Francine checked the time. “After all the trouble Father Kevin has gone to organizing the service I’d hate to be late.”
“The church is less than five minutes away. We’ll be fine.”
“We’re expecting a high turnout so parking will be difficult.”
“Then it’s a good thing I have a small car.”
Francine pointed to a narrow side street. “Take a right up here. Traffic will be heavy on the main road. We’ll go the back way.”
“We could have walked,” said Emma. “The fresh air would have been good for you.”
“No, it’s better this way. I feel safer.”
Emma almost reminded her mother that she’d just said that she’d felt unsafe but decided it best she keep that one to herself. She peeked in her review mirror. A patrol car trailed them at a discreet distance.
Francine held her hand up to the vent. “Can we turn the heat on? I’m a little cold.”
“It should warm up in a minute.” Emma paused. “Since I arrived home I’ve been thinking a lot about Lucy. I guess it’s easier than thinking about Dad.”
“She used to come see me quite a bit the year you were away. Nine times out of ten she’d arrive at the back door in tears. She and Caleb fought all the time. If the wind direction was right we could hear them shouting.”
“Nathan said she had been getting up to all sorts of stuff,” said Emma.
“That may be so, but at first she just seemed to be at a loose end. She’d always bring over her sketchbook. That girl was always leaving stuff behind. I think it was her way of keeping a foothold in our lives. There’s a whole folder of her work up in the attic somewhere. A few months after you left for England I showed some of Lucy’s drawings to Dot.”
Emma clutched at various childhood memories. Finding nothing that pointed her in Dot’s direction, she nodded vaguely.
Francine sighed. “Surely, you remember Dr. Whitaker’s second wife, the one before Sharon? Dot used to be a nurse at the doctor’s practice.”
“Tiny yet formidable.”
“That’s the one.”
Dot had organized the art fair that took place alongside the Cherry Harvest Festival every autumn. A self-taught artist, she favored big blousy still lifes and paint-by-number style pastoral scenes. In the summer months she could be spotted with her easel positioned anywhere there was a scenic view. In the winter she disappeared into her art studio up at her house. She had a gallery on Main and her little pictures, as she liked to call them, sold well among visiting tourists. One of Dot’s paintings hung above the fireplace in Emma’s parents’ home. Emma had tried to get her father to admit that he secretly hated it, but he was unusually polite when it came to Dot’s artwork.
Emma cleared her throat. “Does Dot still paint pretty pictures?”
“Pretty isn’t really her thing these days.”
“Don’t tell me she’s gone to the dark side.”
“She’s had a rough time.”
“When did she and Dr. Whitaker split up?” asked Emma.
“Eight years ago.”
“Did she keep the McMansion?”
“Among other things. She also still has a share in the doctor’s practice.” Francine managed a smile. “I bet that keeps Peter on his toes.”
The Whitaker’s home was an eight-thousand-square-foot edifice built into the hills overlooking Walleye Junction. The gated property had a long, winding drive, six bedrooms, and an indoor swimming pool that doubled as a dance floor when the retractable cover was put in place. The Whitakers’ parties were legendary. Emma pictured Dot holding a cocktail and a cigarette while she danced on the diving board.
“It’s funny how memory works,” said Emma. “Five minutes ago I couldn’t recall Dot’s face, but now it’s like it all happened yesterday.”
“Hopefully, there are some good memories stored away in there,” said Francine. “I think you sometimes forget that you were happy here for a long while.”
If Francine hadn’t been directing her every move, Emma would have driven past the multistory glass and brick fronted building without guessing it was a church. After the gas main explosion destroyed half of downtown, the church expanded into the empty lot where the cinema had once stood. It now took up one city block. Her father had joked that the parishioners were under the misguided impression that being seen from heaven was the next best thing to being there. In recent conversations, he’d been more withering in his criticism. He’d taken to calling it the church that pain built. He’d always been critical of organized religion, so Emma hadn’t been surprised by his remarks. She’d warned him not to let Francine hear him say things like that.
