her at night. When everyone was gone. When the house was too quiet. When she was alone with her own thoughts and the numbing grief threatened to swamp her. He came and pressed his body into hers. His solid warmth chasing the chill from her bones. It wasn’t about sex. It was more like he came to see how she was holding up and stayed for a few hours.
He never made the mistake of falling asleep in her bed again, and when she woke from a restless sleep in the darkness, he was always gone.
Chapter Fifteen
It seemed the entire population of the Texas panhandle turned out for the funeral of Clive Hollowell. Mourners from as far away as Denver and Tulsa and Laredo packed the pews of the largest Baptist church in Lovett. Like a lot of Southern Baptists, Clive had been baptized at the age of four after his profession of faith. Other than at his wife’s funeral, no one could actually recall ever seeing Clive’s tall frame sitting in the pews of the First Baptist Church on the corner of Third and Houston. But through the years, a lot of Hollowell money had flowed into the church coffers. Money that had paid for additions and renovations and the new forty-five-foot steeple and carillon bells.
Senior Pastor Grover Tinsdale delivered the sermon, hitting all the high points about sin and souls and God welcoming His son Clive back. After the pastor took his seat, Sadie moved to the pulpit and gave the eulogy. There was no question about whether she would give it. She was a Hollowell. The last Hollowell. She stood on the dais in her black sleeveless sheath, her hair pulled back, her eyes dry.
Below her sat her father’s casket, made of simple pine with the JH brand burned into it, as was due an old cowboy. And like all old cowboys, he’d been buried with his boots on. As was his wish, Sadie insisted the casket be closed, and an arrangement of sunflowers and asters, daisies and blue bonnets, which grew wild on the JH, covered the top.
In contrast to the simple casket, the front of the church was crammed with elaborate floral tributes. Crosses and wreaths and sprays crowded around big photos of Clive and his horses. Sadie stood above all that splendor, her voice clear as she spoke about her father. The Parton sisters loudly wept in the front pew, and she knew that there were those in the congregation who would judge her. They would hear her clear voice and see her dry eyes and whisper that she was an unfeeling and cold person. An ungrateful daughter who’d closed his casket so people couldn’t say their good-byes as was proper.
She talked about her father’s love of the land and the people who’d worked for him. She spoke of his love for his paint horses. Grown men and women cried openly, but she didn’t shed a tear.
Her daddy would be proud.
Following the funeral, the graveside service was held at Holy Cross Cemetery. Clive was laid to rest with generations of Hollowells and beside his wife. Afterward, the JH was opened up for mourners. The Parton sisters and dozens of other members of the First Baptist Church made cucumber and chicken salad sandwiches. They’d set up banquet tables beneath tents on the lawn, and the women of Lovett arrived with funeral food in hand. Recipes handed down through the generations loaded the tables with fried chicken and every conceivable casserole. Salads and five different kinds of deviled eggs, vegetables and breads, and a whole table filled with desserts. It was washed down with sweet tea and lemonade.
Everyone agreed that the service was lovely, and a fine tribute to someone of Clive’s stature and reputation. And it just went without saying that no funeral would be considered a success without a few scandals. The first was of course Sadie Jo’s emotional distance while real mourners fell on each other’s necks. She was no doubt much too busy counting her inheritance to really grieve. The second happened when B.J. Henderson declared that Tamara Perdue’s homemade pickled relish was better than his wife, Margie’s. Everyone knew that Tamara wasn’t above poaching another woman’s man. B.J.’s declaration sent Margie into a tailspin, and Tamara’s relish ended up on the losing end of an accidental dose of Tabasco.
“Where’s your young man?” Aunt Nelma yelled across the parlor at Sadie, who stood near the fireplace sipping her iced tea and just trying to get through the day.
First, Vince wasn’t her young man. He was her friend with benefits. He’d been a great friend the past five days, but he was still just an FWB. If she let herself forget that, if she ever let herself crave his solid presence in her life, even for one second, she’d be in deep, deep trouble. And second, Sadie knew for a fact that Nelma was “wearing her ears” and there was no reason to yell. “Vince is at the Gas and Go. I believe he is painting today.”
“Your man is handy,” she said loud enough to be heard in the next county. “It’s always nice to have a man who is handy to fix stuff and such. Does he have a good dental plan?”
Sadie had absolutely no idea about Vince’s “dental plan” nor was she likely to ever know, and there was absolutely no reason for him to attend her father’s service. Vince hadn’t known Clive, and while Sadie might have found comfort in the weight of his hand on the small of her back, it was best that he didn’t attend. His being here would have added another, juicier layer of gossip that she didn’t need.
Vince had been real sweet to take her to Amarillo the day her daddy died and the funeral home after, but he wasn’t her boyfriend. No matter how much she liked him, she could never forget their relationship was temporary, and as she’d discovered since she’d blown into town two short months ago, life turned on a dime and everything changed in the blink of an eye.
Her life was certainly changed. She had a lot to think about. A lot to figure out. But not today. Today was her daddy’s funeral. She just had to get through today, one minute, one hour at a time.
“You poor orphaned child.” Aunt Ivella wrapped her arms around Sadie’s neck. She smelled like hairspray and powder. “How are you holding up?”
Honestly, she didn’t know. “I’m okay.”
“Well, nothin’ dries as quick as a tear.” Ivella pulled back. “It was a lovely service and so many people. Lord, they had to find a second book.”
Sadie didn’t understand the whole guest book thing at funerals. Perhaps some people found it a comfort, but she didn’t ever foresee a day when she would look at it.
“You better get yourself somethin’ to eat. There’s plenty. Charlotte made her cherry pie. The kind she makes every Christmas.”
“I will.” She took a sip of her tea. “Thanks for coming, Aunt Ivella.”
“Of course I came. You’re family, Sadie Jo.”
Dozens of relatives from her mother’s side had shown up to pay their respects. Most of them had dropped off a casserole or pound cake and left after an hour. The elderly aunts had dug in and were there for the long haul.
“And even though Clive could be difficult,” Ivella continued, “he was family, too.”
Which was one of the nicest things Ivella had ever said about her late sister’s husband. Sadie had made a point of thanking everyone who attended the service and who’d come to the house, but she was sure she’d missed someone. Someone who would talk about the snub for the next decade.
She excused herself from the parlor and ran into Uncle Frasier and Aunt Pansy Jean. It was past four in the afternoon, and Frasier was white-knuckling it until the cocktail hour. Frasier told a slightly off-color joke and Pansy Jean gossiped about Margie and Tamara’s pickled relish throw-down. “Tamara Perdue is just naturally horizontal,” she said.
After a few moments, Sadie slid into the kitchen and filled her glass with tea. She added a little ice to the glass and rolled her head from side to side. She was getting a crick from so many hugs, and her feet were starting to ache from her three-inch pumps. She wondered if anyone would notice if she sneaked upstairs to change her shoes.
“I hear you’re spending time with Vincent.”
Sadie recognized that tobacco-rough voice before she turned. “Hello, Mrs. Jinks.” Luraleen wore a pink prairie shirt and long bead earrings hanging to the bony shoulders of her “Fabulous Las Vegas” T-shirt. The older woman held a covered dish in her hands. “I didn’t know that you were back.”
“I got home this mornin’. I came to pay my respects and bring you a Frito pie, is all.” She shoved it at Sadie. “I always liked your daddy. He was respectful to everyone.”
Sadie took the dish. “Thank you.” She was right. Clive had been respectful and had taught her to be respectful, too. “We have a full buffet if you’re hungry.”
