Bleeding Hearts by Erin Lark Maples

Author:Erin Lark Maples
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Erin Lark Maples

Fourteen

Declan covered the basket of donuts with a cloth napkin. He’d never attended a funeral, so the preparations were another first. In Southern Heartache, he’d read about the casserole requirement for all memorial services. But five minutes on the internet and Declan was lost in a sea of possibilities without a full kitchen. Donuts he could manage.

Anastasia picked him up in her compact electric car. He sat at an angle to give his knees space in the cramped passenger seat. He clutched at the basket, numb.

"You look nice," Anastasia said, in assurance.

He'd worn his one suit, a navy so dark one had to squint to tell it from black. Declan tugged at the ends of his sleeves, his cufflinks gold anchors against the fabric. "So do you," he said.

Anastasia wore a black dress printed with big pink peonies. “Thank you. They’re Jess's favorite. You'll get to see them in bloom next spring," she added, her eyes on the road.

Declan stared out the window as the town rolled by, not bothering to mention he wouldn’t be there much past next spring. They passed the library and the maritime museum, continuing down the highway. At the gas station, people stood at the pumps as oil glugged into their gas tanks. A bicyclist raced by in orange and blue spandex. Astorians carrying on with life while he and his friends mourned a death.

The service was brief. A priest made grand statements about a simple woman who'd dared to want more, to turn a dream into reality. Taken too soon. May she rest in eternal peace. Declan memorized the art on the chapel walls, the hairstyles of the people in the rows in front of him, and counted backward from three hundred. Twice. He avoided the large, satin-draped coffin at the front of the room and wouldn't allow himself to focus on the blown-up photograph of Jess, head tipped back in laughter, on a giant easel ringed with white roses. In an idle thought, he wondered where they got the flowers.

After the crowd had their chance to weep over the remains of their friend, they shuffled out onto the cemetery grounds for the burial. Again, the insipid priest contributed little, and a cousin of Jess's no one seemed to recognize tossed in the first handful of dirt.

Declan scanned the gathered crowd for signs of glee, malice, or unusual interest. People stood, hands clasped, talking softly, or sniffling into tissues. There were faces he recognized and many he didn’t. Would a murderer come to the funeral of their victim?

When the priest began his solemn walk back to a waiting car, Declan wandered among the headstones while Anastasia chatted quietly with other attendees. Declan skirted the crowd, reading inscriptions for pioneers, congressmen, children, and beloved mothers.

From behind the hemlock, its tiny pinecones littering the ground, a flash of purple caught Declan’s eye. He ducked around an azalea and spotted a familiar round silhouette making her way between the graves. Declan followed, staying back behind the trunks.

At a large marble headstone carved with a massive rose, the woman knelt to set a bouquet on the site.

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