Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I force myself to stay in the present as I pull into the driveway. Thoughts of my father bring a different ache. The sadness is there, muted by years of distance and disappointment, tempered by relief that his suffering—and in a way, mine—is over. I never came back to visit and my dad never asked me to. I rarely talked to him on those weekly calls I made to my mom, sometimes not able to really hold a conversation with her because of his drunken tirades going on in the background.
One time, in a rare instance of concern for me, my mother whispered into the phone, “Don’t ever come back.”
That may seem harsh, but it was one of the kindest things she’d ever done for me.
Now, here I am, back in Shelbyville, tasked with sorting through the remnants of a life I thought I’d left behind for good. The headache begins just behind my eyes as I think about what lies ahead—reviewing the state of my dad’s business, figuring out how my mother will manage it now or even if she can at all.
I have to treat this visit as a job and keep the emotion out of it. I’m going to pay my respects, come up with a good game plan for my mom and then I’m heading home to Zurich to my carefully constructed existence away from the bittersweet call of the Bluegrass State.
CHAPTER 3
Trey
Jackson’s Funeral Home is the only funeral home in Shelbyville and I’ve attended a few farewells to the dead over my life. My grandfather on my dad’s side had a very simple service here as opposed to a church since he wasn’t a religious man. I was seven when he died of complications from a routine hernia repair.
My grandmother followed six years after that and she was a religious woman. Her service was at the Baptist church and mourners overflowed out the door, a testament to how involved she was there.
As expected, the mood is somber when we enter, made even more so by the dimly lit sconces on the dark paneled walls. The scent of lilies and roses fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of polished wood. It’s a smell I associate with death.
I’m not surprised by the lack of mourners as I doubt many were sad to see Lyle go. I note mostly local business owners who Lyle probably knew through the Chamber of Commerce as well as some of Debbie’s friends.
Lyle Rhodes wasn’t exactly known for his warm personality and as a couple they weren’t overly social, so it’s no surprise there aren’t many people here. Just a bunch of community citizens doing their duty to pay their respects, although I’m not sure exactly what Lyle was respected for. He was a taciturn man who never went out of his way to help his business peers.
Our family walks in together, a united front as always. I’d heard through the grapevine that Holland blew back into town a few days ago and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to having some anxiety about seeing her again.
It is, however, the only reason I’m here. I’d have begged off in some way if it was just about the neighborly duty of paying respects to a man my family was only loosely connected to because his daughter rode at our barn for years.
My parents would come no matter what, as would Ethan, now that he’s the head of the farm. But Kat, Wade and I don’t have those obligations and would have continued on with our workday at the barn as if it were just an ordinary Monday.
Except it’s not ordinary. Holland is back in town and we’re about to come face-to-face.
My parents lead the way, Mom’s hand tucked into the crook of my dad’s arm. Wade follows next, then Ethan. Kat and Gabe are just behind them, with me bringing up the rear. We all look sharp in our black attire, blending into the handful of mourners dressed just like us.
My mom cranes her neck and her face softens when she spots Holland standing beside a table that holds a simple white marble urn and a bouquet of white flowers.
My parents move that way, followed by my siblings. I, however, stop in my tracks as I take in everything about Holland Rhodes. All the ways she’s changed and all the ways she’s still the same.
Always a beautiful creature, I’m dazzled just as much now as I was back then. Her golden hair, which always lightened in the summer because we were outside all the time, falls in soft waves around her shoulders. Her warm brown eyes seem even more striking against the sadness etched on her face. She never wore a lot of makeup but then again, she didn’t need to. She has one of those classic faces with high cheekbones and full lips, and while other girls were playing with makeup once they hit their teen years, Holland never did. She was a tomboy of sorts, but I know she liked girlie things too. She never felt the need to call attention to herself and it was one of the things I found attractive about her as she got older.