Chapter 9 Part 3
The next few days I spend catching up with family in Ann Arbor. I take Andy to the movies and to the park with Sid where we all romp together. I meet Rebecca and Keating for lunch. I have dinner with Sierra and the ever-elusive and charming Milton, whom I say I approve of when asked in private by Sierra. I try to talk to Daniel, but his doom and gloom overwhelms him. I tell him he should try pseudo-dying sometime, it might help, but I receive only a dumbfounded expression in return. I take my parents to a klezmer concert and bask in enjoying the moments with them, especially the moments when Eleanor dotes on Siddhartha.
When Sid and I return to the Eagle’s Nest a few days later, I am devastated to learn that Guy died the night before in his sleep from some sort of undetected heart condition. He had no family, and so Richard and I decide to put a funeral together for him.
Richard and I enter Guy’s apartment and discover that he has very little in terms of possessions: a painting by Lillian Jones of him in green overalls standing outside the Eagle’s Nest on the dock at Clark Lake; a box of photos of him as a child and as a teenager, the only hint of family members, frozen in the past; several first-place ribbon awards from high school for most innovative in engineering and design; and several boxes of metal parts and circuit boards.
We load up his possessions and place them in Richard’s truck. Then we drive up to Sally’s house on three acres of land. Guy’s fenced engineering feat glints in the sunlight.
“I’ve never informed someone of a death before,” I say to Richard.
“Just be compassionate and emotionally available,” he says. “When a survivor’s pain touches your heart, a bond is made. It helps them through the grieving process. But to get there, you have to be willing to be touched.” He pauses to reflect as he puts the truck in Park. “When I was a funeral director, I learned that what people really want is to know that you’re just doing the best you can.”
“When you were a funeral director, Richard?” I pose, poignantly. “What makes you think anything’s changed just because you’re working in a bar?” I smile at him and then open the truck door to step out.
Sally takes the news hardest of all. When she breaks down, I gently hold her in my arms and tell her how much Guy enjoyed doing that for her.
Sally weeps. “I should have done more. I should have told him how much he meant to me after Joe went. I should have had him move in with me. Maybe I could have saved him,” she laments over and over.
“Sounds like you guys had a really special relationship, Sally. Please be comforted knowing that Guy was very fond of you. All he ever talked about at the bar was you, and how much he enjoyed looking after you.”
Her eyes light up for a moment. “Really?”
“Really,” I assure her.
“Sally, you know that Guy didn’t have any family. You have a lot of property here—how would you feel about burying him on yours?” says Richard.
Sally stops crying and looks at us both. “Why, I would be honored to have him here...but what about a casket? He should have a nice one. Mahogany. He always liked mahogany...but they’re well over five thousand at Tribute in a Box,” she says. “I remember from when Joe died. And they’re the only ones around here. I’ll help pay for it, but I won’t give a cent to that Tribute in a Box company after the way they took advantage of me.”
“I’m sure I have a mahogany casket left in stock at the old funeral home from before Tribute in a Box took over. We can use one of those,” offers Richard. “And they’re much less expensive.”
“Fine,” says Sally. “Count me in for five hundred.”
Richard and I share a look “Don’t we still need a funeral home?” Sally asks, wiping her eyes with worn-down tissues.
“No. We don’t have to, unless we need the space for viewing and a service,” explains Richard. “If we have a viewing we most likely have to embalm him. If not, I can make sure his remains are washed and disinfected. Maddy and I thought we’d have a memorial service for him at the bar.”
“A memorial service is nice. And the three of us can have a graveside prayer for him. Will you both come to that?” “Of course,” says Richard.
“By the way, what was Guy’s favorite food?” I ask Sally. “Well,” she says coyly,“ he used to say he lived for my sandwiches and lemonade.”
“Was there any kind of music he had a preference for?”
“He liked it when I played Beethoven as he worked, but he always talked about Roy Vernon’s singing,” she says with fondness. “He asked me to go with him to hear Roy sing on Thursday nights at the bowling alley...but I just haven’t been able to leave the house since...you know.”
We say our goodbyes and head outside to the truck. “Isn’t a mahogany casket at least three or four grand?” I ask Richard.
“Yep. I’ve got a thousand I can put in to cover it, but then I’m figuring on another five hundred for all the liquor at the service.”
“I can put in five,” I say.
There’s a look of gratitude in his eyes. “Maybe others will pitch in, too.”
“Hey, Richard. Do you mind if I take a run at some ideas for the memorial service?”
