Читать книгу The Secret Wife - Carrie Weaver - Страница 12

J.D. TUCKED HIS GRANDMOTHER’S hand in the crook of his arm and led her to the front pew. He steadied her as she sank onto the polished mahogany seat next to Nancy.

Nancy greeted him quietly. Then she patted Grandma’s shoulder and murmured what he assumed was some sort of encouragement.

He bowed his head and briefly prayed for the improbable—that Nancy wouldn’t notice Maggie sitting in the back row. Maggie’d almost begged for a ride to the service, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He hadn’t doubted the sincerity of her emotion, simply the logistics of keeping a heartbreakingly solemn event from turning into a circus.

He’d finally agreed to bring Maggie on the condition she entered the chapel late, left early and waited in the car for him when it was over.

J.D. resisted the urge to turn around and check to see that she’d honored their deal. Today was about Eric and family. He needed to focus on the important stuff.

So he quieted his worries and simply let the reality of Eric’s death pervade him. All around him, others seemed to be following his lead. The hush of restrained grief echoed in his head. The overpowering scent of flowers made him want to flee. He glanced at the flowers, the decor, his shoes, anything but the casket. Or the still figure inside.

His stomach lurched. His face flushed.

The past and the present meshed in his mind. His dad’s funeral had been horrible. The flowers, the heat, the odor of death, barely masked by talcum powder. The fear that life would never be the same again. The sickening knowledge that it would be J.D. and his mom on their own. What would they do without his strong dad to keep them safe?

An uncle had nudged J.D. toward the casket. He hadn’t wanted to see or touch his father. But his uncle had insisted. So the five-year-old boy had slowly approached the coffin and the stiff, gray figure inside.

“Give him a kiss,” his uncle had commanded.

So he’d complied. His lips had touched the chilled waxy surface of his dad’s cheek and it was all he could do to keep from vomiting. There had to have been some mistake. This plastic, doll-like thing was not his father. It didn’t even smell like his dad. Maybe the funeral was all some horrible mistake and his dad was alive somewhere in a hospital or something.

He had to know for sure. J.D. tentatively reached inside the casket and touched the jacket sleeve. His dad had a mole on his right wrist. Pulling back the sleeve a couple inches, his mouth filled with hot saliva as he noted the mole. This…this thing was all that was left of his wonderful, laughing dad.

J.D. felt the room tilt and the past fell away, leaving him sweating profusely.

He tried to focus on the present, and paying his respects to Eric, the half brother with whom he’d shared a mother and a grandmother, but not much else in recent years.

Placing one foot in front of the other, J.D. moved beyond the flower arrangements, straight to the shiny wood box. Yellow satin lining, yellow satin pillow.

Not Eric’s style. Maybe crimson or black silk, but never yellow. They should have presented him clutching a G-string or lace teddy. Then J.D. would be able to believe it was his little brother lying pale, still and silent in that box. A sad reminder of the little brother he’d watched over, protected and loved. The same brother he’d despised, and, on more than one occasion as a boy, tormented.

It was hard to believe that overgrown Ken doll in the casket was Eric. But he knew it was true.

Closing his eyes, J.D. hoped it was the room swaying and not him. Bright lights spun behind his eyelids.

He had to get out of here.

Turning, he stumbled down the center aisle. It took tremendous concentration to walk slowly to the foyer instead of breaking into a dead run.

Dead run.

J.D. shook his head at his own morbid pun as he entered the foyer and spotted the exit doors. It would be so easy to keep on going out those doors. No, he owed it to Eric to stay. He owed it to his grandmother to stay. He had to get himself together.

So he found a quiet corner and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

Someone pulled at his elbow. A soft, sweet voice sent comforting vibes through the haze.

“Are you sick?”

Cool fingers pressed against his wrist.

He nodded, disoriented and unwilling to open his eyes. “I’m okay. But the guy in the box isn’t doing so good.”

Damn, more morbid humor.

“Eric’s not hurting. But you are.”

J.D. cranked open one eye. The woman’s features were blurry, ill defined. But she looked familiar, even in his fuddled state.

“Can you walk?”

Finally, the light-headedness dissipated and he opened both eyes to see copper hair and skin so fine it took his breath away. Freckles invited his touch, right there across the bridge of her nose. He reached out, but the angel’s voice interrupted him, her instructions gentle, but firm. “There are people here depending on you. Will you follow me inside?”

He shook his head.

“Listen, you can do this. Take a couple deep breaths. In, out.”

J.D. followed her instructions and was surprised when the sick feeling eased a bit.

“Ready?”

He straightened his spine and nodded.

“Okay.”

The gentle, compassionate woman tucked his hand in the crook of her arm, much as he’d done with his grandmother. She led him into the chapel, stopping a couple rows from the front.

“You can make it the rest of the way on your own. I’ll be in the back row like we agreed. If you need me, just signal,” Maggie whispered. Then she was gone.

She was right. J.D. was able to make it the rest of the way on his own. He sat next to his grandmother and drew strength from her. He could feel her beside him, back straight as a board, silent in her grief.

Damn. He’d been determined to see her through this the way she always had for him. How could he be her rock, her anchor, when he felt so lost himself?

He forced himself to think of a favorite place in the Smoky Mountains, but his mind turned to Maggie. She’d smoothed her thick, copper curls into some sort of looped braid. And her voice. Why hadn’t he noticed the perfect pitch of her voice before? He sighed.

He wished she’d come back and distract him some more. Run those cool hands over his face. Make it all go away.

