Carolina Moon

briskly, kissed his cheek. “We’ll be late, and funerals aren’t the kind of occasions where you make grand entrances.”
    He had to laugh. “Right. Got an umbrella?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Of course not. Let me get one.”
    When he went to the closet to root around, she angled her head and studied him with a faint smile. “Wade, when we get engaged, will you buy me a sapphire instead of a diamond?”
    His hand closed over the handle of the umbrella, then simply froze there. “Are we getting engaged?”
    “A nice one, not too big or gaudy, mind. Square cut. That first moron I was married to didn’t even get me a ring, and the second got me the tackiest diamond.”
    She picked up the black straw hat she’d tossed on the bed and walked to the mirror to set it on her head at an appropriately dignified angle. “Might as well have been a big hunk of glass for all the style it had. I sold it after the divorce and had a lovely two weeks at a fancy spa on the proceeds. So what I’d like is a square-cut sapphire.”
    He took the umbrella down, stepped back out of the closet. “Are you proposing, Faith?”
    “Certainly not.” She tipped back her head to look down her nose. “And don’t think because I’m giving you some inclination of my response it gets you out of asking. I expect you to follow tradition, all the way down on one knee. With,” she added, “a square-cut sapphire in your hand.”
    “I’ll make a note of it.”
    “Fine, you do that little thing.” She held out a hand. “Ready?”
    “I used to think I was.” He took her hand, laced his fingers firmly with hers. “No one’s ever ready for you.”
    They buried her mother in rain that pelted the ground like bullets while lightning ripped and clawed at the eastern sky. Violence, Tory thought. Her mother had lived with it, died from it, and even now, it seemed, drew it to her.
    She didn’t listen to the minister, though she was sure his words were meant to comfort. She felt too detached to need it, and couldn’t be sorry for it. She’d never known the woman inside the flower-draped box. Never understood her, never depended on her. If Tory had grief, it was for the lack she’d lived with all her life.
    She watched the rain beat against the casket, listened to it hammer on the umbrellas. And waited for it to be over.
    More had come than she’d expected, and stood in a small dark circle in the gloom. She and her uncle flanked her grandmother, with the sturdy Cecil just behind them. And Cade stood beside her.
    Boots, bless her easy heart, wept quietly between her husband and son.
    Heads were bowed as prayers were read, but Faith’s lifted, and her eyes met Tory’s. And there was comfort, so unexpected, from someone who understood.
    Dwight had come, as mayor, Tory supposed. And as Wade’s friend. He stood a little apart, looking solemn and respectful. She imagined he’d be glad to be done with this duty and get back to Lissy.
    There was Lilah, steady as a rock, eyes dry as she silently mouthed the prayers with the minister.
    And oddly, Cade’s aunt Rosie, in full black, complete with hat and veil. It had caught everyone off guard when she’d arrived, with a trunk, the night before.
    Margaret was staying temporarily at her place, she’d announced. Which meant Rosie had immediately packed to stay temporarily elsewhere.
    She’d offered Tory her mother’s wedding dress, gone yellow as butter with age and smelling strongly of mothballs. Then had put it on herself and worn it the rest of the evening.
    When the casket was lowered into the fresh grave, and the minister closed his book, J.R. stepped forward. “She had a harder life than she needed to.” He cleared his throat. “And a harder death than she deserved. She’s at peace now. When she was a little girl, she liked yellow daisies best.” He kissed the one he held in his hand, then dropped it into the grave.
    And turned away, to his wife.
    “He’d have done more for her,” Iris said, “if she’d let him. I’m going to visit Jimmy awhile,” she told Tory. “Then we’ll be going home.” She took Tory’s shoulders, kissed her cheeks. “I’m happy for you, Tory. And proud. Kincade, you take care of my little girl.”
    “Yes, ma’am. I hope you’ll come and stay with us, both of you, when you come back to Progress.”
    Cecil bent down to touch his lips to Tory’s cheek. “I’ll look after her,” he whispered. “Don’t you worry.”
    “I won’t.” She