BRIAR House began life as a brick and white-trim confection. Built by Hector Briar in 1818 for his English bride, Chastity Horsfal, the classic Victorian would remain unchanged for more than seventy years. A symbol of prosperity and heritage, four generations of Briars would live and work and love and die beneath her sheltering roof.
But with the new century came a transformation. Her party frock exchanged for somber shades of fern and moss. In her front room and parlor, guests of honor would lie in state in silk-lined coffins, hushed voices replacing the sounds of social chatter and children’s laughter.
Like a pious soul having received the calling, she accepted her fate with grace and courage, ever faithful, ever true. And to this day, she waits, patient and impartial, slated turrets piercing a clear blue sky. An icon of comfort to those who must, in the end, pass through her grand front door.
* * * *
Ephie paused behind the gate, her gloved hand curling loosely around the tip of a fleur-de-lis finial as she remembered David’s words. She tipped her head, trying to imagine rosy hues and brighter times. The sun sat low on the horizon, creating a corona around the grand dame on the hill, burnt orange rays skating down her sloping, snow-covered lawn.
Ephie thought it a clever pretense, David writing from the house’s point of view. It allowed him to express his own feelings of obligation to the past and resignation toward the future without sounding self-indulgent. After all, what child dreamed of being a funeral director? Even the too-tall-for-his-age, dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy she pictured him to have been had to have spent some time running around the yard wearing a pair of six-shooters and a cowboy hat. Or had he not been allowed to be boisterous, destined to become as subdued as his surroundings?
She’d glimpsed a different side of him last night, though. There’d been nothing restrained in the way he’d pressed her up against the door, or in the blatant promise of his hard length. She’d woken up to the memory, his taste lingering on her lips as the crudest intentions took root in her heart.
Epiphany Jones! Sex is like dessert. You must have a good, nutritious dinner before you indulge in sweets.
She smiled as the familiar words echoed in her head. The nine hours she’d spent in class with David nowhere near qualified as well-balanced. But Gram’s recommendations for a healthy love life simply hadn’t been working for Ephie. Her last relationship had ended so badly, she’d gone on a sex sabbatical, a couple of weeks turning into months. Before she’d realized it, two years had passed. Two years! She hadn’t been on a date in close to four months. No wonder she’d thrown herself at David.
The time had come for a new strategy, and Ephie had decided. She planned to walk into Briar Funeral Home and dive right into an enormous ice cream sundae—Whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry on top? Yes, please!—without having so much as a ham sandwich first. Damn the consequences!
Squaring her shoulders, she unlatched the gate and slipped inside, careful to press it closed behind her. As she strolled up the winding walkway, she noticed the neatly edged beds and manicured shrubs slumbering beneath their wintery blankets. Not a twig or flake dared stray out of place. The word meticulous came to mind, followed closely by an image of the property’s owner.
Her heels beat an eager rhythm as she trotted up the wooden front steps. How she longed to mess the man up—put a few wrinkles in his starched shirt, run her fingers through his carefully combed hair. She took a couple of deep breaths to calm her tripping pulse and then lifted her hand, still stubbornly unsteady, to press the button at the center of the gold-domed doorbell. The chime heralding her arrival demanded decorum, advising Ephie to remember where she was.
“Apologies, milady.” She smiled. “I promise to behave…at least as long as we’re downstairs.”
Almost immediately, as if David had been waiting for her, the door swung wide. Suddenly shy, Ephie dropped her gaze. In increments, she took him in, starting with the black wingtips so impeccably polished she could see her wavering reflection in their leather. His pants indented slightly above the spot where the hem met the top of his shoe. She followed the otherwise unspoiled crease, managing to pause only briefly at the hint of defined thigh muscle beneath the black wool before continuing on to traverse the vertical line of the slim belt at his hips. A brilliant white shirt backed the subtle pattern of his tie. His suit coat clung to his shoulders, the sleeves revealing precisely one half inch of cuff above the long-fingered perfection of his hands. Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she faced him, his lopsided grin sending a jolt of electricity through her nervous system, short-circuiting the controls behind her knees.
“Did you say something?”
“Yes…to the house.” At the quirk of his brow, she continued, “Reassuring her that I’ll be respectful.”
His eyes narrowed as if he were perplexed, but he merely said, “Of course.”
Angling to the side, he invited her in with a sweep of his hand, leaving little room between himself and the door jamb. She couldn’t avoid brushing against him as she stepped into the foyer. Instinctually, she turned to him, an apology on her lips. But his stoic expression kept her silent. She lowered her head, confused by the cool reception.
A quiet click told her the door had closed behind her, and then she felt David’s fingers, warm on her neck.
“May I take your coat?”
My coat, my dress, my panties…Oh my! Swallowing her nervous giggle, she nodded while unfastening the three large buttons spilling down her front. She shrugged the wool off her shoulders into his hands and then turned to watch him, wondering at what magic he possessed to make the mundane deed seem erotic, as if she were the one being draped over the hanger to be put away for later use at his discretion.
“Your purse?”
