BELLE FLOATED PAST her room, smiling at the Do Not Disturb sign on her door. Inside were Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Branigan, newlyweds after a June wedding, and based on the sounds from within they sure as hell didn’t need any more wedded-bliss tips from Belle!
“Belle, I heard that!”
“Was hoping you did, Miss Arlotta,” muttered Belle, floating upward toward the attic after being summoned by the judge himself.
Moments later, Belle stood in front of the “antique” dining-room table, one of the stored pieces of furniture used whenever a jury was called to session in the attic. Behind the table sat twelve of Belle’s peers, everyone from Sunshine to the Countess to Rosebud. Smack in the middle sat Flo, her shawl as tightly wrapped as her pursed lips.
The judge cleared his throat. “Today we’re here,” he said, sitting in his armchair next to the table, “to pass judgment on Belle Bulette and to determine whether she can ascend to the jurisdiction of the highest court—”
“The Big Picnic in the Sky,” corrected Miss Arlotta, standing behind him, her arms crossed over her ample bosom.
He nodded, then continued solemnly, “I hold in my hand—” he held up a piece of paper “—a verdict form indicating the jury has unanimously concluded that all black marks are expunged and the former nine bedpost notches reinstalled, including the reinstatement of three recently negotiated gold marks, because of the overwhelming character of the passion that Miss Belle Bulette cooked up between a Mr. Andy Branigan and a Miss Daphne Remington, two herebefore-unknown lovers who are, even as I speak, setting new indoor records at the Inn at Maiden Falls.”
Miss Arlotta placed her hand on the judge’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
Sunshine smiled slyly at Belle, while Rosebud surreptitiously tapped her fingers on a newspaper in front of her, which struck Belle as odd since Rosebud normally carted a book everywhere.
The judge stood, adjusted his waistcoat. “Now the judgment and sentence of this court are that you be taken, with all due and deliberate speed, to ascend to the appropriate heights—”
“Big Picnic,” quietly corrected Miss Arlotta.
“—and assume your position in heaven for a job miraculously done.”
Through the ceiling, a golden staircase suddenly appeared.
“Have you any final words?” asked Miss Arlotta, her eyes bright with emotion.
Belle paused, looked at the girls, still a bit amazed Flo had voted on her behalf, then said, “Yes. I regret I never told my dearest Drake that I loved him.” She swallowed, hard. “That I still love him.”
Down the staircase descended a male form, tall and dashing, finally stopping on the bottom step.
Drake.
“I could never come to you completely, darlin’ girl,” he said in that deep, rich voice that filled the room, “until you believed in true love.” He extended his hand. “As you always said, Bonnie, never fold a good hand.”
She’d taken a step toward the stairs when Rosebud, sitting at the end of the table nearest the stairs, cleared her throat. “Ahem!”
Belle looked at the news story that Rosebud was pointing to. Written by Andrew Branigan with the heading “Lady of the Lake, Wedding Gift to Remington’s Housekeeper in 1895, Reunited with Jo Sutherland’s Great-great-great-granddaughter.”
“Drake, look.” Belle exclaimed, her heart aching with love for him and pride at their greatest achievement—having created life. All the years of secret heartbreak were wiped out as she realized hers and Drake’s blood still lived on.
Still, they’d missed out on so much.
She took his hand. Together, they began ascending the steps.
“We may have missed things on earth, darlin’ girl,” he said, answering her thoughts, “but we have eternity to catch up. First in line is our daughter Jo, who can’t wait to get to know her mama…”
Belle held tightly on to Drake’s hand, staring up at the golden light, so bright, nearly blinding, so much ahead.
Her soul was finally free.