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Just then, someone drapes my sweater over my shoulders.
I startle a bit as my husband’s hands slide over my swollen belly, pressing his chest to my back.
“Hey,” I say, turning my head to the side to catch his lips. Torben is warm and comforting and tastes like beer and woodsmoke. “Thanks.”
Wood cracks in the fire, and a burst of sparks fly when the musicians pause to let the vocal harmony ring out.
“My gods,” my husband murmurs in my ear.
I know what he means. Fresh tears fill my eyes because I hear it too.
I’m grateful to have so many people around for this funeral. Even if it is supposed to be a party, it’s still a funeral. Even so, we’ve made memories that will live on through generations, and I think Memaw would be satisfied.
The memorial service at the graveside was nice, but the luncheon that followed it was the perfect comic relief. Say what you want about bowling alley food, but they do a mean funeral luncheon. If ever there was an iconic photo, it’s of European monarchs throwing gutter balls.
I’m sure the Dowager Queen will be in knots but will get over it months from now when the bowling alley photos give the royals a boost in popularity, both at home and abroad.
But none of that matters to us now. Popularity, politics, perfection—none of it matters.
All we have is now.
Family, friends, laughter, music, good food, and warm fires on cold nights.
The bonfire gives another pop, and a fresh burst of sparks flies heavenward as the song ends.
“That was her. She’s saying goodbye.”
Torben tucks me in closer and kisses the side of my neck. “She finally gets to meet the king of the fancy people now.”
“Not if she’s gone to heaven,” Torben comments.
Feigning shock, I playfully smack his hand. “He was still your daddy,” I remind him.
“Wherever they are, she’s gonna box the king’s ears,” Torben says.
We laugh, and the vibration makes me shiver again, in the best way.
And then, I am gradually, carefully guided away from the scene as my people start playing other songs.
Under the cover of darkness, Torben urges me into the house. I don’t argue. My feet are killing me despite his consistent fussing and sitting me down with plates of food. He’s been caring for Mama, Papaw, and me constantly since we learned that Memaw had her stroke and would not be leaving the hospital.
But now, apparently, it’s time for a foot massage.
I’m so tired I let this man remove my socks and shoes, shuck my funeral clothes and dress me in the only oversized tee shirt that still covers my pregnant belly.
Torben has me lie on my side on top of the covers, and rubs the tension out of my feet.
“I was so surprised everyone came, but I’m so glad they did,” I say sleepily.
“Me too,” he says. “By the way, what were you and Kala talking about?”
I remember being sworn to secrecy. “I’m not supposed to tell you,” I say. “Because I know you’ll blab to Flora, and then it’s all over.”
My husband laughs his sexy laugh because he knows it’s true.
And something about that sexy laugh makes me forget about Kala’s secret…and forget about sleeping.
I look back at where he’s perched at the end of the bed, massaging my feet.
