“Okay,” Sylvia said, ‘But, let me know if you need anything.”
She filled Maureen in on checking with the yacht club for a reception, having a late afternoon wedding followed by dinner at the club. She also told Maureen about the shopping trip next weekend.
“I don’t think I can go shopping,” Maureen answered, “Though, something happy and fun sounds much better than dealing with death,” she told Sylvia.
They finished their conversation and Sylvia thought briefly about George. She had been on his boat, a 58 foot, 1967 Chris Craft, only once. She had been impressed by the size, and how everything had been shipshape. It really was like an apartment on the water. She loved the lines of the hull and the beautiful wood. Her mom often teased, saying she had been born at the wrong time. When her mom was growing up, Chris Craft boats were ‘hot’ and owned by movie stars. She wondered again why anyone would want to kill George.
Before she had a moment to take another breath, the phone rang again. This time, it was Gwen.
“Hey, Syl,” Gwen said, her voice light, “How did the wedding shopping go? Did you find a dress?” Gwen asked.
“Oh, Gwen,” Sylvia said, her voice now weary, “It’s been a day.”
“What do you mean?” Gwen asked. “I thought you were going to shop until you dropped,” she stated.
Sylvia filled Gwen in on George’s death.
“But, you didn’t find the body,” Gwen asked, “right?”
“Right,” Sylvia told her, again weary of the implications that she was a magnet for finding dead bodies. “Someone at the boatyard did.”
“That’s a relief,” Gwen said. “You wouldn’t want to be caught up in litigation as well as planning a wedding!”
“There is that,” Sylvia replied acerbically.
Sylvia filled Gwen in on the plans to shop for gowns and reception places next weekend, after the funeral.
“I’ll send you the website of the yacht club,” Sylvia told her. “Is there a chance you can come next weekend?”
“I don’t know,” Gwen told her, “that depends on a couple of things.”
“Is everything okay?” Sylvia asked her friend.
“Well, I was calling for the pictures of the dresses you and Carol emailed to me earlier. I love the meadow green dress with the empire waist the best,” Gwen told Sylvia. “In fact, that’s the one that would work best for me.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” Sylvia told her. “Carol called the bridal shop and they have samples, so we can see it ‘live’ next weekend.”
“When I told you the empire waist dress was the best, it was for a reason,” Gwen hinted.
Sylvia caught on, “No! You’re pregnant?” she squealed the question excitedly. “Gwen! Can you still be in the wedding?”
“Look,” Gwen said, “Frank and I are ‘over the moon’ about the pregnancy, but you and Frank are the only two people that know. I’m just a few weeks pregnant. The baby will be due in January. I want to wait a bit before we tell the parents, but I needed to let you know because of the wedding. You’ll probably have a chunky Matron of Honor.”
“Oh, Gwen,” Sylvia told her. “I’m sure you’ll be glowing. You won’t be very far along by the time we get married. If the empire waist dress works best for you, then that’s what it will be. It’s stunning online. I’ll call and talk to the bridal shop this week, okay?”
“That sounds great,” Gwen told her, relief flooding her voice.
“I’m so excited for you!” Sylvia went on. “Is it all right to tell Owen? How about Carol?” Sylvia asked, “They’ll need to know.”
Gwen laughed, “As long as they don’t tell Mother Audrey!”
“I’ll swear them to secrecy,” Sylvia said to her friend before they hung up.
Chapter 5
“Listen to what you know, instead of what you fear.” Richard Bach
At work on Monday, Sylvia broke the news of her accelerated nuptials to her boss, Mr. Carter. She laughed when he gave a furtive glance at her abdomen and quickly looked away. She assured him that she was not pregnant. When Carol came bubbling into the office bursting with ideas for the wedding, he drily asked if they would get any work completed in the next three months.
Both young women laughed and told him honestly, that the wedding would definitely be a large part of their lives and conversations. Sylvia assured him she would continue with her obligations, pull Bay Days together and her plans to distribute the letters and educational grant information just before the wedding. Carol would answer any questions while she was on her honeymoon and that they would choose the grants when she returned from the honeymoon. Mr. Carter nodded, satisfied with their responses. He nodded complacently and turned and entered his office.