He smiles. “Not at all.”
I remember the extraordinary painting that Lillian Jones made of Guy fixing Sally’s fence. I head over to the library with Sid to have a talk with Mrs. Jones about it.
Later that day, I take Guy’s box of photos with me to Ann Arbor. Sid accompanies me. I meet with Sierra, and later with Eleanor and Charlie, and I even get Daniel to sit still and listen to me.
Two days later, Richard closes the bar to the public for the entire night and devotes the time and space to Guy’s life celebration ceremony with about twenty townspeople and bar regulars who knew him. A memory board with photos of Guy is erected at the entrance of the bar, along with a donation bucket for the cost of the funeral. The paintings by Lillian Jones sit on easels on either side of the fireplace where a circle of chairs has been placed.
Richard and I start out by serving everyone Guy’s favorite draft ale. Siddhartha makes sure no one feels alone, making herself available for instant companionship with a lick on the hand in return for a pat on the head. Once everyone is seated comfortably around the fireplace, my natural inclination to produce the ceremony kicks in, and I ask Eleanor and Charlie, who are there, to help pass out sandwiches to the mourners. My brother Daniel sits quietly in the back of the bar with a pen and pad of paper in hand. Sierra and Milton stand by for support and video assistance. I first invite Sierra to project a life bio video of Guy on the TV monitor. The three-minute video displays a montage of the photos from the box in Guy’s apartment, and the paintings of him by Lillian Jones. It all plays to the symphonic strains of Beethoven. Everyone mentions how they never knew he had won awards for his engineering designs.
I get up and explain that usually a life bio video includes interviews of family and friends, but there was no time or budget for that and so instead we’re inviting those present to take a turn and tell stories about Guy as the torch is passed. In this case, the torch is one of the metal contraptions that Guy invented. The contraption is first passed to Lillian Jones who starts the storytelling, and then there’s Wally, and all the other bar regulars and townspeople who either knew Guy or had hired him in the past. If someone is shy, my mother masterfully puts them at ease with a prompt to get them going, and Charlie humorously reminds them to have another sip of beer.
After everyone’s spoken, Mom introduces a surprise mourner, local singer Roy Vernon. Roy stands up in the back of the room. I see the shadow of someone else back there but I’m not sure who it is.
Roy moves toward the fire and stands before everyone. “I didn’t know Guy the way you all did. I knew him as the guy who was there every Thursday night to hear me sing, the guy who truly appreciated my gifts, and I came to count on seeing him there. After a while, his presence alone became a source of inspiration for me...and so this one’s for Guy.”
Roy sings and plays his guitar. Everyone is in awe as Roy nears the end of his song. The entire bar is silent. Suddenly, Sally appears from the shadows and slowly comes forth, holding a pitcher in her hand. Everyone knows this is the first time Sally’s left the house in the ten months since Joe passed. Their silent respect for her fills the room. Richard immediately offers Sally a chair. She sits and listens quietly as Roy sings another song. Siddhartha is by her side, as if sensing that she’s in need of support. There’s a huge round of applause. Sally has tears in her eyes. Then Eleanor asks Sally if she has a story to tell.
“Yes, I do,” replies Sally, and she slowly stands up holding the pitcher in her hand.“ Guy was an amazing man. After Joe left, I couldn’t function, but Guy was always there...to help with chores, to bring me groceries, to fix my fence...and then some...” Everyone smiles, as her fence is the talk of the town. “He got me to laugh again. He used to sit on the porch at the end of each day with a glass of lemonade, just appreciating the sunset. I never saw a man so content with every moment. So I, uh, brought some of his favorite lemonade for everyone.” There are tears in her eyes.
“That is so beautiful, Sally,” I say.
“Thank you for sharing that,” says Richard. He helps her with the pitcher. “Everyone, grab a shot glass for some of this delicious lemonade.” Everyone cheers for Sally, recognizing that in a deeply ironic way, Guy’s death brought Sally back to life.
Sally smiles at the group and sits down, visibly allowing a weight of regret to lift from her. Daniel signals our mother. Our mother looks at me. “I think Daniel’s ready.”
“Okay,” I say, still moved by Sally’s appearance. “Can you introduce him, Mom?” Eleanor nods and announces Daniel as the nephew of Sam Banks and a poet who has something to say about Guy based on everyone’s words and sentiments tonight.
