Tom finished singing and moved around the railing. He surprised her by sitting next to her in the front row. His warmth was welcome, his solid presence necessary for her emotional stability, yet causing a wrenching confusion.
The minister took his place behind the pulpit and began the service. The eulogy was given by a woman she’d never seen before. Others were allowed to tack on memories. The comments came from all directions—all extolling her grandfather—things about his love for her grandmother and his life working for the railroad. He was a master carpenter, a good husband and father, a Christian man. None of the images she could reconcile if she tried. Who was this person they were talking about? He certainly wasn’t the man she had frequently argued long and bitterly with her over her art. She wanted to scream: “Look at me! Look at who I became. And it wasn’t because of him.”
She shifted in her seat, stifling the anger and ignoring the grief that whispered at her, plunging her into childhood memories, just after her parents had been killed in a freak plane crash. How he held her all the time, carried around a three-year-old little girl as if she weighed nothing, as if she meant the world to him. At thirteen that had changed when her grandmother died. The arguments had started then.
Last night at the viewing, she had been numb. He lay in a deep mahogany casket, dressed in a navy blue suit she had never seen. She’d stared at his face, touched it, rubbed her fingers along his hands that laid so serenely across his chest, but he didn’t look like the man she remembered. Now all these people with their memories…
She groped in her bag for a Kleenex, not finding one. A shadow passed in front of her and Tom tucked a Kleenex into her limp fingers. He turned his attention immediately back to the service, his hands clasped in front of him—like sitting next to her was the last place he wanted to be, but some moral code insisted.
She wanted to reassure him—being alone was what she did best. What she’d had to learn to do best. When she painted, she was a recluse, painting for weeks without interruption. Her painting was her soul, her life. She didn’t need anything else.
She glared at the casket, desperate to blamehimfor everything, but she couldn’t. Ten years was a long time to carry a grudge and now the responsibility for the mess that had been between them lived only in her—the teeth of it biting her— and it was something she couldn’t reconcile. Despair rose up, flooding her eyes with tears again.
She bit her lip. Control came hard. But she forced it.
She leaned over and whispered. “So many people here.”
A mottled red filled his cheeks, his somber expression turned even grimmer. “They are his friends from church, from the nursing home, from his life—don’t you remember any of them?”
She felt the sting of his disapproval and struggled to slam her mental walls back around her. Did she recognize any of them? Mrs. Patch from across the street. Mrs. St. Clair, one of her Sunday School teachers. Mr. Marsh, the principal from the high school. That was about it. Obviously, ten years had been a long time.
“A few,” she admitted, then turned her attention back to the front of the church. Tom was sitting closer to her than she’d realized. She could feel the warmth of him transmitting from the length of his thigh against hers, even through his navy suit slacks and her black sheath. He was warm and strong against her, not moving, but staring straight ahead at the minister who was encouraging others to rise in the congregation and talk about her grandfather.
Not more, please.
She couldn’t handle the discrepancies. Blood rushed in her ears and her heart pounded—sudden tension exploding inside her—from her presence here in this town that in some ways had never accepted her as their own, from the disapproval she felt all around her, and Tom’s silence beside her. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, breathing shallowly through her nose. Anxiety churned, morphing to panic—a need to get up from the pew and run away, run as hard and fast as she was able to.
Tom settled a big hand over hers. As if he could read her.
As if he knew.
She hesitated only moments before turning her hand into his and squeezing.
The panic settled. She closed her eyes, wishing with all her might that this was over and she was back where she belonged.
££££££
The slideshow began, pictures Tom had put together of Walter’s life. The service was almost over, and yet Summer still clung to his hand. Blistering need gripped him, strangling the breath in his throat. He could swallow, take a deep breath and come up with this feeling gone. But as inappropriate and unwanted as it was, he savored the intensity—one he hadn’t had for a woman in a long time.
It was this situation that was fueling things. After the emotional energy was expelled, he’d remember she was too far out of his world. He focused on the sureness of her grip, on the smoothness of her skin, on the calluses on those hands instead of on Walter’s death, instead of the sticky family situation, instead of the acrimony between them.
He paid attention to her breathing, concerned by the short and choppy ins and outs. She wasn’t nearly as composed as she’d been at Walter’s house or at the viewing. His gut said she was a woman on the edge of losing it.
Was that possible given how she felt?
He looked over at her, noting her distress and sighed silently. He slipped an arm around her shoulder and tightened the grip on her hand. Being her anchor and staving off the emotional meltdown just under the surface, he could do that, couldn’t he?
He’d struggled to stay neutral in the grandfather-granddaughter argument. But he remembered burying his grandfather when he was twelve, and he couldn’t imagine walking away from his grandmother like that. Ever.
He never could convince Walter to make amends, and Summer rejected the proposal from him outright. But he just wasn’t wired to hold on to his irritation and leave her struggling alone, when the most fundamental part of who he was used his abilities to protect and shield.