The municipal parking lot was a block east of Main Street. Emma backed into a space between two pickup trucks that were jacked up higher than her car’s roofline. The community park and public library were directly across the street. Caught in the dense leaves of overgrown trees, the light coming off the streetlights barely touched the wide sidewalks. Long shadows fell across the infield of a baseball diamond. The field was empty aside from a few young girls who loitered near the dugouts wearing shorts and crop tops. Their sharp laughter cut through the noise of traffic. Emma watched them for a few seconds before going around the car to open her mother’s door.
Francine was searching her bag for tissues.
“The prayer service was a thoughtful gesture, but I don’t know how I’m going to manage this.”
Francine’s cheeks were damp with tears. Emma fished a packet of tissues out from the glove compartment and handed them to Francine.
“Let’s just stay here a minute,” said Emma. “They’re not going to start without us.”
Francine stared out the front windshield. “I should have come to see you in Chicago when you were in a bad way. I’m sorry.”
Emma couldn’t think of what to say. She didn’t want to talk about what had happened in Chicago. She glanced over at the park. The girls were running up and down the sidewalk. Their bare legs and midriffs shone stark white in the glare of the passing headlights.
“It was pride that kept me away,” said Francine. “Your father was so angry with me. I’m not sure we were ever the same after that.”
Emma pictured the high hill overlooking the town where Daniel had grown up—a grid of streets, a town square, and the furniture store that had been his family’s ancestral home. These were the things that were pointed out to Emma and Philip as they waited for the service to commence. No one wanted to talk about how Daniel had died.
“Never question how much Dad loved you,” said Emma.
“He was keeping secrets.” Francine stared straight ahead. “I thought that maybe he was having an affair.”
“What would make you suspect such a thing?”
“It was just a feeling I had.”
“There was something else going on. He bought a gun. For some reason he was afraid. It wasn’t an affair.”
At the sound of screaming, Emma turned toward the park. Arms stretched wide and laughing hysterically, the girls ran across the street. A car horn sounded. Brakes squealed. A man shouted.
“I think it might have been Dot,” said Francine, pressing a tissue into her cheeks. “She’s gotten so glamorous since the divorce. I feel like a frump standing next to her.”
“Don’t say things like that. You’re beautiful and Dad loved you. He would have never done something like that. Besides Dot’s been your friend since before I was born.”
“You didn’t see her when she set her sights on Peter. People around here seem to forget that he was still married to his first wife when Dot started working as a nurse at the practice. He had two young children and another on the way. Dot didn’t give them much thought. Why am I any different?”
“Mom, please, don’t do this now. You’re only making yourself upset.”
“I don’t know what’s come over me. I used to trust people.”
Emma held out her hand. “Your friends are waiting at the church
. You’ll feel better once you’re there.”
* * *
Emma felt like she was standing in front of a wall of photographers. Every face was the pop of a flashbulb. Every flash set off a cascade of memories. She didn’t have time to think. She shook hands with people who said that they remembered her fondly and endured lingering hugs from those who claimed to know her well. It took her and her mother twenty minutes to walk from the street to the church foyer where administrative offices were partitioned behind plate glass and floating stairs led up to the upper landing and smaller meeting rooms. A stained-glass archway some twenty feet in height framed an enormous set of oak doors that opened wide onto the seated congregation. Emma took a deep breath. The predictions of a large turnout had been correct. There was a discreet sign directing visitors to the ladies’ room. Not since high school had she been so desperate to hide in a stall.
An older woman pulled Emma into a long hug. She smelled of perfume and hairspray. Her skin was powdered, her glasses crystal clear. She held Emma away from her, clutching her forearms with strong hands.
“It is so good to see you again.”
Emma stared at her blankly, not remembering. “It’s nice of you to come,” she said cautiously.
The woman placed a warm hand to Emma’s cheek. “You were such a joy to teach.”
