The Dark Divine
Page 19
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"Maryanne's daughters want her funeral to be tomorrow, before Thanksgiving, because they don't want to cancel some big trip they've been planning."
I sighed. "I guess I should have thought of that. Death is usually followed by a funeral." Helping Mom prepare loads of rice pilaf and all varieties of casseroles for bereaving families was just another part of the pastor's-kid gig, but I hadn't been to a funeral for someone I was actually close to since my grandpa died when I was eight.
"That isn't the bad part," Charity said. "Maryanne's family asked the pastor from New Hope to come over for the funeral. They don't want Dad to do it. They still blame him."
"What? That's not fair. Dad knew Maryanne all his life, and he's been her pastor for as long as you've been alive."
"I know. But they won't listen."
I sank down in the desk chair. "No wonder he's talking like he wants to give up."
"You know the worst part? Pastor Clark heard about our duet from Sunday, and he wants us to sing it at the funeral because it was Maryanne's favorite song." I opened my mouth to protest.
"Mom says we have to." Charity sighed. "She says it's our obligation or something like that." Obligation. I was beginning to hate that word.
Chapter Eight Temptation
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, AT THE FUNERAL
A somber shadow cast over the parish, touching the hearts of all those who shuffled into the sanctuary for Maryanne Duke's funeral. School had even let out early for the afternoon service. Everyone was affected by the gloom of it all--everyone except my mother. I could tell she was still in perfection overdrive when she started banging around the kitchen at four a.m. to make a feast big enough for a thousand mourners. Her enthusiastic tone startled more than a few sullen people as she greeted them before the service with Pastor Clark, and she invited anyone who looked the slightest bit lonely to tomorrow's Thanksgiving extravaganza at our house.
"Invite whomever you'd like," she said to Charity and me as we loaded trays of food into the Blue Bubble. "I want this to be the warmest Thanksgiving your father can remember. He could really use the company."
But I wasn't sure she was right about that. Dad shrank away from his greeter duties before the funeral and ended up sitting in the only deserted corner of the chapel by himself, rather than taking his seat on the pulpit as the presiding pastor of the parish. I had the overwhelming urge to go to him, but I was stuck on the choir benches with Charity, watching the back of Pastor Clark's robes sway as he talked in melancholy tones about Maryanne's warm heart and giving nature, even though he barely knew her. I scanned the sanctuary and wished I could send a telepathic message to either my mother or brother to go put their arms around Dad, but Mom was busy setting up for the dinner in the social hall, and Jude was nuzzled close to April in the third row. My eyes shot back to the hem of Pastor Clark's robes and stayed there until it was my turn to sing. The organ belted out the notes of the song, and I tried to choke out the words. My face began to quiver. I knew I was on the verge of crying, but I pushed that urge way down like always and pursed my lips together. I couldn't sing another note or I'd lose it. And Charity's voice was so high and shaky that I couldn't even tell what part of the song she was singing. I looked out the windows at the dreary, smog-filled sky--even the clouds looked like they were about to burst with emotion--and that's when I saw him.
Daniel sat in the back of the crowded balcony with his arms folded and his head bowed. He must have felt the heat of my stare because he lifted his chin. Even from that distance, I could see that his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked down into me for a moment, like he could see every painful feeling I was holding back, and then he lowered his head again.
Curiosity replaced grief as I sat down in my seat. Charity wrapped her arm around my shoulders, no doubt mistaking my shocked expression for extreme emotional distress. The Duke daughters'
droning eulogy went on for ages. Angela Duke even worked in a few well-placed jabs at Dad. When the service finally ended, and the procession of those mourners headed for the grave site had filed out, I watched Daniel move toward the balcony staircase that led to an outside exit. I jumped out of my seat, waving off someone who tried to thank me for my singing--or lack thereof--and pulled on my charcoal-gray dress coat and leather gloves.
"Mom wants our help," Charity said.
"In a minute."
I made my way through the aisle, sidling around the church ladies who murmured about the lack of heart in Pastor Clark's portion of the service. Someone pulled at my sleeve as I passed and said my name. It may or may not have been Pete Bradshaw, but I didn't stop to find out. It was like an invisible thread was hooked into my belly and drew me out the doors of the parish and into the parking lot. My pace quickened without any direction from my brain when I saw Daniel hop onto a motorcycle in the far reaches of the lot.
"Daniel!" I called as the engine roared to life. He shifted forward on the seat of the bike. "You on coming:
"What? No. I can't."
"Then why are you here?" Daniel looked at me then, his mud-pie eyes--still splotched with red--searching my face.
I couldn't stop it--that invisible thread pulled me right up next to him. "You got a helmet?"
"This is Zed's bike. You wouldn't want to wear his helmet if he had one." Daniel booted the kickstand. "I knew you'd come."
"Shut up," I said, and climbed on the back of the motorcycle.
ONE HEARTBEAT LATER
The hem of my simple black dress hiked up my legs and my matching Sunday heels suddenly seemed sexy as I placed them on the footrests of the bike. The engine roared again, and the bike went flying forward. I threw my arms around Daniel's waist.
Cold air clawed at my face, ripping tears from my eyes. I buried my face deep into Daniel's back and breathed in a mixture of familiar scents--almonds, oil paint, earth, and a hint of varnish. I didn't even question why I was on that bike. I just knew I was supposed to be there. We rode in a straight, steady shot for downtown. Daniel's shoulders tensed and trembled like he craved more speed but was taking it slower for my sake. The sun was drowning in a crimson sunset behind the city skyline when we finally pulled over in a deserted alley in an unfamiliar part of town.