Daniel stands next to the fireplace and reads a poem he’s just written. It is a masterful work of on-the-spot-interactive-collective-poem-making. Richard asks Daniel for a copy to hang in the bar. Sally asks him for a copy to put in her house. Mrs. Jones asks for a copy to frame in the library. And Roy Vernon asks for a copy to turn into a ballad in memory of Guy. Daniel is more than surprised by the reactions— remarkably his doom and gloom seems to subside.
Eleanor and Charlie share a knowing glance. “Our children are quite a credit to us, aren’t they, dear?” says Charlie.
“Yes, sweetie, they are,” replies Eleanor, turning to Daniel and me.
Charlie grins at her.
“I know.” She smiles.
Everyone mills about continuing to drink and memorialize Guy. A buzz grows through the crowd. They wish they had more funerals like this in town, and not the rip-offs they’ve been getting from Tribute in a Box. I overhear Donny, who runs the local symphony orchestra, tell Wally, “All the pallbearers are carrying one of these fancy Tribute in a Box caskets to the grave when the bottom drops out! And you know what hit the ground, besides the dead guy? Wadded-up newspaper!”
“Did ya hear about the TIAB branch in Kalamazoo? Cremated the wrong guy. Family sued for emotional damages. They never got to see the body and then found out the ashes were a scam, too. TIAB tried to squirm out of it, saying ‘not to view’ is not damaging, but guess what? The prosecution handed the jury TIAB’s literature about how viewing is ‘essential for grief wellness’ and they finally had to pay up.”
“How was Guy able to pay for this?” Mrs. Jones asks me.
“Well, technically, if there are no heirs or assets, then the state will cover approximately $947 in funeral costs. The rest of it Richard, Sally and I pitched in on.”
Rocky, the mailman, stands up on a bar stool and lifts his mug of beer. “Hey, everyone, I have an idea, let’s petition our congressman to stop the rip-offs from Tribute in a Box and make room for memorials that mean something, man.”
I hesitantly raise my hand. “Uh, excuse me, Rocky, well, actually, excuse me, everyone, but you can all start expressing your concerns and comments right now. I started a blog at www.lightsoutenterprises.blogspot.com. You can let everyone in town or anyone all over the world know what you think. It might help to get it off your chests and put it on the table—I mean, on the screen.”
“What’s the address again?” asks Mrs. Jones as she pulls a pen and paper out of her purse.
Rocky shouts, “Lightsoutenterprises.com! Great idea, Maddy!”
I take a moment to be alone outside. I watch the moonlight glisten over the serene lake water and I start to cry, sniffling over my own memories of Guy and how beautiful this tribute to him has been.
“Care for a cup of tea?” says a voice in the dark behind me.
I turn around, shocked to see Victor Winston standing in silhouette. “Victor! Hi...what are you doing here?!"
“You did write ‘come whenever,’ for that advisory board meeting regarding Lights Out, but I have to say, from the looks of it, you’re doing just fine.”
“I—I had no idea when you were coming. How long have you been here?”
“I’ve been lurking in the back since Lillian Jones got up to speak. I didn’t want to interrupt. I’m sorry about Guy. Sounds like he was truly beloved.”
I realize I had mistaken the shadow in the back of the room for Sally, when all along it was Victor.
“Was that your brother Daniel, the poet?” I nod. “He’s quite talented. And your mother’s quite an emcee. Now I know where you get it.”
“So you saw...pretty much everything.”
“Pretty much. And I saw you light up. I have to say, you can take the woman out of the sunshine, but you can’t take the sunshine out of the woman.”
I smile. No one’s referred to me as “sunshine” since Uncle Sam passed away. Siddhartha finds me outside, clearly looking to make sure I’m okay.
“This must be Sid,” says Victor, bending down to gently pet her and instantly endearing himself to her. “Hello, Sid. She’s sweet.”
“Yeah, sweet and mischievous at the same time. Siddhartha, say ‘hi five’ to Victor.” Siddhartha lifts her paw in the air. Victor smiles, and Sid licks his face.
“Siddhartha is her full name?”
“Yes. We’re on a journey together."
“Any discoveries to report?”
“The joy of unconditional love for starters,” I say, giving Siddhartha a warm hug. “So how was your trip?”
“Good,” he says. “I checked into the Comfort Inn downtown.”
I had wondered about that—where he would stay if he came and if I should offer Uncle Sam’s place. I am relieved to hear that he didn’t make any assumptions.
The back door swings open and Sierra and Milton appear. Sierra immediately recognizes Victor.
“Victor. Hi. This is Milton. Milton, Victor. What brings you here?”