He regretted some of what he said to her on the porch—it had been inappropriate and out of line. He shouldn’t judge her. Walter himself had admitted he was different right after Essie had died, and Summer had paid the price. Tom had never understood, though, why Summer never came back. Not once in ten years had she attempted to do anything about the problems that existed between them except throw her money at Walter, and now she wouldn’t get that chance. Was it possible she was regretting that now?
The minister said the last prayer. Tom was one of Walter’s pallbearers, so he released her hand. She bit her lip, but dropped her hand away from his. He felt lost for a moment, then shoved the feeling aside. It was just the funeral, the emotions, the circumstances, and it was best dropped now, instead of carried to the cemetery or on to the funeral dinner the church had prepared for the guests.
He cleared his throat quietly and walked to the front of the church with his father and four other men. In his place beside the casket, grief choked him. He looked over at Summer. She was looking down at her lap, hands clasped and fingers white. The minister stepped down from behind the pulpit and went to her side. As soon as they had moved the casket past her seat, the reverend guided Summer in behind them, and they exited the church.
Outside, the six men placed the casket in the hearse. Tom shook hands with the other men, using those few moments to study Summer where she had stopped with Pastor Cale. She was immaculate in her black dress, her hair in a roll at the back of her head, and her black heels shiny and new. She was drawn and pale, though, and subdued, as if the funeral and the hot August day had stifled all herjoie de vivre.
His dad touched him on the shoulder. Tom turned and hugged him.
“You all right?” His father’s gravelly voice settled him.
“Yeah.” Tom stared after Summer. The minister had left her, and she stood on the sidewalk, not quite sure what to do. “I’m going to take Summer to the cemetery.”
“We’ll meet up with you there, then.” His father squeezed his shoulder. “We�
�ll read the will Monday morning at nine. At the house. I think she’ll be more comfortable there. Don’t forget to tell her.”
“I won’t.” He approached Summer just as she removed her car keys from her bag. He lifted them from her fingers.
She tried to take them back, but he slipped them into his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Her harsh whisper was accompanied with a fake smile, pasted on for the people who were now leaving the church.
“I’m driving you to the cemetery.” He gripped her elbow and turned her toward the rental car at the front edge of the parking lot.
“I can drive myself.” Along with the acerbic tone, the color was coming back into her cheeks.
“I don’t want to fight with you. Let me do this.”
Her face softened for a moment. Then she drew her shoulders back. “I wanted some time alone. In the car. Before the burial.”
“I won’t say a word. I’ll just drive. Pretend I’m not there.”
Her eyebrows raised, and Tom had all he could do not to chuckle. He pressed the electronic key button and the door locks popped.
“I’m perfectly capable of taking myself.” Her eyes flashed. A good sign.
Tom opened the door and waited for her to move.
She didn’t.
He sighed and took another approach. “I didn’t say you weren’t capable. I just think you shouldn’t have to. You haven’t been to the cemetery in a while, there’s some road construction over that way, and your grandmother and parents are buried right beside where we’re laying Walter to rest.” If she loved her parents and grandmother as much as he expected she had, it would be a hard moment.
The hearse pulled to the entrance of the parking lot and waited for the processional to get in line behind. Tom glanced over at the dark vehicle for a moment. Summer followed his glance and got into the car.
He hurried to the driver’s side, got in, and backed out. Once he was directly behind the hearse, other cars joined the line. The hearse pulled out.
Determined to be true to his word, he held his tongue.
He held it through the graveside ceremony.
He held it as he drove them back to the church for the funeral dinner.
He held it as she didn’t eat, and got paler and paler as the afternoon wore on.
Finally, he’d had enough. He’d been sitting in the corner of the community room, watching as she struggled to greet all her grandfather’s friends. The smile never slipped, but there was something in her eyes. The same desperation he noted during the service that made him think she was about to crack. Although, if he’d been cornered by those three old ladies who used to play pinochle with Walter at the home, he’d be ready to cut and run, too. They had been talking non-stop to Summer, with her only nodding for close to twenty minutes.
Time to rescue her. She looked dead on her feet, and still she was a damn sight too beautiful for words. For a moment, he wished like hell he did one- night stands, that he could forget how she’d treated Walter. He stood to put his jacket back on. The hair on the back of his neck shifted. He looked up.
Summer stood across the table from him, all elegance and fury. “Damn you, have you made your point yet?”
He tightened his fingers at his sides, desperate to muss all the elegance in a man-woman intimate romp in the bedroom. He reached for her. “What are you talking about?”
She stepped back, avoiding his hand, and lowered her voice. “You did this on purpose. Paraded all these people in front of me, just to make me uncomfortable. Just to prove that I let my grandfather down.” Her face wasn’t pale now, it was flushed. She wasn’t fragile. She was showing her fangs, her sass. She was the most damn beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Tom dropped his hand. “This dinner? All his friends? It’s afuneral tradition here. Always has been. Always will be.”
Her mouth tightened, disbelief in her eyes. She gripped her purse in whitened fingers. “I’m leaving now.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Tom checked his pockets for his keys.
