AN UNUSUALLY COLD WIND CUT THROUGH THE KINGS Meadow Cemetery on the day they laid Penny’s brother, Bradley Evan Cartwright, to rest. It felt as if it cut through her heart as well, slicing her in two. She would never again see her little brother’s sweet smile. She would never again hear him laugh. She would never again have to be on the alert for one of his practical jokes.
And I’ll never get to tell him I’m sorry for the things I said in anger.
Seated beside her in the front row of mourners, her dad put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to his side. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but it was pointless for him to try. She couldn’t be comforted. Not in this.
Reverend Tom Butler ended his graveside prayer with a soft “Amen.” Then he walked over to Penny and her dad, his face schooled into a sympathetic expression, his eyes filled with kindness. “I am so very sorry, Rodney,” he said as he took hold of her dad’s right hand between both of his own.
Her dad nodded in silence.
Tom repeated his words of condolence to Penny. Like her father, she nodded, her throat too tight to squeeze out a reply.
Chet Leonard, his wife, and his sons were next. Leaning down, Chet said, “If I can do anything . . . If you ever need to talk or just be with someone who understands what it means to lose a son . . .” He let his voice trail into silence.
Charlie Regal, Brad’s best friend since first grade, came close, looked about to speak, and then shook his head as he turned to walk away.
More people came forward. A few shed tears as they whispered words that Penny no longer heard.
Twelve years ago, pneumonia had taken Penny’s mom at the age of forty-five. Despite how ill her mom had been, sixteen-year-old Penny hadn’t believed she would die. Perhaps pneumonia still took the lives of those who were frail, like the elderly or little children. But someone in the best of health like her mom had been? How could that happen with all the advances in modern medicine? Charlotte Cartwright’s death had rocked the family.
And now Brad . . . Brad, who hadn’t even reached his twenty-third birthday. He’d finished college at the end of last year, a full semester ahead of schedule. He could have had a brilliant future before him for the taking. But he hadn’t even bothered to attend his own graduation ceremony. He’d come home for Christmas and, soon after, packed up and headed for Nashville, exchanging an engineering career for a stupid set of drums and a life on the road as part of a band.
And now he’s dead.
She shivered. Not from the cold but from the emotions that roiled inside of her. Anger. Exasperation. Frustration.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
The last of the mourners finally walked toward their cars. The reverend stood at a respectful distance, as if waiting to see if he would be needed.
“Let’s go home, Pen,” her dad said, his voice breaking at the end.
“Okay.”
They rose in unison and turned from the flower-covered coffin. It wasn’t a long ways to her dad’s truck. They moved slowly, arms entwined, watching the uneven ground before them. They were almost to the truck when someone stepped into their path.
The first thing Penny saw were the toes of a fancy pair of cowboy boots poking out from beneath trousers with a fine crease. She looked up, expecting to see a familiar face, expecting to hear more words of solace. But it wasn’t a lifelong friend or neighbor, and when she saw who it was, her breath caught. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be that man. Not here. Not here in Kings Meadow.
“Mr. Cartwright,” he said to her dad as he removed a black Stetson from his head. “I’m Trevor Reynolds. I . . . I’m sorry about Brad. He was a good kid.”
If her dad was surprised by Trevor’s appearance at his son’s funeral, it didn’t show in his voice. “Thank you.”
Trevor’s gaze slid to her. “You must be Penny. I—”
She slapped him. Hard.
His eyes widened. His mouth thinned. But he didn’t move, didn’t make a sound.
“You don’t belong here,” she said with icy resolve.
For a second Trevor looked as if he might protest, but instead he took a wide step off to the side and allowed father and daughter to pass.
Her dad waited until they arrived at the passenger door of his truck before he said, “You shouldn’t have done that, Pen.”
She disagreed. She should have done it. She’d wanted to do even more. She’d wanted to haul back and slam Trevor Reynolds as hard as she could with a tight fist. He was the reason her brother was dead, and he deserved to bleed, to feel pain, to—
“Hate and blame won’t bring Brad back,” her dad added.
Somehow she held back the tears that burned her throat and eyes. If she started to cry, she feared she would never stop. Tears would mean she was weak, and she had to stay strong. For her dad. For herself.
For Brad.