It seemed to Sylvia that the week flew by and Friday evening appeared to come in the blink of an eye. They found her mother’s car parked at their house and something yummy simmering on top of the stove when they walked through the kitchen door. Owen and Sylvia sniffed appreciatively. Mary was not in sight.
“Mmm,” Owen murmured. “I think I could get used to this.”
“Really,” Mary commented as she came into the kitchen from the living room, “so, you’re asking your future mother-in-law to move in with you?” she asked with a slight teasing tone to her voice.
Owen’s face had momentarily frozen in shock, and a brief look of panic crossed his face before he got his emotions under control and tried to laugh at her comment. The laugh was slightly forced. Sylvia and Mary caught the look and both smiled appreciatively at his attempt to recover.
“Never fear,” Mary told him as she came to give him a peck on the cheek, “I’m not planning to move in with you and Sylvia anytime soon. Even though, now that I’m retired, I could help by cooking you three square meals a day,” she teased. “But, I won’t move in. Not yet, at least.”
His relief was palpable. Mary laughed again and Sylvia joined in.
“Go and change into something more comfortable,” she told them, “and we can have drinks out on the deck before dinner.”
A few minutes later they were on the porch where Mary and Sylvia chuckled again when Owen stepped onto the deck. He shook his head and his finger at them finally seeing the humor in Mary’s alleged threat to move in with them. Sylvia’s cell phone rang before he had a chance to say anything. Her conversation was brief.
“Gwen is coming,” she told them, “but, she is caught in traffic. It will be somewhat late before they arrive.”
“They?” Owen and Mary chorused.
“They,” Sylvia confirmed. “Frank didn’t want her driving this far alone.”
“I can understand that,” Mary said. “Well, she can sleep in tomorrow,” Mary said, “while we go to the funeral. Maybe, Carol could pick her up and meet us at the yacht club for lunch?” she suggested.
“That sounds perfect, I’ll text her and ask,” Sylvia said and turned to Owen, “and, that will free you up to do more boat shopping. Frank can join you.”
He grinned at her.
“Are you any closer to a decision on a boat?” Mary asked.
“I’m looking at a Catalina,” he told her. “The thirty foot is manageable for sailing and for the cost. Of course, I love the Sabre’s as well,” he told her.
“What about those Nautor Swan boats you showed me?” Sylvia teased.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, drily, “no problem, if I have a couple of million to spare.”
“Well, it’s all Greek to me,” Mary said. “I wouldn’t know one boat from another.”
“Me too,” Sylvia agreed. “But, I’m learning.”
After relaxing for a few minutes, Mary got up and brought dinner to the deck. Sylvia and Owen stared at the colorful, spaghetti-like strands on the plate.
“Curry? Curried…something?” Sylvia asked looking at the brightly colored dish with lots of vegetables and small shrimp and what Sylvia thought was chicken.
“Try it,” Mary said.
“Good!” Owen proclaime
d as he dove into the dish.
Sylvia nodded in agreement after tentatively tasting the dish.
“Okay,” she asked her mother, “what is this stuff?”
“My own heart-smart version of Singapore Mei Fun,” she said proudly. “It’s made from a spaghetti squash.”
“Squash?” Owen questioned, wrinkling up his nose. “Squash doesn’t taste this good,” he told her.
“This one does,” Mary told him. “Spaghetti squash is now my new ‘go to’ food.”
They ate the meal, cleaned up and set out to wait for Gwen. Owen built a fire in the fire pit and they sat, watching a few boats and their lights meander up the bay. Mary toddled off to bed after nine and Owen banked the fire.
“Let’s go inside,” he told Sylvia. “Even with the fire, the mosquitoes are so hungry they’re not daunted by the smoke and flame.” He slapped at his arm and squashed a bug.
Sylvia didn’t protest. She was tired too. They sat on the couch, and Sylvia curled up against Owen. Percy was snuggled up, dozing on Sylvia.
