Brother East, the Baptist preacher, asked everyone to bow their heads in prayer. Then after a chorus of murmured “Amens,” he instructed the pallbearers to say their final farewells by placing their boutonnieres on top of the half-lowered glossy white casket. Donny Joe removed the pearl-tipped pin holding the pink rosebud onto his lapel and trailed along in line with the others. Each man said a quick good-bye to Miz Hazel and laid their rose beside the giant funeral spray that adorned the box holding her remains. Donny Joe could feel his eyes start to water and blamed it on the stinging wind. When it was his turn, he stopped and took a moment with his thoughts.
“Good-bye, Miz Hazel,” he said in a choked voice. “I’m going to miss you.” He glanced up and his gaze locked unwillingly with Etta Green’s. She lifted an eyebrow as if doubting his sincerity, and maybe his manhood, too. What the hell was her problem?
Rattled, he broke eye contact and stepped forward, boutonniere in hand.
His foot caught on a half-buried tree root, a root from the stately old oak that would stand sentry over Miz Hazel’s final resting place. He stumbled, arms flailing, and then he fell. Fellow pallbearer Mitchell Crowley made a grab for him, catching only a handful of his suit coat as he landed squarely on top of the funeral spray and the casket underneath. Half the crowd gasped, and the other half laughed like things were just starting to get interesting.
For a stunned moment he lay there, his breath sawing in and out of his chest, feeling the polished wood and crushed blossoms pressed against his cheek, clutching the ornate edging that outlined the lid of the coffin to steady himself. The overwhelming floral smell filled his nose, and he could feel the tickle of a sneeze building. “A-a-achoo!”
“Bless you, Donny Joe,” someone yelled from the buzzing crowd.
That got him moving. A shower of roses, carnations, daisies, and lilies of every color and hue scattered like a potpourri of rats deserting a sinking ship while he scrambled on hands and knees to get up. Phone cameras appeared throughout the crowd, capturing the moment for posterity.
Mitchell finally got a grip on one of his arms and helped haul him to his feet. “Get ahold of yourself, buddy. We’re all going to miss her, but she’s in a better place now.”
“Sorry. Geez, I’m really sorry.” Donny straightened up, rearranging his coat and brushing off his pants. The crowd mumbled and tittered—probably discussing how much he’d had to drink.
Undoubtedly dismayed by his oafish performance, Miz Hazel’s granddaughters now stood, and he put out a hand in their direction, an apology of sorts. Belle Green lifted her veil, revealing her pretty tear-streaked face. Then she smiled and winked before letting the gauzy material fall back into place. Etta Green clenched her knotty little fists and skewered him with a glare hot enough to permanently singe all the hair from his body. Young Daphne stayed in her chair, stuck her thumb in her mouth and started to suck.
Etta hated lawyers.
She sat stick straight on the edge of a big leather wing chair in front of Mr. Corbin Starling’s scarred walnut desk, impatiently waiting for him to commence with the reading of her grandmother’s will. Not that she actually hated Mr. Starling. He seemed nice enough, but she’d never had anything good come from dealing with those in the legal profession, so the sooner they could get this over with, the sooner she could be on her way back to Chicago.
Her sister Belle lounged carelessly in the chair to her left, relentlessly texting and checking her phone for messages. Their appointment had been for ten a.m. They had arrived ten minutes early. It was now five after, and her grandmother’s lawyer, after greeting them and asking if they wanted coffee or tea, left them to their own devices while he rifled through papers on his desk. Etta looked at her watch, and her foot started to tap. Patience wasn’t one of her virtues in the best of times, and now the crushing sadness she felt over losing Grammy Hazel threatened to derail her thinly held control.
Mr. Starling seemed to notice her impatience and glanced up. “I apologize for the delay. We’re just waiting for Mr. Ledbetter to arrive, and then we can get started.”
Etta’s foot stilled. “Mr. Ledbetter? As in Donny Joe Ledbetter?” The idiot who’d made a spectacle of himself at the funeral? She remembered him as a cocky, troublemaking teenager. Good Gravy.
“Yes, there are provisions that concern him.”
Belle leaned forward in her chair, giving Mr. Starling a generous view of her generous bosom. His eyes widened in appreciation of the gesture. Etta stifled a flash of irritation. Her sister’s idea of proper attire for a visit to see the family lawyer was a ruffled, low-cut red silk blouse and a pair of tight blue jeans. “I understand Donny Joe and Grammy Hazel got real close before she died,” Belle informed them.