“I thought it was time for an advisory board meeting with Maddy. Are you still on the board? You’re welcome to join us.” “It’s at the local bowling alley,” I add.
“Oh, darn, I’m going out of town,” says Sierra.
“You are?” asks Milton.
“Hmm...I forgot to tell you,” she says. “Maddy, it was a very meaningful evening. I’m proud of you. We’ve got to get back to Ann Arbor now.”
“Thanks for all your help.”
Sierra camouflages a whisper in my ear with a goodbye hug .“Let your fire shine.” She winks at me as they leave, then Eleanor appears.
“Maddy?”
“Mom, over here. I want you to meet someone.” Eleanor walks over to where we’re standing in the light. “Mom, this is Victor Winston. He’s the guy who seconded Uncle Sam on Lights Out. Victor, this is my mom.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’ve got quite a daughter.” “Thank you, I know.” She looks him over. “Would you like a sandwich?”
“I’d love one.”
For the remainder of the evening, I introduce Victor to my family, to Richard Wright and to bar friends. Richard and I notice Wally offer to escort Sally home. We share a glance, one that humbly recognizes the ironies of how one event leads to another.
The next day, Victor meets me at Uncle Sam’s place. Victor plays Frisbee with Sid outside while I make lemonade. I bring two glasses out.
Victor takes a long sip, staring at the sailboats and jet skiers. “It’s beautiful out here. Kind of hard to imagine bowling indoors right about now. What do you say we postpone our meeting and take in the great outdoors of Michigan?”
“I’m game. What do you suggest?”
“Is there somewhere I can teach you the art of the Eskimo roll? It’s a powerful negotiating tactic when it comes to kayaking.”
“Yeah, and I know just the place. Follow me.” I drive us to the Canoe-Kayak Livery on the Huron River, where we rent two sea kayaks with skirts for flipping.
The river moves under a warm breeze. Victor kayaks away from shore and gallantly offers a demo.
“All you have to do is flick your hip to twist it over and then use your waist to swing you through to the surface.” I watch him maneuver the apparatus with a quick underwater sideways somersault, returning to the surface on the other side, his lean muscular body arching to bring him back to center gravity above the river’s surface. Glistening water drips from his biceps.
I give it a try. At first being upside down underwater freaks me out, but then, I’ve already died, so this is really nothing. After several attempts and under Victor’s coaching prowess, I actually get it. Another first, I think to myself. Is it the teacher or the student? Or some willing, ready and able combination of the two?
We take some mild rapids and find ourselves invigorated by the challenge. I realize it is indeed a negotiation with immovable nature as I maneuver through jagged rocks and swirling eddies.
Later, as the sun sets on Clark Lake, Victor and I take Siddhartha for a walk along the water’s edge. I wear my Stansbury top hat, explaining to Victor the origins of my entrepreneurship. He smiles at my off-key attempt to sing. Siddhartha jumps for a reprise at a dance with me. Victor’s eyes flicker with affection. We decide to go to the bowling alley for our supposed meeting over burgers and ten pins.
Victor bowls a strike, as usual. I pick a ball and remember to keep my vision on the pins. I use the spot technique and the arrows and I roll a strike. I offer Victor a swagger and a smile.
“I see you found a cocky side to yourself during all that digging and excavating,” he laughs. “What else did you find, Maddy?”
“Self-acceptance. I’m just polishing it up right now.” I grin. “Watch yourself, for I shall soon be a glistening morass of confident energy.”
“I look forward to it.”
Carl brings us our burgers and we dive in. Then I venture the first business question. “Victor, do you think Lights Out will ever see the light of day again?”
“I do.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Faith.”
“So, have I missed anything in the Journal? I can’t help but hear the local reactions to Tribute in a Box—is there anything in the news on Derek Rogers?”
“If there was, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I’d like to see where you go without his negative influence on you.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you where I want to go. I started a blog so people in town would have a place to put their anger about Derek’s monopoly. But more importantly, it’s a place for them to put their feelings about grief and a way to raise money for a Tribute Service Fund for those who can’t afford it. Everyone deserves basic rights in life. I think they deserve them in death, too.”
“So everyone deserves a tribute like the one Guy had?”
“Yes...because no one deserves to die anonymously. The more a society values their dead, the more they value their living. And because I wonder, are we all the millwright, Victor, or the poet?”
“Maybe we’re a little of both, Maddy.”
I shake my head and bite into my burger. “Please, no more conundrums.”
“Okay, as your adviser, what would you like me to advise?” “Help me get advertisers for the blog so I have enough funds to run it.”