But she couldn’t. Nothing changed the fact that Eric was dead. And no matter how much J.D. wanted to make it all better, it was beyond his control. Him. The big brother who made everything right.

Failure washed over him in waves. He should have been there. He should have protected his brother.

J.D. twisted in the seat, searching for an escape route. Then, in the very back row, a pair of green eyes held his gaze. Maggie’s presence reassured him. Calmed him. She understood what he was going through and expected no superhuman effort—just that he get through the funeral.

He idly wondered where she’d secreted the boy while she helped him. The kid was now happily ensconced on her lap.

Shaking his head, he decided the details didn’t matter. Knowing she was there made it possible for him to get through the service and even stay behind in the foyer, shaking hands, accepting condolences, making the appropriate responses. And every once in a while, he’d catch a glimpse of Maggie in the background, a constant source of encouragement.

It seemed like hours later when the last guest offered his sympathies and left.

J.D. looked up and saw Maggie.

Slowly, she nodded her approval.

It was humbling, letting a woman see his weakness, yet surprisingly liberating. As if she knew the worst, most cowardly part of his soul and didn’t judge him for it. The irony didn’t escape him. But it seemed right to have set aside his reservations and offered shelter to Maggie and her son. In turn, she’d offered him shelter when he’d needed it most.

“There she is,” his grandmother whispered, indicating Maggie. “I knew she’d come to pay her respects. She loved Eric. I could tell.”

J.D. swallowed a lump in his throat. “Yes, I guess she did.”

His grandmother called out, waving to her. “May I hold my great-grandson? It would do me good on such a sad, sad day.”

Maggie hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and handed the sleepy boy to the older woman. “Certainly. You’re always welcome to hold him.”

“Come here, precious angel,” J.D.’s grandmother crooned.

David studied her, frowning. Finally, he reached up and patted her lined cheek.

J.D.’s chest grew tight. It was the first time he’d seen his grandmother smile in several very long days. Hugging the child close, she said, “Yes, you’re a precious one.”

Then she turned, still holding the baby, and marched out the double doors. “David can ride with me in the limousine to the wake. Nancy is riding with Roy. J.D., you can follow with Maggie,” she said over her shoulder.

Maggie’s face paled. “No, I can’t. Wait, where are you taking my son? Come back. He needs a car seat. He needs me.” There was a note of panic in her voice.

J.D. touched her shoulder. “Apparently she’s taking him to her house. I bet the limo has a built-in car seat. Come on, I’ll drive.”

MAGGIE USED J.D. as a human shield as they made their way through the crowd of mourners, many of whom shot her dirty looks. Whispers followed.

Holding her head high, she tried not to think of how she must seem to them. Instead of seeing Eric’s estranged wife and mother of his child, they saw The Other Woman. A woman brazenly flaunting herself at Eric’s wake.

She grasped J.D.’s arm and halted his progress. “I have to get out of here.”

“Tough crowd, huh?” He tilted his head, his eyes questioning.

“I don’t belong here.” She turned and pushed her way through the press of people, ignoring the hurtful whispers and the realization that no one met her gaze. The truth was, she didn’t belong much of anywhere, at least where family was concerned—Eric’s or her own.

Another funeral came to mind. Another person she’d loved dying too young. For a moment, it seemed as if she could feel Cassie there beside her, encouraging her to be brave, to fight for her son and her future. Ironic, because Cassie had committed the utmost act of surrender—she’d killed herself.

Maggie felt a hand on her shoulder and turned, half expecting to see her sister. But the person detaining her was very much alive and very much a threat, though he seemed genuinely concerned at times. He was still a McGuire and she’d best remember his loyalties would naturally be to the McGuires.

“Are you okay?” J.D. asked.

“I will be. Once I get my son and get out of here.”

Maggie pushed her way through the crowd to reach Edna. Holding out her arms to David, she said, “We have to go.”

David grinned at her through a mouthful of crumbs. He clutched a sugar cookie in each hand. But he didn’t move.

“He’s being such a good little boy,” Edna crooned. Raising her chin to address Maggie, her mouth thinned. “Stay just a little longer.” It wasn’t a request.

“A few more minutes,” Maggie murmured and stepped away from the crush of people.

There was a commotion near the front door, where a beautiful blonde dabbed her eyes and accepted sympathetic hugs and handshakes. A short, stocky man followed behind her, cupping her elbow solicitously.

Turning away, Maggie suppressed a pang of longing, wishing she could find comfort in the collective embrace of Eric’s friends and relatives instead of rejection and suspicion. Maggie longed for a safe, sympathetic resting place where she could give in to the confusion and grief lodged in her chest. But after that, she feared anger would follow. Anger, betrayal and envy. Emotions she could barely admit to herself, yet they simmered beneath the surface, demanding to be heard, demanding release.

Maggie felt firm pressure on her arm.

She looked up to see J.D.

He nodded toward the baby and his grandmother. “I take it she’s not about to give him up yet? At least not without a fight?”

Nodding, Maggie fidgeted with her purse. The room seemed to close in on her. Her breathing grew shallow.

“How about if we wander over to the kitchen? I’ll come get David for you in a couple of minutes.” His voice was reassuring in the midst of her anxiety. He, at least, was somewhat familiar.

“I—”

“Please? You look like you could use a break.” He glanced toward the blonde. “None of this is Nancy’s fault. She doesn’t deserve a scene any more than you do.”

Maggie hesitated, resisting the urge to understand what the other woman might be going through, the urge to understand her own conflicting emotions. Anger rippled through Maggie. Anger at a dead man for putting her in the position of feeling sorry for Nancy. Anger that she felt obligated to hide out because of his sins.