Annie to judge Laurelâs mental state would be to see for herself. She was more worried by Hennyâs call than she wanted to admit. Max, of course, continued to refuse to entertain any thought that Laurelâs actions might be a cause for concern.
The road curved to the right and came out of the live oak tunnel on a bluff above the Sound. The water glistened like polished jade. Stone walls marked the boundary of the cemetery. An iron gate marked the entrance. The gate was open.
Laurelâs latest car, a bright blue restored Morris Minor, was parked near a line of pittosporum shrubs to one side of the small whitewashed chapel which every year came closer to extinction. When first raised, the little chapel must have been far distant from the bluffs facing the Sound. Erosion at the pace of three feet a year from the force of tidal currents and storm surf had brought the crumbling shoreline within a stoneâs throw. Henny Brawley was chair of a committee raising funds to move the chapel. The cemetery, laid out to the south, was as yet in no danger.
Annie parked behind the shiny Morris. The slam of the Volvo door startled a deer in a nearby shrub. The deer bolted, its fluffy white tail readily visible in contrast to its dusky gray winter coat.
The onshore breeze rustled the shrubs as Annie stepped through the gate. Graves with tumbling, weathered headstones seemed to be tucked at random among the graceful slash pines, glossy-leaved magnolias and, of course, the ever-present live oaks. Annie was not a graveyard habitué. She looked around and felt as out of place as a redneck in a tearoom. She had no business here in this serene enclave of peace and farewell.
She would have turned back, but she heard a faraway murmur, the sound of a voice she knew well. Annie took a deep breath and walked swiftly, following the dusty gray path as it wound past family lots and occasional lone graves. Some of these bore fresh Christmas wreaths. She stopped to look down at one grave:
Â
W ALTER W ALLACE
A PRIL 12, 1840âJ UNE 16, 1863
Â
It didnât take a history book to know that war had claimed a short life. The wreath was so fresh that when Annie leaned down to straighten the bow, she could smell the fresh pine. Pamela Potts had come this way.
The husky voice murmured on the other side of a clump of pines.
Annie ducked through the pines, slipping a little on slick golden needles. She pushed aside a limb.
Laurel had obviously given some thought to her appearance. Annie wondered what it revealed of her mother-in-lawâs psyche that she had selected (quite a nice foil for her blond beauty) a navy wool gabardine jacket with gold-cord-trimmed sleeves, peaked lapels, six gold-tone crest buttons and flap pockets with a gold-and-white-striped blouse and white wool slacks. The gold cord on the jacket matched the gold-trim chain on her navy kidskin flats. Laurel looked equally ready to man a flotilla or tap-dance in The Pirates of Penzance.
A half dozen graves ranged on ground sloping down from a ridge. Laurel stood with one hand on the marble steering wheel that jutted from the largest gravestone.
ââ¦know that you are most likely very busy. Why, if the crowds cheered for you here, I can imagine the shouts that must ring among the clouds.â A faint frown marred that beautiful face. âCan shouts ring among clouds? One might think there would be a damping effect. Wellââa small laughââno matter. Iâm sure there are sound engineers who have studied this problem in depth. If, indeed, it is a problem. But I am sureââthere was a burst of confidence in her husky voiceââthat race you must. Why, what would heaven be if we could not pursue the activities which afforded us the most joy in our earthly realm?â Laurel smoothed a tendril of golden hair stirred by the wind.
Annie thought of five husbands and earthly joy.
âEach heart must follow its
The road curved to the right and came out of the live oak tunnel on a bluff above the Sound. The water glistened like polished jade. Stone walls marked the boundary of the cemetery. An iron gate marked the entrance. The gate was open.
Laurelâs latest car, a bright blue restored Morris Minor, was parked near a line of pittosporum shrubs to one side of the small whitewashed chapel which every year came closer to extinction. When first raised, the little chapel must have been far distant from the bluffs facing the Sound. Erosion at the pace of three feet a year from the force of tidal currents and storm surf had brought the crumbling shoreline within a stoneâs throw. Henny Brawley was chair of a committee raising funds to move the chapel. The cemetery, laid out to the south, was as yet in no danger.
Annie parked behind the shiny Morris. The slam of the Volvo door startled a deer in a nearby shrub. The deer bolted, its fluffy white tail readily visible in contrast to its dusky gray winter coat.
The onshore breeze rustled the shrubs as Annie stepped through the gate. Graves with tumbling, weathered headstones seemed to be tucked at random among the graceful slash pines, glossy-leaved magnolias and, of course, the ever-present live oaks. Annie was not a graveyard habitué. She looked around and felt as out of place as a redneck in a tearoom. She had no business here in this serene enclave of peace and farewell.
She would have turned back, but she heard a faraway murmur, the sound of a voice she knew well. Annie took a deep breath and walked swiftly, following the dusty gray path as it wound past family lots and occasional lone graves. Some of these bore fresh Christmas wreaths. She stopped to look down at one grave:
Â
W ALTER W ALLACE
A PRIL 12, 1840âJ UNE 16, 1863
Â
It didnât take a history book to know that war had claimed a short life. The wreath was so fresh that when Annie leaned down to straighten the bow, she could smell the fresh pine. Pamela Potts had come this way.
The husky voice murmured on the other side of a clump of pines.
Annie ducked through the pines, slipping a little on slick golden needles. She pushed aside a limb.
Laurel had obviously given some thought to her appearance. Annie wondered what it revealed of her mother-in-lawâs psyche that she had selected (quite a nice foil for her blond beauty) a navy wool gabardine jacket with gold-cord-trimmed sleeves, peaked lapels, six gold-tone crest buttons and flap pockets with a gold-and-white-striped blouse and white wool slacks. The gold cord on the jacket matched the gold-trim chain on her navy kidskin flats. Laurel looked equally ready to man a flotilla or tap-dance in The Pirates of Penzance.
A half dozen graves ranged on ground sloping down from a ridge. Laurel stood with one hand on the marble steering wheel that jutted from the largest gravestone.
ââ¦know that you are most likely very busy. Why, if the crowds cheered for you here, I can imagine the shouts that must ring among the clouds.â A faint frown marred that beautiful face. âCan shouts ring among clouds? One might think there would be a damping effect. Wellââa small laughââno matter. Iâm sure there are sound engineers who have studied this problem in depth. If, indeed, it is a problem. But I am sureââthere was a burst of confidence in her husky voiceââthat race you must. Why, what would heaven be if we could not pursue the activities which afforded us the most joy in our earthly realm?â Laurel smoothed a tendril of golden hair stirred by the wind.
Annie thought of five husbands and earthly joy.
âEach heart must follow its
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