“That sounds like a request for action, not advice,” he says. I stare at him. I feel a long-lost fire inside.
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll help get advertisers for your blog. Who knows? Maybe Norm Pearl and Arthur Pintock will go for it."
I hold my beer up for him and we clink bottles. “Thanks,” I say. “Speaking of Norm Pearl, what do you know about the stars?”
“Very little, but I have a feeling I’m about to learn a lot more.”
The sky is black. The stars are out in full force. Victor and I lie on our backs inside the little Sunfish in the middle of Clark Lake, quietly drinking beer and stargazing. “Did you know that on a really dark night you can see a thousand stars?”
“Only a thousand, huh?” asks Victor.
“I guess that depends on your vision. Did you know farmers used the constellations to know when to plant? Kind of like a mnemonics game of survival and entertainment. Oh, I think I see Sirius. Also known as the Dog Star, part of Orion.” I draw the shape with my finger in the sky for him. “See it?”
“I see the rabbit on the moon.”
“Doesn’t count. If it’s not an established constellation, you have to make one up.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know we were playing the constellation game. In that case, you go first so I can get the hang of it.” “Okay. I see...a giant eighteen-hole golf course in the sky.” “Sure it’s not a thousand-hole golf course?”
“That depends on how many beers you have.” I giggle. “Your turn.”
“Okay, I see...Clark Lake...with a boat in the middle of it and...wait a minute, wow, that is incredible!”
“What?”
“I see a giant bowling ball...and ten pins. See?” He draws the ball and pins in the sky. Sure enough, there it is. “Victor? Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I can’t drink more than two beers at a time without needing a restroom. And I’m on my third.”
“Copy that,” I say and stealthily sail us back in.
We’re greeted by Siddhartha, who carries a toy over to us. Victor hits the bathroom and then obliges her with a stint of tug-of-war.
“Would you like something else, Victor? I have water and I have Uncle Sam’s stash of whiskey.”
“Water’s good. But will you show me that famous fishing lure collection of his?”
“Do you fish?”
“Everyone fishes.” He smiles. “Just depends on what you’re fishing for.”
“Oh...really? And what do you fish for, Mr. Winston?” I ask as I lead him to the second bedroom that doubles as a fine-art fishing-lure museum collection.
“Well, let’s see. I fish for business opportunities. I fish for consumer opportunities. I fish for—”
“How about fish? Do you fish for fish?”
“I prefer fishing for restaurants that serve them.”
“Choosing the right lure depends on the object of your attention.” I open the door, revealing my uncle’s prize collection. Cases of fishing lures neatly organized, catalogued and identified by date, artist, quality and purpose. “There’s a lot of artistry and craftsmanship behind the art of the lure. For example, take a look at this lure, the Trout-a-Tooni, designed to lure only the most beautiful trout ever born—the queen trout, if you will.” I see I have Victor’s full attention.
“Yes, especially if one is fishing...for love,” he says, looking at me intently now.
I gaze back, feeling that this moment is one we’ve both been secretly moving toward. He takes me in his arms.
“Maddy, I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss you for a long time. May I?”
“I—I was hoping you would.”
He leans toward me while gently pulling me closer. His mouth touches mine, and we kiss, long and sensuously. He pulls back from me and says, “Now that’s a catch.”
I laugh. “You’re a catch yourself.”
He lifts me up and carries me to the bedroom. Our passion increases as our kisses intensify. It feels good to be so connected to the present. Then I feel myself start to squirm, holding back, as the photo of the mysterious woman in Victor’s office haunts the moment.
“Is everything okay?” asks Victor, gently removing my blouse.
Sierra’s words come forth in my mind. “Let your fire shine.” I don’t want this to end. My curiosity has waited this long. It can wait just a little while longer. I murmur, “Everything’s fine. You feel great, Victor. You feel great.”
“You, too,” he says, burying his face in the crook of my neck to kiss me again.
We make beautiful love, after which I privately rejoice in the awareness of that for a while, my workaholic on-button has finally been turned off and a personal one activated instead. We cuddle in the aftermath.
“Are you all right?” he asks, gently stroking my face. “Oh, yes, that was a beautiful merger.” I smile back at him. “No barriers to entry?” he quips.
“Almost.”
He turns on his side to look directly at me. “Almost?” “I, uh, I need to know something.”
“Then ask... I promise to answer.”
“Who’s the woman in the photo with you, the one in your office? You seem so close to her—I mean, it looks like a lot of love there.”