Emma smiled. Perhaps her mother was right after all. It was too easy to forget that she’d once been happy in Walleye Junction. She remembered her classroom, sunlight streaming through tall windows and desks in neat rows. Lucy was next to her, cracking jokes, making her and Nathan laugh.
* * *
Dressed in a suit and wearing his trademark benevolent smile, Dr. Peter Whitaker held the lectern with both hands. The overhead lights reflected off his silver hair as his eyes swept across the congregation.
“To be truly blessed is to be blessed with a sense of purpose, a clear understanding of why we’re here and how our faith might bring us closer to both God and our goals. Philip Long may not have understood God, but he understood purpose. A true crusader in our midst, he not only took on the big headline-grabbing issues but also the humbler concerns that dogged our daily lives. If you met him on the street and he asked how you were, it wasn’t some empty platitude that would be followed by a hollow wish for you to have a nice day. Philip was a man who stopped and listened and then listened some more. Before you knew it, you’d find yourself buying him a cup of coffee. And if you were really lucky you’d get to buy him breakfast as well.”
He waited for the congregation’s laughter to die down.
“Today our community mourns the loss of an individual who made it his mission to expose the darker side of our humanity so that the light in all of us might shine a little brighter. Tonight we pray for his wife, Francine, who I’ve known these many years, and his daughter, Emma, who has at long last returned to her home here in Walleye Junction.” The doctor paused again. “I think I speak on their behalf when I thank the people who helped organize the prayer service this evening. It will be a long time before this community heals, but events like this bring us one step closer. Some of you have been invited to a small reception upstairs. I apologize to those of you who will not be able to attend.” He looked around. “We really had no idea so many people would come, otherwise we would have made arrangements for a larger venue. I’m sure Francine and her daughter thank you from the bottom of their hearts. Perhaps we could just have a few moments of quiet contemplation before calling this gathering to a close.”
Emma sat in the front row next to her mother, clutching a program she’d been handed as they’d been swept into the hall. Emma couldn’t see Dr. Peter Whitaker through her tears. She reached into her bag, but her mother was there first. Francine held up a tissue. In her trembling hand, it waved like a white flag. Emma said a quiet thank-you and pressed it to her eyes.
In the row behind her two women were whispering.
“Are you going to the reception?”
“Of course I’m going. I’ve been making canapés all afternoon.”
“It’s nice that Emma is here for her mother.”
The second woman lowered her voice further. “She’s too thin. A strong wind and she’d snap.”
Emma and her mother rose to their feet, as Peter made his way off the stage. Peter and Francine hugged for a long while. Emma thought it was nice to see her mother smile again.
“Thank you, Peter,” said Francine. “That meant a lot to me.”
Peter held tight to Francine’s hand. “Whatever you need, Francine. I’m here for you.”
Emma risked a quick look behind her. She didn’t recognize the two whisperers, but noticed that Peter’s ex-wife Dot was two rows away. Her shiny blond bob looked as if it had been chiseled from marble. She stared at Emma for a couple of seconds before turning to the woman next to her. Nathan was standing with a group of people who were making their way toward the big oak doors. She hoped he wasn’t attending the reception. He’d been sending her text messages saying he wanted to see her again. Two days in Walleye and old patterns were already setting in. Keeping her eyes down, she fell into conversation with one of her mother’s friends as they made their way out of the hall and up the stairs to the rooftop reception room.
* * *
Emma stood next to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a floodlit terrace. The moonlit peaks of the Whitefish Range glowed in the distance. The sloping glass ceiling reflected the guests below. Most of the hair was gray and everyone seemed to be holding a glass of wine. Despite the sweeping views the room felt as if it was hermetically sealed. The cloying scent of sweet perfume was thick in the air. Emma felt a headache coming on. She sipped her glass of white wine and smiled as people came up to say a few words.
