Page 6

A Third of My World

Brenna

I really thought that I’d spend my whole damn life with Patrick O’Brian. I planned on front porch rockers, and grandbabies galore, but as I stared at his casket through a blur of tears; I was left with no choice, I had to accept that the lord had other plans.

The kind of plans that had taken my eldest son and saw him convicted, only for his daddy to be taken from me a few weeks later. I ran my hand over our youngest son’s back, hugging Oakland against my side while the priest droned on.

He was a good boy and was taking the loss of his father harder than any of us.

I somehow managed to let out a breath without it coming on a sob and closed my eyes against the pain. The stabbing, gut-wrenching kind that only came with knowing you’d looked into someone’s eyes for the last time.

Through the misery, the thought of my children was ever present and foremost. I couldn’t help but wonder if Vick even remembered the last time he’d seen Patrick. I’d phoned the prison and spoke with a counselor days ago. I explained that his daddy had died, but he either wasn’t informed or was unable to obtain a furlough for the funeral.

I cried for my own loss. I cried for the grief Victor would be forced to adapt to while locked in a cage. I clung to Oakland and tried to pull it together, but the knowledge of all the things he’d been robbed of didn’t help any.

He’d graduate without Patrick. There would be no one to steer him off to college the way he’d done with Vick…

I let out a deep breath, accepting that college hadn’t done Victor a lick of good. He’d be a convict for the rest of his life.

I sobered myself, pressing my shoulders back and lifting my heavy, quivering chin. Pat couldn’t be there for Oakland; I had to be parent enough for the both of us.

I’ll make damn sure that he doesn’t follow in his brother’s footsteps.

I nodded as I inwardly made that final vow to the man I’d loved, the person I’d shared my whole adult life with.

The prayer ended, and fingers brushed my arm. I glanced up to see one of the boys from the church. I couldn’t recall his name.

“This way, ma’am,” he somberly encouraged me and Oakland in a respectful, lowered tone.

I was aware of his presence; I could see him in my peripheral vision until my eyes clouded with tears. I knew we had to leave, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Patrick’s coffin. The sight of the white roses scattered atop it fried into my brain, I swallowed a sob and closed my eyes. With one hand anchoring my son to my side, I shakily shifted into motion.

“Thank you,” I managed, the words coming more gruffly than I intended.

The people sitting in the row with Oakland and me stood and began to trail after us, the faint sound of their movement constant, though I didn’t bother to glance back. The second stood and seemed to be preparing to follow after us.

I steered Oakland forward, cupping his red cheek and hugging his face to me as he sniffled. As we passed the third row, the man on the end of the fourth stood up, drawing my attention to the world around me, at last.

There had to have been a thousand condolences expressed in the last few days. Some rambled, staring at Oakland and me the way that scientists did slides under a microscope. I knew what they were doing, people at home probably would have done the same, but at least they would’ve been a little more discreet about filling their arsenals of gossip material.

Not all of the people who’d approached us were that way, some were more uncomfortable than I was. They couldn’t meet my gaze, their words thinned when they insisted I reach out for anything at all.

None of them had the understanding I found in Cole Henshaw’s unwavering gaze. It wasn’t the same display of support for our family, it was honest pain. Shared grief.

I’d accused Patrick of falling victim to a convict’s swindle when he befriended Mr. Henshaw. I’d not been kind to him at all. It didn’t matter if he was stopping by to chatter in the garage, or sharing a ride to the fellowship banquets the church held, I’d never kept my poor opinion of the man to myself. I couldn’t help it, even if I hadn’t known his history, the man’s presence made me physically uneasy.

I’d openly accused him of being an excellent actor. I’d shared my belief that he was only buddying up to my husband and sitting on a pew to gain favor or good time with his parole officer.

And yet…

As we moved near the fourth row, he stepped out of a turn, falling into place beside me.

I stiffened, not daring to look at him.

I braced myself for the discomfort that usually came over me. That wave of anxiety that I could only interpret as the universe’s way of telling me I was in the presence of something soulless.

Evil.

A few steps turned into a yard. The silence stretched on as we crossed the lush grass of the cemetery lawn. He didn’t try to fill it. He didn’t offer me his arm.