Читать книгу The Bride And The Mercenary - Harper Allen - Страница 11

They made little shovels especially for this, Ainslie O’Connell thought in dull wonder, taking it from the man beside her and grasping it by the handle. Who would have thought it? The shaft was of oak, so smooth that it felt like silk instead of wood, and the blade itself gleamed like polished silver. It was almost too pretty to use.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Lee.” The low voice at her shoulder was thick with emotion. She looked up.

“No, I’m okay.” She looked down again at the shining shovel, the heap of brown loam at her feet. “But I’m not really sure how this works. Am I supposed to take a full shovelful, or is it just kind of symbolic, Paul?”

“It’s only symbolic, Lee.” His tone was edged with sadness. “Get a little dirt on the tip of the blade and then throw it onto the coffin. They’ll cover up the rest of it after we leave.”

“Oh.” Ainslie frowned in understanding. “Okay.” Hefting the delicate implement in her hands, she started to slide the blade into the pile of earth, but then she stopped. “Do they leave the flowers on top of the coffin? They don’t take the flowers off before they bury him, do they?”

“No. The flowers stay with the coffin. The roses are yours?”

“Red roses.” She nodded in agreement. “Red roses for true love. That’s why I chose them. They’re really beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, they are, sugar. He would have liked them.” Paul Cosgrove’s hand wrapped around the shovel handle next to hers, his skin almost the same color as the oak, the white sliver of shirtcuff protruding from the somber gray of his suit sleeve a snowy contrast to the brown earth and the dull red fire of the roses. “It’s time to say goodbye, Lee. That’s really what this symbolizes.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” She gave him a startled look, shaking her head. “I’m not ready to do that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

Her gaze clouded in confusion, and she let go of the shovel. Her gloved fingers touched her forehead. “Is this really happening, Paul? Do you think there’s any way this might be some kind of a bad dream?”

The man watching her sighed heavily, a flicker of pain passing over his features. Instead of answering her, he leaned forward, plucked one of the blood-red roses from the arrangement on the polished mahogany lid in front of them, and handed it to her. Ainslie took it from him, her eyes wide.

“Can you smell it?” he asked softly.

She brought the flower up and took in a deep breath, her lashes drifting onto her cheekbones as she did so. Yes, she could smell it, Ainslie thought. The scent was intoxicating—wine and perfume and a lover’s kiss all swirled together in one heartbreakingly lovely scent. The cold petals felt like velvet against her lips.

And then she knew. Her eyes flew open and met his.

“But…but I loved him, Paul!” she whispered, her voice cracking in urgency. “You don’t understand—he can’t be gone! I can’t have lost him!”

“You didn’t lose him.” The big man took the rose gently from her and handed it to the woman standing slightly behind them. He placed Ainslie’s hand back on the shovel. “You didn’t lose him, Lee. He’ll always be in your heart.”

Unresistingly she let him slide the tip of the spade into the crumbling earth. When the two of them had lifted the shovel, he let his hand fall away. With a suddenly frightened glance at him she saw his encouraging nod, and slowly turned her attention back to the task in front of her.

The silver blade held little more than a palmful of dirt, but that was enough to dull its shining surface. It was pretty, and delicately crafted, but in the end it was only a shovel, Ainslie realized. And Paul could say what he wanted about symbolism, but his words were just a comforting lie.

There was nothing symbolic about what she was doing. She was filling in the grave of the man she loved.

She straightened, her shoulders thrown back and her feet planted slightly apart for balance. She felt Paul’s hand on her arm and shrugged it off almost angrily. Bringing the shovel up, she held it over the lowered coffin and tipped it sideways.

The clod of earth fell onto the polished lid with a terrible thudding sound. On the other side of her she heard the priest sigh and then begin intoning words she’d heard in movies and read in books, but that she’d never really listened to before.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—”

“He’s not in there, you know,” Ainslie said loudly. “I think I’ll go home and wait for him. Celeste, can I have my rose back, please?”

She grabbed the flower from Paul’s startled wife, and began to push her way through the black-clad crowd. She took three determined steps.

Then she fainted and Paul, darting forward, caught her.