Page 2 of Blue Jean Summer

I slipped into the study that was drenched in cedar and mahogany, grabbed the sunglasses I had left on my granddad’s desk, and slid them on.

The minister was nervously checking his watch when I slipped through the patio doors. I ducked under the lip of the tent and took the front-row chair that had a placard denoting it was reserved for me. I glanced at the three headstones nestled into the rose garden and let out a slow breath as history repeated itself.

I was over the funeral circus somewhere between “dearly beloved” and “we are gathered here to celebrate the life of Walter Wilder.” Preachers needed to find some new material.

You’d think after millennia of people dying there’d be some variety, but it was always the same old spiel. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all that bullshit.

The May heat billowed beneath the tent. Sweat slid down my back, trapped by my suit as I stared at the plain pine box that held my grandfather. The preacher droned on and on in a voice that was probably meant to be soothing but was, frankly, grating.

Granddad would have hated it.

He hated the formality of things like this. He would have hated having the who’s who of Virginia and DC showing up to rub elbows. He would have hated the fake platitudes, insincere hellos, and snide condolences that masked business deals. The only things he would have liked were the decorative spray of roses and the plain pine box—because, in his opinion, spending a penny more than necessary on something going in the dirt was stupid.

When my grandma passed away a few years ago, Granddad complained about how long the preacher had taken, then walked into the house after the funeral, changed into his favorite overalls, and fixed himself a bowl of ice cream.

Walt Wilder was a simple man. So simple that he refused to go by his full name. He was frugal to a fault in his personal life but generously shared the wealth he had amassed. The ten-million-dollar estate nestled in the Shenandoah Valley had always been home. For him and me.

I didn’t have many memories of home before the Wilder Estate. Granddad used to show me pictures, but that was all they were at this point. Static memories that didn’t feel as though they belonged to me.

I glanced over to the left of the casket and spotted the top of my mother’s headstone peeking out among the rosebushes, as if she were attending the funeral herself. My father’s headstone was beside hers, hidden by soft pink blooms.

To the right, roses and shadows danced over my grandma’s headstone like an ethereal crown. The garden had dressed her up as her husband joined her once again.

This is too much.

There are too many people here.

Instead of paying my respects and entertaining a horde of folks in that big old house the way I was expected to, I wanted to ride back into the mountains.

The preacher finally took a breath. It’s about time.

“Hayes, Lewis, would you and the loved ones who will assist with the lowering of the casket please come forward?” the preacher asked in that sickeningly soothing voice.

I stood, buttoned my suit jacket, and took a step forward as my half brother, Lewis, did the same. We were joined by Mason Bishop, the estate’s groundskeeper, and Levi Caldwell, a local farrier. Granddad had loved them both as if they were his kin.

We took our places, each holding a strap as the funeral director and his assistant removed the supports under the casket. Just as the preacher began to give the final blessing, a shrill cell phone ringtone pierced the air.

“Shit!” A staccato whisper broke through the silence.

I glanced over my shoulder, glaring through my sunglasses. A head of blonde hair bobbed as the woman rummaged through her purse and turned off her phone.

When she sat up, I almost dropped the strap.

It had been ages since I’d seen those blue eyes. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since she had come around the estate, but it didn’t surprise me in the least that she was here today.

Like Mason and Levi, Granddad had loved her as one of his own.

The preacher cleared his throat, bringing my attention back to the task at hand. Slowly, we lowered my granddad into the earth. It felt fitting for the roses to go down with him as he was welcomed to his final resting place. He wouldn’t have wanted to be empty-handed when he was reunited with my grandma.

I stared into the grave as the rest of the men shuffled back to their seats.

“Hayes,” the preacher said under his breath.

I looked up and realized I was still standing there, probably looking like I was about to jump in too. I turned and went back to my seat, glancing at the blonde woman one last time. Sweat beaded along my hairline as the preacher said a final prayer, then dismissed the crowd with offers of support and counseling in the days and weeks ahead.

But the crowd didn’t care for the solemn words. Bodies popped up like gophers as people jockeyed to speak with each other. I stood and looked around for the person I wanted to talk to, but I caught the disappearing swath of her blonde hair as she scurried to the outer edge of the rose garden to call whoever had tried to get in touch with her.

Mason and Levi were the first to leave. Their boots left distinct imprints as they trudged across the grass. I was about to do the same when a hand clapped my arm.