Gwen and Frank arrived after eleven. Gwen was clearly fatigued. Sylvia’s gorgeous blond friend had black smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. She looked drawn and almost ill to Sylvia.
“Hi, Syl,” she mumbled against Sylvia’s shoulder as she hugged her.
Gwen slumped against her friend. “Bed,” she mumbled after giving hugs.
Frank barely greeted them, but rushed their bags up to the guest room, tucked Gwen in and returned downstairs to Sylvia and Owen.
“Is Gwen all right?” Sylvia asked.
“The baby,” Frank said giving them a grin. He looked almost embarrassed, but proud at the same time. His grin was rakish, and he had a Kennedy-esque aura about him. “She is ridiculously tired and emotional right now in this first trimester. She’ll be okay,” he assured them.
Owen gave Frank a cold beer and slapped him on the back. He sighed tiredly and sat down. They talked for a short while.
“I’m restless,” Frank announced, “from the drive. Okay if I take the big guy for a walk?” he motioned to Percy.
“Of course,” Owen said. “Let me get us another beer and I’ll go with you.”
“I think I’m going to head up to bed myself,” Sylvia told the guys. She gave Frank a hug and Owen a kiss.
“See you soon,” he murmured into her hair when she hugged him.
Chapter 6
“To live is so startling, it leaves little time for anything else.” -- Emily Dickinson
Percy whined early the next morning. It was different from his “I need to go out, now,” whine. Sylvia woke up wondering what was happening and then heard Gwen retching in the bathroom.
She got up and tapped on the bathroom door.
“Gwen,” she asked gently, “is there anything I can do to help you? I have soda, crackers and pretzels downstairs,” she told her friend.
“A couple of pretzels sound great,” Gwen said to Sylvia weakly. “And, I brought some ginger tea for my tummy. I’ll go get it and meet you downstairs.”
Sylvia went downstairs and got out the pretzels and started water to boil for coffee and Gwen’s tea. Gwen came down looking pale and wan. Sylvia took the box of tea from her and made her a cup. Gwen sniffed the ginger tea gratefully when Sylvia brought it to the table. She nibbled at a pretzel very slowly.
Sylvia sat across the table from her. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked concerned.
Sylvia noticed that Gwen kept her nose away from the coffee and Sylvia subtly moved the cup out of the way.
“This will pass,” Gwen said. “I’ll have a pretzel, maybe two, tea and head up to bed.”
“Sleep in as long as you want,” Sylvia told her. “We’re headed to the funeral and Carol’s going to pick you up a little after 12:30 to go to the yacht club for lunch to discuss the reception.”
Sylvia sat with her as Gwen nibbled and sipped. She kept the conversation light and brought Gwen up to date on the wedding plans. Gwen’s pale face gradually gained a little bit of color. She still looked exhausted. Pregnancy, at least this part of it, did not look like fun to Sylvia. Gwen yawned.
“Go back to bed,” Sylvia ordered her friend.
Gwen acquiesced and went back upstairs to bed. Sylvia put the water on for more coffee and took an anxious Percy, who was pacing at this point, out for his morning walk. When she returned home, Sylvia took coffee up to Owen and scooted from his searching hands, laughing as he frowned and looked petulant.
“Come on, little boy,” she teased, pulling her breasts from his caressing hands, “We need to get ready for George’s funeral, and the day ahead. I’m going to jump in the shower while you work on your first cup of coffee.”
Mary, Owen, and Sylvia maneuvered through the early morning quietly so that Gwen and Frank could sleep. They drove to the funeral home in two cars. By the time they arrived, the line was already out the door with the number of mourners. They parked in the town’s municipal lot and joined the line of mourners, now almost a block long at the funeral home. After nearly an hour, Mary, Owen and Sylvia made their way through the receiving line, giving their condolences to George’s children. The line going past George’s body moved painfully slow. Sylvia clutched at Owen’s hand.
