Diedre sat on the chaise lounge in the music room and absently fingered the soft cream-colored afghan Mama had made for her more than twenty years ago. In recent months Mama had kept it close, as if holding it and feeling its warmth might chase the chill of death away.
But it hadn't worked. Cecilia McAlister had died in her daughter's arms, here in this very room, and Diedre had been able to do nothing except hold her and watch as the light faded from her eyes.
"I love you, Mama," she whispered to the empty room, just as she had whispered to her mother in those last moments. Diedre had been expecting the moment, waiting for it, fearing it, yet when it came, it left her numb and disbelieving.
The one thing Diedre wanted was the very thing that money couldn't buy, that wishing couldn't retrieve, that even God denied her. Time. Time to say I love you again. Time to see her mother's smile and hear her laughter. Time to ask the thousand questions that crowded into her mind.
But there was no time. No time for explanations. No time for grief. The ambulance had finally pulled out of the driveway, taking her mother's lifeless body away, and now Diedre braced herself to be thrust into a frenzy of activity. Decisions had to be made, a funeral planned. Mama might be resting in peace, but the rest of the household was moving into overdrive.
Tired. She was so, so tired.
Heartspring was a small town, but even the largest parlor at Dower and Gray Funeral Home wasn't nearly big enough to accommodate the hundreds of people who would come to pay their last respects. After much discussion with Mr. Dower, Diedre and her father reluctantly decided to give in and hold the visitation at the McAlister home.
That meant food. Caterers. Hiring extra help. Removing Mama's hospital bed from the music room. Getting ready for an onslaught of guests.
The expansive rooms of the big stone mansion might have been more spacious than the Serenity Parlor at Dower and Gray, but the effect was still a little like stuffing sumo wrestlers into a Volkswagen Beetle. It seemed that every one of Heartspring's 3,159 citizens had decided to show up—all at once. Diedre had trouble just negotiating her way from one side of the room to the other. The place was packed with wall-to-wall mourners—at least that was what they were called, according to tradition. A good many of them, as far as Diedre could tell, had apparently come for other reasons than to grieve the passing of Cecilia McAlister from this world into the next.
At first she hadn't noticed it so much. She had been caught up in the daughterly duties of arranging flower sprays, shaking hands, receiving hugs, and trying to suppress fresh tears as she listened to everyone who came through the door tell her what a wonderful, sainted woman her mother had been.
It was true, of course. But every kind word about Mama became a knife-thrust into Diedre's wounded heart, and soon the emotional involvement became too intense to bear. If she caved in now, she'd be in shambles within the hour. Better to disengage, to withdraw a little. The real grieving, no doubt, would come later. For now she simply had to get through this any way she could.
But distancing herself from the pain had its drawbacks. Her attention started to wander, and other concerns began imposing themselves upon her consciousness. She wasn't accustomed to wearing high heels, and her feet ached. Her lower back was beginning to spasm. She needed a break, desperately wanted to get away for a while. Where was Daddy?
She let her gaze wander around the room and finally found him, surrounded three-deep by men in dark business suits, each one jockeying for the honor of standing beside the mayor in his hour of grief. It looked more like a cocktail party or an election fund-raiser than a wake. The women, like elegantly clad Stepford Wives, all seemed to be wearing the same Perfect Little Black Dress and sporting identical strands of pearls at their necklines. Some of the guests were clamoring for Duncan McAlister's attention. Some were huddled together in little clusters, gossiping. Others seemed to be posing for photo ops as a few reporters from the local paper milled about snapping pictures.
Diedre pressed a hand to her temple and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she found herself staring into the eager, watery eyes of Oliver Ferrell.
He gripped her fingers in a moist, earnest handshake. "Miss McAlister," he said breathlessly, "I am just so, so sorry. Such a loss, such a loss, a terrible, terrible loss. Your dear, dear mother was such a lovely, lovely woman, such a fabulous, fabulous asset to your father's career."
Diedre fought to suppress the grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth. She didn't know Ferrell well, but she had heard Mama and Daddy talk about him often enough. He had been on the City Council for years—the loyal swing vote who made sure that every program Duncan McAlister proposed would be approved without question. Her father had often regaled them with stories about Ferrell, imitating the man's annoying habit of repeating every adverb and adjective at least twice, sometimes three or four times. By the time Daddy was done with one of his Ollie Ferrell impersonations, Diedre and her mother would be doubled over the dinner table, laughing so hard they had to wipe away tears.