Emma searched the sea of heads for her mother. Francine was on the far side of the room having what looked like an intense conversation with Dot Whitaker. Emma placed her glass down on a passing tray. She’d had enough. She’d wait for her mother in the foyer. Halfway to the door she stopped short as an elderly man fixed his eyes on her.
Caleb Winfrey had aged. A tall man, he was now stooped, half bent over as if he’d been out in a gale for too long. She caught sight of his cane. She could plainly see the white-knuckled strain in the supporting hand. That slender piece of wood was all that was keeping him up. It made her want to kick it out from under him. Rheumy-eyed and bald, his dry lips scraped together as he worked his thoughts into words. The room quieted around them. They were being watched. Emma squared her shoulders. She was prepared this time. She waited patiently. This was her day.
Caleb opened his mouth but stopped short of speaking. A mist fell across his features. His eyes drifted over her face. As they went blank, he blinked. His voice had lost its bluster.
“Do I know you?” he said.
Emma didn’t know how to respond. She stared at Caleb and Caleb stared back. She didn’t want to be rude, but she didn’t want to remind him of her name either. The crowded room continued to hold its breath, but the sustained hush had grown awkward. Someone coughed. Nervous laughter followed. A woman Emma didn’t recognize sidled up to Caleb and took him by the arm. She was heavyset and looked as stable as a buttress. Those pearly-white knuckles relaxed as Caleb’s grip on the cane loosened. The mouth cracked into a smile. Emma didn’t wait to be introduced. Head down, she retreated. It felt like she was walking beneath a loaded sky. She imagined a web of cracks forming in the glass ceiling. It was only a matter of time before it shattered.
* * *
With her head in her hands, Emma sat on a small sofa that was tucked into a deep alcove. The foyer was to the right and a corridor that led to a rear exit was to the left. Hiding in a bathroom stall had been her first choice but there’d been a line of women waiting there. She couldn’t pretend anymore. She wanted to be alone in her grief. She missed her father. None of this made any sense without him.
Emma had spent the afternoon searching his office. She’d found the damnin
g receipt for the 9mm handgun and several rounds of ammunition wedged between a picture frame and the wall. Its existence proved Emma and her father had drifted further apart than she realized. Emma couldn’t understand why he hadn’t told her mother. It wasn’t in Francine’s nature to be smug. Despite her ardent support for the NRA and Second Amendment rights, she’d been proud of her husband’s stubborn resolve to remain a pacifist. She would have found no pleasure in his change of heart. She’d cried when Emma showed her the receipt.
“I don’t understand,” she’d said. “Why did your father think he needed a gun?”
Emma leaned her head back against the cushions and waited for the increasingly familiar feeling of vertigo to pass. She needed to calm down for her mother’s sake. In another fifteen minutes the reception would end and she could go home. She wanted to hide in her childhood bedroom. She wanted to wake in the morning thinking it was all a bad dream. That split second of peace would be worth all the pain that followed.
Somewhere an outer door must have opened. The air along the corridor felt noticeably fresher. There were faint sounds of traffic. She started reading the notifications on a bulletin board that hung on the wall opposite. She stood up when she saw Nathan’s name.
It seemed Nathan was engaged.
She read the notice twice to be sure she had the right Winfrey. Nathan was due to marry Cynthia Phelps in a month’s time. Back in high school Cynthia was a girl with a generous mouth and a less than generous spirit. There’d been rumors that she and Nathan had slept together after Emma had gone to live in England during their junior year. Emma’s friends had let her know about the stories that were going around. Nathan had denied everything in a long distance call that must have cost him a fortune and Emma had let him think that she believed him. Sometimes she felt she’d stayed with him during their senior year out of spite. She knew she was leaving. It was just a matter of time before he was the one who got hurt. Other times she’d felt that she’d stayed with him because she was too eager to please.
Emma heard footfalls. Someone was standing in the unlit end of the corridor below an exit sign. All she could see was the dark shadow of a man. Emma stepped away.
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