The question jolted her runaway thoughts from their unseemly path. Expecting the usual disbelief at her answer, she displayed her empty hands as proof.
“I don’t carry one.”
“No?”
“No.” She lowered her arms, fingers finding refuge in the folds of her skirt. “If it doesn’t fit into a pocket, I don’t need it.”
Something sparked in his eyes at her response but, after nodding, he turned away, hiding it from her. She waited while he hung up her coat and then returned to her. For several long moments, they considered one another, Ephie thinking it no coincidence they each had their hands tucked in their clothes. She only wished she understood why.
“Ephie—”
She startled.
“It’s so quiet,” she explained, her short laugh loud in the unnatural silence. “Where is everybody?”
“Home.”
“Really? I expected Saturday evenings to be especially busy for you.”
“They usually are. That’s why I let everyone go as soon as we finished up this afternoon.” He gave her a curious look, as if he hadn’t meant to tell her they were alone. “Except for John, my aesthetician, he’s downstairs”—he shifted his gaze to the side—“working.”
Most likely on the poor soul David had had to leave her for last night. Was that it? Did he think she wasn’t aware her decision to be with him held the distinct possibility she’d be having sex just a few floors removed from the recently deceased? She glanced over his shoulder at the grand staircase, knowing its winding treads led to the private quarters, a place as mysterious to Ephie as her fascination with the man standing before her. Was it austere and particular, like him? Or would it reveal another side? Give her some clue as to whatever it was about David that continued to haunt and enthrall her? First, though, she needed to find a way to cut through the painful awkwardness mounting by the moment between them. Turning away from her ultimate goal, she started forward.
“Gram’s service was here.” She stopped in the doorway, her voice echoing in the empty space as she rambled. “Three years. It’s so strange. Some days it seems ages ago. And others, well, it feels as if it happened yesterday.”
She heard his quiet sigh and then footsteps.
“Losing someone you love does strange things to time.”
She turned to find him close behind her.
“It does.” She tilted her head. “I still miss her.”
“Of course you do. It was sudden, wasn’t it?”
“Heart attack…in the kitchen.” Ephie couldn’t help her reaction. “I’m sorry about smiling. It’s just…” Looking into his eyes, she saw no censor, only respectful interest. “It’s always been a comfort to me that she died in her favorite part of the house, doing what she loved best. She’d just taken a cake out of the oven. It was still cooling on the rack when they found her sitting at the table. They think she sat down to rest.” She shrugged. “And just like that, she was gone.”
“There are worse ways to go.”
Ephie nodded.
“Much.” She shook off the memory. “This room’s the parlor, right?”
The observation earned her another grin.
“Well, at least I know one person is listening to what I read in class.”
“I’m not the only one. Everyone enjoys your work.”
“That’s very nice of you to say.”
“Nice has nothing to do with it. It’s the truth.”
The look was back on his face, like her frankness shocked him. She had the sense he’d said more than he’d meant to, and she, somehow, had told him more than he’d expected to hear. She also got the uncanny feeling she was seconds away from being politely, but firmly, shown the door. Things were not going as she’d hoped.
So when he opened his mouth, she ducked around him in desperation, heading toward the second, larger cased doorway off the foyer. Ephie remembered the space well. It had been just a year since she’d been in it to pay her last respects to her employer’s husband. The room stood ready for another service. Neat rows of wooden folding chairs lined the floor beneath the impressive circular stained-glass window in the middle of the far wall. She looked around with careful attention, her head bobbing with understanding as she sought out the subtle details she remembered from David’s writing.
“Mr. Bennett’s funeral was here.”
“The great room.”
“Yes. It’s very impressive. How did you put it, ‘An elegant hostess welcoming mourners into its lace-shrouded embrace’? One can only imagine…”
“What?”
She kept her gaze forward though he appeared in her peripheral vision.
“The emotions these walls have absorbed. The sadness and regret…”
“The greed and jealousy.”
She faced him at the unsympathetic contribution, surprised by the sardonic twist of his lips.
“That’s rather cynical.”
A single fine, dark eyebrow arched at her accusation.
“Turns out it’s a rather cynical business.”
“Is it? Well, it doesn’t come across in your writing.”
“Maybe you’re not listening as well as I thought.”
“No.” She swiveled, looking up at him. “Something’s wrong. What is it? Did I do something? Say something?”
He had the good grace to look uncomfortable, at last taking his hands out of his pockets. He leaned forward as if he might reach for her, but then seemed to think better of it, lowering his arms to his sides.
“No. It has nothing to do with you, Ephie. It’s me. I—”
A fluttering over David’s shoulder caught her attention.
“What’s that?” she blurted.
“What?”
Craning her neck to get a better look, she lifted her hand and pointed.
“Is that a curtain? There, on that wall?”
She tried not to gasp when he took hold of her fingers, the contact all the more shocking because it had been so long in coming. Slowly, he lowered their arms between them. She lifted her gaze to find him staring, his head almost imperceptibly moving from side to side. With no further explanation, David turned, weaving his way through the sea of chairs in waiting, Ephie tripping along, stunned and silent, behind him.