Daniel cut the ignition. The following silence made my ears throb.
I sighed. "I guess I should have thought of that. Death is usually followed by a funeral." Helping Mom prepare loads of rice pilaf and all varieties of casseroles for bereaving families was just another part of the pastor's-kid gig, but I hadn't been to a funeral for someone I was actually close to since my grandpa died when I was eight.
"That isn't the bad part," Charity said. "Maryanne's family asked the pastor from New Hope to come over for the funeral. They don't want Dad to do it. They still blame him."
"What? That's not fair. Dad knew Maryanne all his life, and he's been her pastor for as long as you've been alive."
"I know. But they won't listen."
I sank down in the desk chair. "No wonder he's talking like he wants to give up."
"You know the worst part? Pastor Clark heard about our duet from Sunday, and he wants us to sing it at the funeral because it was Maryanne's favorite song." I opened my mouth to protest.
"Mom says we have to." Charity sighed. "She says it's our obligation or something like that." Obligation. I was beginning to hate that word.
Chapter Eight Temptation
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, AT THE FUNERAL
A somber shadow cast over the parish, touching the hearts of all those who shuffled into the sanctuary for Maryanne Duke's funeral. School had even let out early for the afternoon service. Everyone was affected by the gloom of it all--everyone except my mother. I could tell she was still in perfection overdrive when she started banging around the kitchen at four a.m. to make a feast big enough for a thousand mourners. Her enthusiastic tone startled more than a few sullen people as she greeted them before the service with Pastor Clark, and she invited anyone who looked the slightest bit lonely to tomorrow's Thanksgiving extravaganza at our house.
"Invite whomever you'd like," she said to Charity and me as we loaded trays of food into the Blue Bubble. "I want this to be the warmest Thanksgiving your father can remember. He could really use the company."
But I wasn't sure she was right about that. Dad shrank away from his greeter duties before the funeral and ended up sitting in the only deserted corner of the chapel by himself, rather than taking his seat on the pulpit as the presiding pastor of the parish. I had the overwhelming urge to go to him, but I was stuck on the choir benches with Charity, watching the back of Pastor Clark's robes sway as he talked in melancholy tones about Maryanne's warm heart and giving nature, even though he barely knew her. I scanned the sanctuary and wished I could send a telepathic message to either my mother or brother to go put their arms around Dad, but Mom was busy setting up for the dinner in the social hall, and Jude was nuzzled close to April in the third row. My eyes shot back to the hem of Pastor Clark's robes and stayed there until it was my turn to sing. The organ belted out the notes of the song, and I tried to choke out the words. My face began to quiver. I knew I was on the verge of crying, but I pushed that urge way down like always and pursed my lips together. I couldn't sing another note or I'd lose it. And Charity's voice was so high and shaky that I couldn't even tell what part of the song she was singing. I looked out the windows at the dreary, smog-filled sky--even the clouds looked like they were about to burst with emotion--and that's when I saw him.
Daniel sat in the back of the crowded balcony with his arms folded and his head bowed. He must have felt the heat of my stare because he lifted his chin. Even from that distance, I could see that his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked down into me for a moment, like he could see every painful feeling I was holding back, and then he lowered his head again.
Curiosity replaced grief as I sat down in my seat. Charity wrapped her arm around my shoulders, no doubt mistaking my shocked expression for extreme emotional distress. The Duke daughters'
droning eulogy went on for ages. Angela Duke even worked in a few well-placed jabs at Dad. When the service finally ended, and the procession of those mourners headed for the grave site had filed out, I watched Daniel move toward the balcony staircase that led to an outside exit. I jumped out of my seat, waving off someone who tried to thank me for my singing--or lack thereof--and pulled on my charcoal-gray dress coat and leather gloves.
"Mom wants our help," Charity said.
"In a minute."
I made my way through the aisle, sidling around the church ladies who murmured about the lack of heart in Pastor Clark's portion of the service. Someone pulled at my sleeve as I passed and said my name. It may or may not have been Pete Bradshaw, but I didn't stop to find out. It was like an invisible thread was hooked into my belly and drew me out the doors of the parish and into the parking lot. My pace quickened without any direction from my brain when I saw Daniel hop onto a motorcycle in the far reaches of the lot.
"Daniel!" I called as the engine roared to life. He shifted forward on the seat of the bike. "You on coming:
"What? No. I can't."
"Then why are you here?" Daniel looked at me then, his mud-pie eyes--still splotched with red--searching my face.
I couldn't stop it--that invisible thread pulled me right up next to him. "You got a helmet?"
"This is Zed's bike. You wouldn't want to wear his helmet if he had one." Daniel booted the kickstand. "I knew you'd come."
"Shut up," I said, and climbed on the back of the motorcycle.
ONE HEARTBEAT LATER
The hem of my simple black dress hiked up my legs and my matching Sunday heels suddenly seemed sexy as I placed them on the footrests of the bike. The engine roared again, and the bike went flying forward. I threw my arms around Daniel's waist.
Cold air clawed at my face, ripping tears from my eyes. I buried my face deep into Daniel's back and breathed in a mixture of familiar scents--almonds, oil paint, earth, and a hint of varnish. I didn't even question why I was on that bike. I just knew I was supposed to be there. We rode in a straight, steady shot for downtown. Daniel's shoulders tensed and trembled like he craved more speed but was taking it slower for my sake. The sun was drowning in a crimson sunset behind the city skyline when we finally pulled over in a deserted alley in an unfamiliar part of town.
Daniel cut the ignition. The following silence made my ears throb.
