“I’m so sorry about Clara Bell,” said the familiar female voice.
It was the same sentiment Hunter had heard over and over for the past few days since he’d arrived at the senior center to find that his Mimi had had a massive stroke and passed away.
He’d known the truth even before Pam had stared at him with that regretful look and told him he would have to talk to the doctor for a complete update on his greatgrandmother’s condition.
The update had amounted to a thirty-second explanation of how she’d been suffering a few ministrokes over the past few days, which had rendered her tired and listless and made her seem slightly off. The ministrokes had led up to the big one and now she was gone.
And Hunter was all alone.
“She was a fine woman,” Myrtle Sinclair added. “One of the good ones.”
“She was,” Hunter agreed, shaking the woman’s hand and turning to the next person passing in front of him. An endless stream of faces blocked his view of the casket as it was lowered into the ground at Sawyer Hill, a stretch of rolling green hills dotted with lush flowers and shrubs. The final resting place for the entire Sawyer clan. Clara Bell was going in right next to her eldest sister and younger brother, though Hunter knew she would much rather have been cremated, her ashes sprinkled out by Rebel Lake where she’d had so much fun as a girl.
But it didn’t matter what Clara Bell wanted. All that mattered was what Hunter’s father wanted. He and Hunter’s mother had arrived just that morning, after making the arrangements long distance for the actual service. They would be leaving immediately after the funeral.
After making a quick stop at the massive headstone that sat a few yards away where Hunter’s younger brother had been laid to rest.
Travis had been put in the ground with the same fuss that Clara Bell was receiving, with tons of people and flowers and sobbing regrets. Albeit he’d had a ten-gun salute from the local VFW Hall vets thanking him for his service. While the veterans weren’t saluting Clara Bell, they were still out en masse.
Hunter stared at the stream of old men clad in their uniforms, their sparse gray hair slicked back, their looks expectant. No doubt they were counting down the minutes until they reached the First Presbyterian reception hall that had been loaded down with casseroles and hams and pies thanks to the local ladies’ auxiliary. They’d provided a feast in honor of Clara. Plenty of good food to soften the blow of everyone’s loss.
But there was nothing that could ease the pain twisting inside of Hunter. The anguish because he’d been too late to say good-bye.
Hell, he’d never thought to say any such thing. Clara had always been a permanent fixture in his life and he’d never even considered that there would come a time when she wouldn’t be there.
He’d been busy working and doing his best to forget Jenna Tucker.
Going through the motions.
His gaze went to the blonde who stood off to the side with her two sisters and their husbands.
She wore a basic black dress that hit just below the knees. A boxy number that did nothing to accent her curves or show off her luscious tits.
Still his body responded with the same tightening as if she’d been stark naked.
But it wasn’t just lust. There was a desperation inside of him that made him want to walk over, slide his arms around her, and never let go.
But he’d already let go. He’d said good-bye. Not officially, mind you. He’d sent her a text that said he was busy. But it was the underlying message that mattered.
It was over.
Done.
“Don’t forget to send out the thank-you notes,” his father said just to his right. “And make sure you send a personal note to the reverend for all the kind words.”
“I’ll take care of it, Dad.”
“And make sure to send a nice donation to the ladies’ auxiliary,” his mother reminded him somewhere to his left. “We stopped by the church on the way over and they did a lovely job with the food.”
“Consider it done,” he said, even though he knew his mother would go ahead and send her own note anyway. Even after ten years, she still didn’t trust him. Not the way she’d trusted Travis.
“Judge Spears tells me you haven’t turned in your paperwork for the next election.”
“It’s done. I just need to drop it off.”
“And don’t forget—”
“I’ve got it,” Hunter growled, his gaze catching his father’s. “I’m a grown-ass man. I can handle myself.”
His dad didn’t say anything for a long moment. He finally nodded and excused himself to catch up to the reverend. No doubt to issue a verbal thank you because he didn’t think his son was capable of doing that either.
“I’m really sorry about Clara.” It was the same sentiment, but the voice was different from all the others. Softer. More familiar.
His heart stalled as he turned to see Jenna standing in front of him, so close he could touch her right here and now, in front of God and everyone, if he had a mind to.
He balled his fingers and kept his hands at his side.
“She was really sweet.”
“You talked to her,” he said. “Pam told me about your visit. Right before she gave me the letters.”
“I should have told you—”
“You don’t owe me anything. They were her letters, not mine. You did the right thing giving them to her.”
“P.J. wasn’t the father,” she told him. When she noted the surprise in his gaze, she added, “I thought so, too, but when I gave them to Clara she told me it was her Physics teacher.”
“Why all the letters to P.J. then?”
“She said he was her best friend. He took the fall for getting her pregnant and claimed the child as his own because she asked him to. Because she wanted to protect the real father.”
And P.J. had done it because he loved her.
“Did she tell you who he was?”
Jenna shook her head, her blonde hair catching rays of sunlight. “I didn’t ask. I know he’s a Tucker. I’ve been racking my brain, but the name P.J. just doesn’t ring a bell. Does it sound familiar to you?”
Not to Hunter.
Not until he turned and one of the VFW vets caught his eye. He noted the sadness on the man’s face, the cluster of gardenias in his hand, and he knew the truth even before he saw the shiny gold name tag that read Purvis Jeremiah Tucker.
“Shorty Tucker,” he murmured as he watched the man standing at the grave site, tears in his eyes. He dropped the handful of gardenias on the casket and suddenly Hunter knew that it wasn’t the florist sending his great-grandmother leftovers every week. The gardenias had come from Shorty. Every week. Like clockwork. Because he’d loved her.
Because he’d spent the past seventy something years loving a woman who’d never loved him back.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the text,” he started. “I’ve just been really busy—”
“It’s fine.” She waved him off. “If you hadn’t sent the text, I would have. It’s over. It’s better this way.” She glanced behind her at her sisters who’d already started to retreat toward the line of cars. “I should really go. I took so long getting everything out of the house, so they’re just now getting to the demolition. Brody is at the house now. I should be there when it starts.”
“They’re taking down the entire house?”
She nodded.
“And you’re really good with that?”
“I am.” She seemed to think. “I should be.” Then, as if she’d said too much already, she turned. “Take care.”
He watched her walk away and barely resisted the urge to grab her hand, haul her close, and just feel her there beside him. To feel just a little less lonely.
But she was right.
It was better for them to be apart.
If only it felt that way.