The mortician had done a good job. When it was their turn to view the body, George looked like he was sleeping. As sad as she was, Sylvia could not mourn “the body” of George, but thought of the laughing, kindly soul that had filled their lives. A few tears leaked from her eyes. Once again, death seemed surreal to her. Skip and Maureen were off to the side at the end of the receiving line. Skip looked grim. Maureen clung to Sylvia for a moment when she hugged her. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying.
“How are you doing?” Sylvia whispered to her in the hug.
Maureen couldn’t answer. When she tried to speak, tears began to spill again. Sylvia gave her another hug, holding her own tears back, and followed her mother and Owen to find a seat. The funeral home had opened up a second room for people to sit for the service. Mary, Owen, and Sylvia found themselves packed into the back, sitting on folding chairs. It was stifling. The air seemed thick. Sylvia and her head were reeling. Death appeared to be everywhere. First Gran had died, followed by Mr. Peters down the street. Then the murders of Anna and Joyce added to the mix. Now George was dead. Was this an ordinary passage as one became older, Sylvia wondered? She could not remember a time in her life when she knew of so many people dying. Nausea washed over her and she felt a wave of heat. She had to get out of the funeral home and get some fresh air before she suffocated.
“Excuse me,” she whispered to Owen. “I need some air.”
“Are you all right?” he whispered the question to her.
Sylvia nodded, “I just need to get some fresh air,” she said quietly and insistently, “Now!”
Owen took one look at her face, tinged with green, and shifted his legs so that she could get past him quickly. He patted her back as she went by and his eyes followed her with a worried expression.
Sylvia pushed past him and other mourners to get to the main hallway of the funeral home. She took a deep breath and headed quickly for the front door. The lovely scent of flowers that she had enjoyed when she entered the funeral home were now cloying and making her nausea greater. Sylvia hurried down the hallway towards the door, holding her breath for as long as possible. The thick, plush carpeting in the funeral home silenced her footsteps. There was still a long line of mourners, but she slipped out with a few others who were not attending the service. Once outside in the sunshine, she took deeper breaths, clearing her lungs and nostrils from the smells of the funeral home. The sun felt wonderful. She still wanted to be further away from death and the funeral home and started to walk down the street. About a block away was a small deli. Outside were picnic tables where people ate, smoked and talked. In the mornings, several of the local men sat and drank coffee and talked politics. The townspeople fondly called them ‘the Senate.’ Later in the
day the picnic tables were filled with families including children and melting ice cream cones. As the day wore on, the groups changed to diners and local teenagers who laid claim to the two picnic tables outside the deli. Summer tourists and the boating community frequented the deli for food to take on their boats, but there were definite ‘regulars’ that Sylvia recognized each time she stopped by the deli. She went inside to purchase a cold drink.
She sipped at it as she continued to walk down the street. As she walked, her purse buzzed from her cell phone. It was Owen, texting her, to see if she was all right. She replied that she needed some fresh air, a bit of a walk, and would be back in a few minutes.
Just a couple of blocks away the town’s community park perched at the head of the bay. It had a few pavilions, a pier for fishing, a small boat launch, a large playground and a walking path that led to the beach. Sylvia walked past a large pavilion and around a crowded playground. There, parents, babies and children created a cacophony that rivaled the small island where Great Blue herons squawked and flapped near the shore of the park. Sylvia had heard that locals suspected a rookery forming to rival that of Pea Patch Island’s rookery in the Delaware River. The rusty sounding squawks of the heron blended with the joyous shouts of children playing on the playground until it created a background of white noise. Her mind still whirled and she couldn’t seem to put her thoughts together with the exception that she felt that death enveloped her and her world. The world began to spin and tilt out of control. A rustle of leaves near her startled her and the Green Man took her elbow to steady her when she lost her balance.
“It will be all right, Sylvia,” his baritone of a voice intoned calmly.
“How can it be good?” she cried, “I feel as though death is everywhere.”
“And so it is,” he replied gently, “and birth is as well. It’s part of the balance of the yin/yang or black and white.”
“The “Circle of Life,” Sylvia murmured, thinking of the song from the ‘Lion King.’
The Blossoming: The Third book in The Green Man Series Page 4