Carol J. Post - Lethal Legacy

He stepped back, ready to close her door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Actually, he probably wouldn’t. He’d be there, but so would half of Atlanta. He’d never been to their home church, but according to Andi, it was huge. As well connected as they’d been, it would be packed.

He’d never been crazy about big churches. Actually, he’d never been crazy about church, period. Not that he was a stranger. His mom and grandparents were what some called “Chreasters”—they attended on Christmas and Easter.

Andi’s family had gone every Sunday, even while in Murphy. The church here was different from what they were used to, with a congregation of less than a hundred that met in a small building off the four-lane highway.

Bryce had usually gone with them. At that time, he’d needed it. He’d had lots of mischievousness to atone for. Now he was a law-abiding citizen, serving the people of Cherokee County. At thirty years old, his good deeds far outweighed the bad he’d done as an adolescent and young teen.

He closed Andi’s door, then watched her head up the drive. If she kept the property, she’d have to visit occasionally, even with him checking on the place. It wouldn’t make sense to keep up the taxes, insurance and utilities otherwise.

Of course, she could afford it. For the Wheaton family, money had never been an issue. Between her parents’ wealth and what her husband made, Mrs. Wheaton had never had to work. Bryce’s own mother had held a nine-to-five job in a local insurance company.

While Andi had lived in the Wheaton mansion in an exclusive Atlanta neighborhood, he and his mom had stayed with his grandparents. And during Andi’s vacations to places like Switzerland, Ireland and Paris, his family had visited relatives or camped at Deep Creek.

But Andi had never let the difference in social status get in the way of their relationship. Ultimately, he had. He’d let his own insecurities push him into throwing away something special and had regretted it ever since.

He wasn’t holding out unrealistic hopes of reclaiming what they’d had so long ago. There was too much water under the bridge. They were both different people now.

But if she had plans to keep the property, he hoped they could develop an amicable friendship.

Judging from her coolness toward him, maybe even that was out of reach.

* * *

The large canopy cast a shadow over those sitting beneath. Andrea occupied a chair in the front row, back straight and stiff and hands clutched in her lap. An aunt and uncle sat on either side of her. More relatives occupied the dozen or so other chairs, and numerous mourners hovered around in a loosely packed semicircle. Metal framework suspended two caskets over freshly dug graves, the pastor standing between. The sun shone from a cloudless blue sky, and nearby, squirrels chased one another up a tree.

Andrea released a sigh. The perfection of the weather mocked her own dark mood. The sad, angry skies she’d driven home under yesterday would have been more appropriate.

The pastor finished reading the twenty-third Psalm, and Andrea’s uncle squeezed her shoulder. He’d kept his arm over the back of her chair, offering silent gestures of comfort. She appreciated it but didn’t need it. She’d managed to sit stoically throughout the entire funeral and graveside service. She’d do her grieving in private.

After a final prayer, Andrea stood, pulling her coat more tightly around her. Yesterday’s rain had brought colder temperatures, and she was having difficulty shaking the chill. As she stepped into the sunshine, a man in a suit made his way through the crowd toward her. His hairline had receded, and the salt had overtaken the pepper, but other than that, he looked the same as he had twelve years ago. He’d pastored the church all through her teenage years.

“Pastor Pierce.” She shook his hand, a wave of guilt passing through her. Did he know she hadn’t darkened the door of a church since she left for college?

It wasn’t that she had anything against attending. Her mother had always stressed the importance of regularly attending church. But it had to be the right kind of church—large, impressive, full of quality people. It was good for the image, she’d said. With the advice always came the admonition to not get carried away with the emotionalism that went on in some of the smaller country churches, where people were poor and uneducated. Large or small, it hadn’t mattered to Andrea. Since reaching adulthood, too many other things in her life had qualified as important.

She offered him a weak smile. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” He wrapped her hand in both of his. “You and your family are in my prayers. May the Lord comfort you during this difficult time.”

After accepting dozens more handshakes and hugs, Andrea made her way to one of the two limos that had transported her and the other immediate family members from the church to the cemetery. She’d take the ride back to the church and attend the dinner the hospitality committee had prepared for the family and close friends. Then she’d get to be alone. She’d survived the past nine days. She could get through the next two hours.

Her aunt Louise reached her as the limo driver opened the door. Andrea paused for the hug she knew her aunt needed. When finished, her aunt shook her head.

“I still can’t believe they’re gone.” Fresh tears gathered on her lower lashes. “When we watched your mom get behind the wheel in our driveway, we never imagined that would be the last time we’d see either of them alive.”

“My mom was driving?” There had to be a mistake. Her mom never drove if her dad was with her.

“After you left, Dennis started feeling ill. Although the offer seemed a little begrudging, your mom said she’d drive them home. Margaret has never been crazy about driving.” She pursed her lips. “I can’t help but think that if your dad had been the one behind the wheel, we wouldn’t be here today.”

Andrea sank into the seat, her feet still planted outside the car. Her mind spun, leaving her feeling light-headed.

Her father hadn’t been driving. Her mother had. Whatever had been weighing on her father’s mind for the past several months, he hadn’t decided to take his own life.

Her aunt climbed into the car, unaware of the bombshell she’d just dropped. The news eliminated the possibility of suicide but raised a whole slew of unanswered questions. If Andrea’s dad was unlikely to take a curve too fast, her mom was even more so. They’d always ribbed her about being a turtle.

Besides, the area was familiar to both of them. They were a mile from the lodge, on a winding road they’d traveled dozens of times. The brakes had to have failed. Monday, she was going to ask to have the car checked, if that wasn’t already part of the investigation.

For the next hour, Andrea engaged in polite conversation and forced down food she had no desire to eat. After a socially acceptable amount of time, she said her farewells, climbed into the Escalade and pulled out of the parking lot. Since leaving home that morning, she’d looked forward to the end of the day’s activities, when she could again be alone with her grief.

But now that she was headed there, home was the last place she wanted to be. Maybe she should do some more sorting at her parents’ house. Keeping busy would be good for her. Throwing herself into activity had always been her default.

She cruised through an intersection on a yellow light and swiveled her head to the right. A few blocks down was a café, one of those cute places decorated with flowers and lace that served lunch on antique china. Her mom loved it.

Andrea hated it.

Nothing against the café. It was lunches with her mom in general. No matter how they started out, eventually they evolved into battles, with Andrea on the losing side every time. Her mom was the queen of unwanted advice, usually given in the form of some pithy proverb. She was also the queen of criticism.