Now the memory came flooding back, and Diedre felt herself trying to muffle a snicker. But it was too late. It overtook her before she could stop it—the kind of uncontrollable hysteria that makes you disrupt a church service or blow milk out your nose. She jerked her hand from Ollie's grasp, thrust her face into her handkerchief, and stood there with her shoulders shaking, unable to restrain the convulsions of laugher.
Fortunately, Ollie took her reaction for a fresh outpouring of grief. He patted her awkwardly on the arm and tried to console her. "Oh my, oh my, oh my," he murmured. "There, there, Miss McAlister. We will all miss your wonderful, wonderful mother so very, very much. Her passing, her untimely passing, her terrible untimely passing leaves such a void, such a vast, vast void, in our little community."
He paused, apparently waiting for some response, but Diedre was laughing so hard that no sound came out, just a series of high-pitched, breathless little squeals.
"We all share your pain, your deep, deep pain," Ollie tried.
"Th-thank you," Diedre managed, her face still buried in the handkerchief. "Excuse me," a deep voice interrupted. "I think Miss McAlister needs to be alone for a few minutes."
A firm hand steered Diedre away from the crowd and into the library across the hall. When the door shut behind them, Diedre looked up to see Jackson Underwood grinning down at her.
"Uncle Jack!" she exploded in relief. "Thanks for . . . rescuing me." She put a hand to her chest, fighting for air.
He folded his arms. "Ollie Ferrell's quite a piece of work, isn't he?"
"I couldn't help myself, Uncle Jack. He was just there, spouting out all those adjectives, and I—" She dissolved into laughter again and sank into a leather armchair.
"Why don't we just sit in here for a few minutes until you regain your sense of decorum?"
Diedre sighed. "I think that's an excellent idea. Could I get something to drink, do you suppose?"
"There's punch and coffee in the dining room. Which do you want?"
"Something cold, please. I'd rather have a Diet Pepsi if you can find one, but otherwise punch will be fine."
"I'll be right back."
He opened the door, and a wave of noise rolled toward her, indistinguishable voices that from this distance sounded like the chattering of geese on a riverbank. When the door closed again, silence washed over her like healing waters. Good old Uncle Jack. Always dependable. Always around when you needed him.
Jackson Underwood wasn't her real uncle, but he had been a friend of the family since before Diedre was born. As Daddy's attorney, business associate, closest confidant, and sometime campaign manager, Jack had been present for every McAlister family celebration, fund-raiser, election banquet, and funeral for more than twenty-five years. He had three ex-wives but no children and had become Diedre's unofficial "bachelor uncle" so long ago that he might as well be kin. And he always treated her as if she were the most important person in his world.
It was rumored around Heartspring that Jack Underwood was something of a womanizer. Diedre didn't know that for sure, but given his trim physique, quick wit, and charismatic personality, she wouldn't be surprised if women threw themselves at him. He had a way about him, a kind of effortless charm that made people instantly comfortable in his presence. Maybe it was that brilliant smile of his. He laughed readily, and although he had to be close to Daddy's age, he seemed ten years younger.
Yes, she guessed, he would undoubtedly be considered quite a catch. But no one had caught him since his last divorce, which had been more than fifteen years ago.
The library door opened, and Uncle Jack entered the room balancing two crystal punch cups and a small plate heaped with finger sandwiches and cake. "I thought you might be hungry." He sat in the chair opposite hers and extended the plate.
Diedre waved the food away. "I couldn't eat. But thanks for the punch." She sipped at the pink liquid, a combination of lemonade and grape juice which tasted vaguely like the SweetTarts candy she used to love as a child.
She looked at Jack and tried to consider him objectively, as if she hadn't known him all her life. He was handsome, she concluded with surprise. She had never really noticed that before—
"Is something wrong?" He ran a hand through his hair. "You're staring."
"No, I—" Diedre shrugged. "Sorry."
"I know, this is all so difficult." He grinned and winked at her. "So very, very, terribly, terribly difficult."
Jack's imitation of Ollie Ferrell wasn't as good as Daddy's, but Diedre chuckled nevertheless.
He took her hand and squeezed it. "So, how are you doing, kiddo?"
"All right, I guess." She let out a sigh. "For a while I was running on adrenaline, I think, but my supply is used up. I'm exhausted."
"The funeral's tomorrow. Then things will get back to normal."
