for his beloved wife and son and, eventually, daughter-in-law, Abigail. Now she, Obadiah’s great-granddaughter, was the only remaining Stanhope. What might Obadiah have expected of her? He was a man of grand ideas and splendid schemes. A weighty blanket of duty and obligation settled around her shoulders like a thick wool cape, unwieldy, confining and fraught with responsibility—the very things she’d tried to leave behind in her law practice.
She could see people milling around inside the house, holding coffee cups and plates of food. Mr. and Mrs. Flatley, owners of Pleasant’s only motel, were there, awkwardly balancing plates of food on their knees. Even the gentleman from Stop-In station was there, though Catherine knew he was relatively new to town. Others were on the wide expanse of porch, including Stanley Wilder and his wife, who ran the drugstore. In fact, everyone who’d ever lived in Pleasant seemed to be present. Aunt Ellen, her mother’s sister, was pouring coffee from a silver server and her uncle Max was handing around a tray of dainty sandwiches that the church ladies had provided. It was a party Abigail would have enjoyed.
“Ms. Stanhope?” A deep male voice rumbled near her ear.
A large, gray-haired man came into her line of vision. “I’m Dr. Benjamin Randall, Abigail’s physician. She was a wonderful woman, your grandmother, good to the hospital and very gracious to me. This is a great loss for everyone who knew her. My condolences.”
As the big man’s intent blue eyes bored into her, Catherine was suddenly overcome with a shortness of breath. She opened her mouth to respond, but when she took one step forward, it was as if she were being moved by puppet strings. Confusions overtook her. Then someone cut all the strings and Catherine slipped to the ground in a dead faint.
She awoke to the anxious faces of Will, Emma, Uncle Max, Aunt Ellen and several of her grandmother’s friends peering down at her as she lay on the lumpy horsehair couch Abigail had insisted was Obadiah’s favorite. There was worried muttering in the background.
“Sorry, I…I…” she began. Then a plastic dump truck landed on her chest. Following it was the face of a small boy with shaggy brown hair, deep brown eyes, round pink cheeks and a hopeful expression.
“My dump truck always made Grandma Abby feel better,” he said with sublime innocence. “You can play with it if you want.” Then he smiled at her, the sweet, trusting smile that children usually save for the people they love most.
The wall around her heart softened and she reached her hand out to the boy. Before she could speak, a familiar but frowning dark figure swooped down on the child and picked him up.
“This isn’t the time or place, little buddy,” Will Tanner said to the child. “It’s very nice of you to offer to share your dump truck, but I don’t think Ms. Stanhope is in the mood right now. Let’s get you a soda.”
“But Grandma Abby said if everyone would put their problems in my truck and send it to the dump, they’d all be happier,” the young voice piped. “Don’t you want that lady to be happy?” His words grew farther away as he was spirited into the kitchen. A hint of laughter spread through the room.
Emma, looking relieved that Catherine had stirred, helped her to her feet. “That’s Will Tanner’s nephew, Charley. He’s only eight and hasn’t quite grasped the fact that Abigail is gone. He was only trying to help.”
And he had, Catherine thought. He’d interjected some lightness into the dark moment. She was grateful for something tangible to do away with the disconnected feelings she was experiencing. The child was right, too. She’d love to send her current toxic troubles to some faraway place. He’d also reminded her that she did have control over how she responded to what was before her. She’d have to thank Charley later—and find out exactly why he was calling her grandmother “Grandma.”
She was not the only one in this room who was grieving. Besides, Abigail would have expected her to recognize that, Catherine reminded herself. Just because she was steeping in a brew of vulnerability and grief, she still had responsibilities. She had people to greet. What she couldn’t do for herself, she would do for her grandmother. That included being a gracious hostess for those who’d come to pay their respects.
She rose from the couch with a weak smile. She was accustomed to hiding her emotions from a jury. She could do it here, too. “No harm done. I haven’t eaten much today. I was just a little faint, that’s all.” She waved a hand toward the milling guests. “Please, keep visiting. Don’t worry about me. I want this to be a celebration of my grandmother’s life.”
Reluctantly at first, and then with more gusto, the guests began to talk among themselves, telling stories about Abigail and even erupting into laughter at the memories. Catherine made her way to the vast dining-room table where a buffet was set up and picked up a sandwich so she’d have something in her stomach. Then she moved from group to group accepting the sympathetic comments and gestures of affection the people of Pleasant had to offer.
“Catherine!” Mrs. Margolis, her third-grade teacher, grabbed her by the hand and embraced her in a hug that nearly suffocated her. The dear woman still wore White Shoulders perfume after all these years. Eddie Henke, the milkman, looked distraught. Abigail had befriended him many times and he wanted to tell Catherine about each of them.
One by one, people approached her to tell Catherine the ways that her grandmother had blessed them—making donations to the park fund, paying doctor bills, buying braces for a needy child. But as she moved toward a group of people from Gram’s church, she was brought up sharply. “Catherine, we have to talk.”
The tone of Aunt Ellen’s voice brought her to a halt. Automatically, Catherine steeled herself. She loved her aunt even though they rarely saw eye to eye. This was the one conversation Catherine had hoped to avoid today, but there was no way to stop the inevitable.
“So,” Ellen said, “I hear you left your job in Minneapolis.” Her face puckered as she said it, as if the words were distasteful. Ellen was pencil thin and dressed to the nines. Her hair, cut in an asymmetrical bob, looked like a piece of architecture. She was wide-eyed and unlined thanks to the nips and tucks she used to fend off old age. Unfortunately Ellen had also removed much of the personality