Victor’s eyes glaze. For a moment he seems to stop breathing. It’s the only time I’ve seen him remotely trip up. “That’s my sister.”
“You told me you didn’t have any sibling rivalries.”
“I don’t...because she died. Five years ago. In a car accident. Her name was Shoshanna. She was twenty-six.”
“I’m so sorry.” I gently stroke his chest and cheeks. “Were you close?”
“Very.”
We are both silent for a while. “Is that why you got involved in Lights Out?”
“No, not consciously at least...though I had experienced grief on that level...and her funeral service was an absolute injustice to her—but then, we were all in shock.”
“How are your parents?”
“My parents. My parents are still grieving. I don’t believe they’ll ever stop. It’s one thing to grieve, it’s another to allow it to debilitate you.”
“Sometimes grief triggers depression,” I inform him. “Yes. It certainly can.” A hint of anger drips through his vocal cords.
“Sounds like you’re upset about that. Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, realizing the paraphrasing has become second nature now.
He falls on his back and sighs. “Sometimes, yes, I get upset. I think because my parents are so consumed by their grief, there’s no room for me. And I’m part of the living.”
“So you do have a sibling rivalry, Victor. It’s just a postmortem one.”
“You’re right.” He pauses.
“I’ve gotten better at listening.”
Another idea hits me. “Hey, Victor, what if you could redo the past? I mean, what if you prepared a tribute ceremony for your sister that really did justice to who she was? You know, the way Lights Out would do it. Do you think maybe a life celebration for her now would help bring some closure to your parents’ grief?”
“I think your optimism is endearing...but impractical,” he says, then takes me in his arms and holds me close to him.
“I don’t,” I murmur as we both drift to sleep.
In the soft dawn light, we make love again. Victor kisses me on my neck and murmurs, “How come an attractive, complex, beautiful lure like you hasn’t caught the fish of your dreams?”
I murmur between kisses. “Because this little lure’s been waiting for the right value proposition while foolishly playing the results.” Before I can ask the same of him, our mutual passion overwhelms us.
He envelops me in his arms. “God, you feel good, Maddy.” He smothers me with more kisses and I melt in his embrace. I’m swept away. Then, exhausted from lovemaking, we fall asleep again.
The clock on the nightstand indicates nine when Sid jumps on the bed offering morning facials. Victor wakes up and sees the time. “Maddy, beautiful. I’ve got to get going. I need to call a cab. I can’t miss my plane.”
“You don’t need to call a cab. I’ll drive you.” I hop out of bed and let Siddhartha outside, then I scoot to the closet. Still half asleep, I quickly don some jeans and a black T-shirt. I step into some shoes, but pay no attention to what I’ve got on. We hop in the car.
Victor glances at my shirt and suddenly clams up, withdrawing his intimacy. Maybe it’s a guy thing, maybe he’s just nervous about flying, maybe he’s got some pending deal on the table or maybe I was just a love opportunity to be fished and cast back to sea. Whatever it was, it hurt.
I drive toward the airport, fidgeting with the radio dial. I turn to him. “Do you always get so quiet before getting on a plane?”
“I have a lot to think about.”
“What do you think about...us?”
“I think...we both had a really wonderful time. But I think we’re both committed to playing our results.”
“I’m done playing my results. I’m ready to play the present, Victor.”
“Are you?” he asks, glancing at my T-shirt. “Then I guess I’m not.”
A chill runs down my spine as I pull up to the gate. I had let the fire rage and now I felt it quickly extinguished by the words rolling off his tongue. Well, I’ve come full circle, I suddenly realize. Wasn’t it a year and a half ago that Seth dropped me off at the airport for Tara’s funeral, and I, too, though less succinctly, carried out the same objective? But this was different, I had thought. Where did I go wrong? And why was I suddenly blaming myself?
“I had a great time. Thanks. We’ll be in touch.” He pecks me on the cheek and dashes out of the car with his carryon luggage.
“Victor, wait.” He turns around. “You know what? Um, forget about the advertisers for the blog. I’ll handle it myself.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Bye.” And he resumes his run inside.
I stare after him, confused, my heart bleeding from yet another wound, this time a wound not from the dead, but from the living.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE:
We hope you enjoyed this chapter of The Funeral Planner! We will be posting a chapter every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. If you just can’t wait to read the latest episode about Maddy, Eve and Sierra and their entrepreneurial adventures The Funeral Planner Trilogy is available online at the usual suspects (Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Sony). Also check out LynnIsenberg.com for more information.