Back to normal. The words echoed in her head like a foreign language, elusive sounds she should be able to understand but couldn't get her mind to comprehend. It had been so long since anything had seemed normal—with her mother's illness and then coming home to help with her care—that Diedre couldn't remember what that felt like. And now without Mama, she couldn't imagine life ever being normal again.
A light knock sounded on the door, and it opened to reveal a long-legged, attractive blonde in the requisite black dress and pearls—but with significantly more makeup than the other Stepfords. "There you are." She sidled in Jack's direction, casting a desultory glance at Diedre. "Busy, Jack?"
"Does it look like I'm busy?"
The blonde arched one immaculately tweezed eyebrow. "It looks like you've cornered someone half your age. Really, Jack!"
He set his punch on the table and took a step in the woman's direction. "This is Diedre McAlister," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, as if to a very stupid child. "Mayor McAlister's daughter."
A confused look came over the woman's face. "Oh. Sorry."
Uncle Jack rolled his eyes. "Diedre, this is Pamela Langley, my new secretary."
"Legal assistant," Pamela corrected with a vacant smile. She shook Diedre's outstretched hand with the tips of her manicured fingers. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Nice party." She turned her attention back to Jack and lowered her eyelids to half-mast. "Isn't it about time we were leaving?"
Jack frowned and cut a glance in Diedre's direction. "Not now, Pamela—"
Diedre waved a hand. "Never mind, Uncle Jack. Go on. I'm sure you've got work to do. It's all right."
"You'll be OK?" he asked.
"Of course. I need to get back to our guests, anyway."
Diedre stood to see them out, but before they could make their exit, a large, familiar figure blocked the doorway of the library.
"Carlene!" Diedre reached out a hand toward her best friend. "Come in!"
Carlene Donovan shouldered past Pamela Langley and Jack and drew Diedre into an exuberant hug. "Sorry it took me so long. I got here as soon as I could."
Diedre held onto her for a minute or two, then stepped back to look at her. She was decked out in a flowing tunic and pants of peacock blue and actual miniature peacock feathers dangled at her earlobes. With her round face, pixie haircut, and bright silk outfit, she provided a striking contrast to—and relief from—the thin, blonde, black-clad Pamela.
"I'm so glad to see you!" Diedre said, gripping both of Carlene's hands. "You weren't there when I called; I wasn't sure you'd get the message."
"I got it, all right. I came as fast as I could."
The legal assistant raked cold eyes up and down Carlene's ample form, making no attempt to camouflage her blatant assessment—and obvious disapproval. If she had spoken aloud, her opinion could not have been more clear: a woman of size and substance, especially one who had the audacity to wear bright colors and carry herself with confidence—had no right to exist in the svelte Miss Langley's world. "Can we leave now?" she whined in Jack's direction without taking her measuring gaze off Carlene.
He cleared his throat. "You go on without me."
The woman's face took on a pinched expression, as if she had just caught a whiff of something distasteful. "If you insist." She straightened his tie and pushed a cocktail napkin into the pocket of his suit coat. "I'm not going back to the office. Here's my new cell phone number. Call me later."
Jack hustled her out the door and turned back toward Diedre. "Sorry." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, then offered his hand to Carlene. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Jack Underwood."
"This is Carlene Donovan, my best friend from Asheville," Diedre said. "Carlene, this is my Uncle Jack."
"Your uncle?"
"In name only, I'm sorry to say," Jack responded smoothly. "I'm Diedre's father's attorney, and an old friend of the family. You'll be here for a few days, Miss Donovan?"
Carlene nodded. "At least for the funeral."
"Then I'll look forward to seeing you again." He leaned over and kissed Diedre on the forehead. "Bye, honey. I'm going to talk to your dad for a few minutes, and then take off. I'll see you tomorrow."
Diedre watched him go. When she turned back, Carlene was lounging in the leather library chair, shaking all over with laughter.
"What's so funny?"
"Your dashing Uncle Jack and his anorexic model. What a pair."
"They're not a pair, Carlene. She's his secretary."
"Right. And I'm Cindy Crawford."
"You think they're together? I don't believe it."
"Believe what you like." Carlene chuckled. "But they are a couple—of some kind, anyway. And from what I just saw, they probably deserve each other."
"That's not a very nice thing to say about my Uncle Jack. He's a very compassionate and generous man."
"If I were a woman anywhere within thirty years of him, I'd watch out." Carlene insisted. "Easy on the eyes, hard on the heart."