frowned. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
The sun’s rays kissed the top of Rose’s head. I didn’t want to do anything but watch it shimmer. “You should let your hair down,” I said. “You’d feel the breeze if you did.”
Rose grasped my shoulders and pulled me to my feet. “I’m not sure where your mind is at, but the undertaker is ready for the procession to the cemetery.”
Procession? The few mourners from town—some clients of father’s and the odd academic or two—had departed once they’d satisfied their morbid curiosity. Our neighbors, respectful of our privacy, left sandwiches and canned asparagus at the back door, along with a prayer card. I preferred their method.
Rose brushed the dirt from my dress and guided me toward the hearse parked on our cobblestone portico. Dressed in black suits, the undertaker and his men rushed about like a flock of Poe’s ravens, flittering in and out of the house, opening and closing doors, ushering us into the hot cocoon of the hearse’s inner cabin. I immediately opened a window and stuck my head into the spring air. Rose kept her window closed and turned her back to the glass.
The car moved slowly through downtown Forest Grove. We passed the grocery, where Mr. Madden was sweeping the entryway. He stopped and saluted as our sedan passed.
“Does he know father wasn’t in the armed forces?” Rose asked. I nearly jumped a foot when she said it. I hadn’t noticed she’d moved so close to me.
“I don’t think he knows what else to do.” I saluted him back.
We passed the butcher, the watchmaker, the cobbler—the three men standing in front of their establishments, heads bowed as we lumbered by.
Rose leaned forward to get a better look. “Are they praying?”
“I think so.” A lump formed quickly in my throat. Father had been an eccentric presence in town, but never failed to offer a smile and a tip of the hat to every soul he encountered. They remembered him, and their tribute touched my heart. I twitched with the unexpected desire to embrace the entire town.
We turned down Plum Street, just blocks from the graveyard. Mrs. O’Neill herself stepped out of O’Neill’s Coiffures. Father brought me to her salon the previous fall, where I sat perched at the edge of a lavender stool while the old lady bobbed my hair with a ruler. I’d asked her to make me look like Clara Bow and she didn’t bat an eyelash, humming “Ain’t We Got Fun” the whole time she had the scissors at my neck. I waved and called to her.
“This isn’t a parade,” Rose muttered. She retreated to her dark corner of the cabin.
“But it is,” I said. “Open your window and have a look behind us.”
Mrs. O’Neill joined a group following the hearse on foot. I spotted Mr. Madden, white starched apron still tied tightly around his waist, and Mr. Lawrence, father’s solicitor. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. Mrs. O’Neill offered him a quick smile, and he took her arm.
“Do you think they’ll come back to the house afterward?” Rose asked, worrying at her lower lip. “I don’t have enough to feed everyone. If I’d known we were hosting a reception, I would have made a casserole.”
“Why can’t you just take it for what it is?” I gently chided her. “Don’t you understand? They’re part of father’s legacy.”
The driver rounded the entrance to the small cemetery and parked in full view of the dogwood tree we’d planted next to mother’s grave. It had just begun to bloom, the flowers bursting pink and white as newly hatched chicks. The air smelled fresh, and the bright green grass seemed painted onto the rolling hills by an impressionist’s hand.
The beauty was an insult, an affront.
Rose took a deep breath. “It’s so pretty today.”
“Then why does it hurt my eyes so much?”
Before she could respond, the townspeople caught up with us, and we all walked over to where the men were finishing up their digging. I could hardly look at the upended earth.
We had no minister, but no one seemed to mind. The undertaker said a few words, and townspeople formed a line to pay their respects. They patted our arms and shared quick remembrances. And then they were gone.
It was time to lower our father into the ground. Rose stepped forward, but then she whipped her head around, her expression panicked. “I forgot the flowers to toss. We have nothing to send him off, Ivy.” She began to cry. “How could I have done that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Please, let’s just go.”
Rose wiped under her eyes with trembling hands. “It’s tradition. We did it for Mother, and we’ll do it for him. Don’t you want to say goodbye properly?”
No, I wanted to scream. I don’t. Instead, I snapped a few branches from the dogwood tree, careful to keep the blossoms intact. “Here,” I said, handing them to her. “Now you won’t break with tradition.” I turned, unable to watch, and walked back to the hearse.
A tall, lanky man leaned against the hood, deep in conversation with the undertaker. When I approached, I realized it was Mr. Lawrence. He noticed me and straightened up, removing his fedora. In the sunshine his hair was the color of burned oatmeal, and the smattering of freckles on his nose made me want to hand him a tin can and send him down the road to kick it.
“My condolences, Miss Adams,” he said, dipping his head.
“You said that already.” I liked that both men looked away, my sharp words making them uncomfortable. An anger had flared inside me, hot and destructive, burning away the last of my courtesy. I glared at them.
The undertaker excused himself and escaped into the car. Mr. Lawrence and I leaned back against the sedan, watching Rose as she bent to place the flowers on my father’s casket.
“So what it is?” I asked. “Is it money? Gambling?” I paused, my heart lifting ever so slightly. “Did he sell a book?”
“It concerns your father’s estate,” Mr. Lawrence said, staring at the damp ground. “I’d like to speak with you and Rose privately. We could go to my office, or I could accompany you home.”
“From the look on your face, it ain’t good news. Why not spit it out right here?”
“Your sister should be with you. Your father expressed concern that you two aren’t very...close.” He stepped in front of me, blocking my view of Rose as she began to tidy up mother’s grave. “Today, it’s necessary to bridge that chasm. I don’t mean to frighten you—”
“You’re doing a pretty good job.”
“But these things are never easy, and your father was an unusual man.”
“He was a good man.”
“I know,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“Just so we’re copacetic.” I felt something on my cheek and swatted at it. It was a tear.
Mr. Lawrence
