Bad to the Last Drop by Debra Lewis and Pat Ondarko Lewis

at the last minute.
    Father Luke Grayson, the Catholic priest, hatless and wearing his black suit and collar, stood in the midst of a group of elderly women, wearing an expression of what appeared to be slight dismay. Father Luke had a long neck, stiffly held, and he cocked his head upward in such a way that the casual observer would believe that he was looking down his nose at the "rental preacher."
    As Pat's glance traveled around the crowd, over farmers and professors and even a few students, it stopped at the very back of the crowd on two men who seemed out of place. It wasn't that they looked that much different—they were two average-looking guys in black overcoats and sunglasses. Like Pat, the men seemed to be watching the crowd. Suddenly, one glanced at Pat and held her gaze, looking at her straight in her eyes. She smiled slightly, feeling her face turning red, as he continued to look at her without expression. Embarrassed, she turned her attention back to the service as the minister intoned: "Into your hands, oh merciful Savior, we commend your servant Joe. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen."
    Babe sighed heavily and Anastasia leaned over and put her arms around her.
    The pastor continued. "As God has called our brother from this life, we commit his body to the earth from which it was made. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
    Deb stood huddled beside her friend.
Who ever thought of those words? What kind of comfort are they to a family?
she wondered.
    Deb's glance settled on the big lake down the hill in the distance, and she realized at that moment that she had loved Ashland almost from the minute she had set foot in it. There was something about the lake—actually, a lot of her love of Ashland had to do with the lake. She felt such a connection, knowing that every day when she looked down the street, she would see that deep water. But Deb also loved Ashland for the community. Funny—she had lived in a small town before but it had been nothing like this. When she and Marc were first married, they'd moved to rural Ohio for ten years. She should have liked it. After all, she finished her law degree there, Marc started his first private practice there, their two oldest kids graduated from high school there, and Deb had given birth to their two youngest kids. They'd even tried rehabbing that blasted 150-year-old brick monstrosity. Despite all that, she had never been able to put down roots.
I never felt the connection like I do in this town.
    As the service droned on, Deb let her mind wander away from the service, instead settling on her first month here....

    Within weeks of her arriving in Ashland, the mayor called Deb to ask her to be on the Ashland Park Commission. And then there were the tai chi classes down the street at the Chequamegon Court Club, and the Big Top Show under the big blue tent in summers. Liberally mix in the hospitality of the neighborhood; the ice cream truck and the Fourth of July block party, and even the silly Santa parade in the winter, and the result was a place that was hopelessly nostalgic and "small town" to most city folks, but Deb realized it was all part of Ashland's real secret.
    This place—with its sometimes rough exterior but rich history—had one important thing going for it. Anyone who cared to look could find a place here and be nourished by the nature and people who were hardy enough to live here——God knew it seemed a forbidding place for most Southerners.
    Deb smiled, remembering that "Southerners" was what the people on the bay called everyone who lived south of the town.
    It's remote and isolated and the winters are long and bitter cold,
Deb thought.
But when the sun shines here, it's more glorious than any place I can remember. That's probably