She knocked gently on the doorframe.
“Come,” he said softly.
She walked into the room and placed the tea cup and saucer on the night table beside the bed. “I brought you tea.”
“Thank you, Lizzie.” His voice was a tired whisper.
She couldn’t help but be concerned. “Are you okay, Adam? I mean, are you ill?”
A smile creased his lips. “I’m so tired, but I’m feeling better with every passing minute.”
He was happy to be home…or at what he thought was his home. It was going to devastate him when he realized he would soon need to leave. “Just try to have a few sips of tea.”
She lifted the tea cup and sat on the edge of the bed. “Can you lift your head, Adam? I’ll help you,” she offered.
He turned onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. Lizzie held the cup with its tea to his lips. After he finished she placed the cup back on the saucer and arranged the blankets back over his chest. She dared to brush his still damp hair back from his forehead. His skin was now pleasantly warm to her touch.
“Just rest now, Adam.” Lizzie actually enjoyed the chance to take care of someone. Watching someone suffer was just not a part of who she was.
“I will, but Lizzie, I want to get the funeral home back in business as soon as possible.”
“That’s what I want too, Adam. It’s what I’ve always wanted since I first saw it.” For a brief moment, she could envision the two of them working together, but she quickly dismissed the idea.
“You are going to be a good assistant, sweetheart.”
A prickle of discomfort rose on her spine. He was talking again about her being his assistant. She was no one’s assistant.
“I’m a licensed Funeral Director, Adam, and a damned good embalmer,” she insisted.
He let out a soft chuckle. “You silly girl, it’s not Funeral Director…an Undertaker.”
Lizzie’s lips thinned with displeasure. Undertaker was an antiquated term that she didn’t much care for. She hadn’t heard anyone use that term for years, and even then it was older folks who still called her an Undertaker. Just how long had Adam been away from the business? He couldn’t be more than thirty-five or so.
“Adam, where have you been all of this time?” Her heart palpated and she pressed her hand over her heart to calm it. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know the truth.
After a long pause, he said, “I’m not sure, Lizzie…everything is so…confusing to me right now.”
That was the understatement of the year. Adam wasn’t the only one who was confused.
It’s okay, Adam. You’re just tired. You need to rest now. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
He reached out and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re a good girl, Lizzie. We’re going to get along wonderfully.”
If it were only so easy, she thought as she eased herself to her feet and turned off the lamp. “Sleep well, Adam.”
Lizzie sat in the flat’s sitting room and rocked back and forth in the rocking chair while she pondered the latest developments in her life. She relished the prospect of restoring the funeral home to its former glory with a modern renovation. It would go out as Nichols Funeral Home and emerge as Morton Funeral Care.
The flat, she loved from the first moment she had seen it. The real estate agent had listed it as “antique charming.” The former owner left behind all the sumptuous antique furnishings and rugs, including the claw foot bathtub and an exquisite Victorian-era secretary desk made of walnut with inset bird’s eyes maple panels, solid bronze hardware and a carved interior. The desk was still brimming with old papers and memorabilia that had long been abandoned.
As she sipped her tea, she wondered if the flat and the funeral home had been wrongly sold, and really did belong to Adam Nichols. She would be beyond disappointed for sure. She glanced across the room at the intricately cut crystal butterfly clock on the mantel. It would be at least three hours before she could call her realtor and try to solve this mess.
Weariness consumed her and she closed her eyes, intending to rest for just a moment or two. When Lizzie opened her eyes again, the sun was streaming in through the filmy curtains of the sitting room’s French doors. All around her was quiet, and the flat seemed to radiate a sense of peace. She rose from the rocking chair, stretched her back, and went to the telephone.
She punched in the number for her realtor and waited for an answer. Finally, she connected with a voice.
“Good morning, could I speak with Caroline Harper?” she asked.
There was a momentary pause of the line. “I’m sorry, but there is no one here by that name.”
Lizzie shrugged her shoulders. Had Caroline left the business in just the few short weeks since the completion of the sale? “I just purchased the old Nichols Funeral Home with included flat. Caroline brokered the sale.”
“Hold, please.”
Before Lizzie could respond, instrumental music wafted over the telephone line. She sighed deeply. There was nothing she could do but wait. A few minutes later, a hesitant voice came onto the line. “Ah…I’m sorry, but you’ve called the wrong number, Miss. There is no one at this office named Caroline Harper—never has been--and we never had a listing for a funeral home--ever. As a