“No, you won’t.” She whispered, grinding her teeth.
The sound made him shudder. Before he could apologize or calm her down, she walked away from him. He watched her cross the room and exit out the side door.
Then he remembered he’d forgotten to remind her about Monday morning.
He had no choice but to follow her.
CHAPTER THREE
Summer’s hands shook so badly she had difficulty turning the car into her grandfather’s driveway. Only sheer force of will kept the car righted on the road and in motion until she’d stopped and parked. Her breath escaped in choppy, harsh puffs, and she wasn’t sure whether she was ready to explode with anger or sob with grief.
The three elderly ladies that had cornered her had meant well, but she felt a stake drive deeper and deeper into her heart with every person who patted her hand, every comforting word, every poignant memory each one had of her grandfather. The blunt point of their words pricked the bubble she needed to keep herself in during the dinner.
Damn Tom Applegate anyway.
This was his fault. He’d arranged everything. The funeral would have been plenty. What was the point in talking to all these people, in listening to their words? It just kept circling her around to the fact that she had lived outside his life by petty choice for years and years and years.
She turned off the motor and opened her door, letting the perfumed scent of the flowers along the driveway seep in around her, let the hum of the bees and a faint motor from someone mowing their lawn lull her back into normal suburbia.
“I had reasons for staying away.”
Hearing the words reasserted a measure of control over her volatile emotions. She pushed her tousled hair away from her face. A deep breath assisted in rebuilding her walls and helped the shakes stop. Until she saw a truck pull in and park behind her car.
Tom Applegate was in the driver’s seat. Gads! Couldn’t the man take a hint?
She gathered her purse and got out of the car, not wanting him to see her fractured and shaky behind the wheel. Moving, taking charge helped. For a second, she wanted to be rude and just walk to the porch and go inside without talking to him. But he was getting out of his truck. His jacket had been shed. Dark suit pants, combined with a white shirt that he’d rolled up on his forearms, made her artist’s brain stutter and stare. The way he moved, all lithe grace and masculine intent made the spit back up in her throat. His expression was grim, as if he wanted to be here less than she did.
That thought made her frown, irritating the feminine beast inside of her—the one that wanted to purr like Suzy and bat her eyelashes to capture the attention of the alpha male.
Where the hell had that thought come from and what was the matter with her?
She didn’t play those games. Flirting wasn’t in her repertoire of tricks. She preferred honesty, intellectual conversation, and humor. Although looking at the last three men she’d dated, that hadn’t been the case with any of them. She’d settled for each of them figuring that was all she had time for. After all, most people, especially men seeking an active relationship, didn’t understand her art any better than her grandfather had.
The thought made her turn to the house before Tom could reach her.
“Summer.” He slid a hand to her elbow and stopped her with a simple touch. “I’m sorry.”
She melted, convinced herself it was the heartfelt sounding apology not the touch that made her pause. She wanted to find a waspish reply, but suddenly found she didn’t have the energy or the justification.
“I’m sorry. I thought…” His voice trailed off. Finally he blew out a breath. “I don’t know what I thought. Maybe that all the memories these people had would somehow make you see him as he was. This type of funeral is a tradition. It helps them. You aren’t the only one grieving here.”
She opened her mouth to dispute the grieving part, but then realized how stupid that would sound. She grieved. Maybe
it had been ten years, but he still was her grandfather and now he was gone with no hopes of making peace.
This was her fault. Tom had tried. Her grandfather had tried, ages ago. She had held her anger close for too long.
She looked into Tom’s eyes then, really looked. They were the deepest blue, the deepest sad. Small dark circles under his eyes and deep lines around his mouth demonstrated his stress—with her or the situation or both, she wasn’t sure and didn’t want to ask.
“I’m sorry. I’m acting like a bitch. I’m out of my element and not sure of what I’m feeling, and I’m taking it out on you.” She chewed her lip, floundering for something else to say.
“I understand. He meant something to me, like a grandfather, too. I’m evidently having a harder time with his loss than I thought.” He dropped his hand from her arm and stared across the street.
His expression was so frustrated male that her hands itched for her sketchbook. She memorized the look, hoping against hope. She hadn’t had an itch for her sketchbook in months. Bemused and frustrated, she stepped back.
“Anyway, I followed you not to harass you, but to tell you to meet at my parent’s house on Monday at nine a.m. My dad has Walter’s will and wants to go over it. I can pick you up.”
“That’s not necessary.” She heard the snap in her voice and pulled back to regroup, straightening her shoulders. “I can find it, just give me the address.”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him how she got there. He went back to the truck and returned with a piece of paper with directions to his parent’s house scribbled on a white envelope.
Feeling churlish after everything he’d done, she didn’t question her next move.
She took the slip of paper from warm fingers and went up on tiptoes to lightly kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. The feel of his skin traveled from her lips to her womb like a rush delivery, flooding her body with heat and lust—an unwelcome feeling.
Echo Falls, Texas Boxed Set Page 45