quick grip around her wrist she'd have definitely belted the cousin who, having driven in from Gananoque, remarked that earlier or later would have been a better time and he certainly hoped there'd be refreshments afterward. She didn't know the heavy set man who'd called her name.
He held out a beefy hand. "Ms. Nelson, I'm Reverend Crosbie. The Anglican minister who usually works with Hutchinson's is a bit under the weather today, so they asked me to fill in." His voice was a rough burr that rose and fell with an east coast cadence.
A double chin almost hid the clerical collar but, given the firmness of his handshake, Vicki doubted that all of the bulk was fat.
"My mother wasn't a churchgoer," she said.
"That's between her and God, Ms. Nelson." His tone managed to be both matter-of-fact and sympathetic at the same time. "She wanted an Anglican service read to set her soul at peace and I'm here to do it for her. But," bushy white brows drew slightly in, "as I didn't know your mother, I've no intention of speaking as if I did. Are you going to be doing your own eulogy?”
Was she going to get up in front of all these people and tell them about her mother? Was she going tell them how her mother had given up the life a young woman was entitled to in order to support them both? Tell them how her mother had tried to stop her from getting her first job because she thought childhood should last a little longer? Tell them about her mother, a visible beacon of pride, watching as she graduated from high school, then university, then the police college? Tell them how after her promotion her mother had peppered the phrase, "My daughter, the detective," into every conversation? Tell them how, when she first got the diagnosis about her eyes, her mother had taken a train to Toronto and refused to hear the lies about being all right and not needing her there? Tell them about the nagging and the worrying and the way she always called during a shower? Tell them how her mother had needed to talk to her and she hadn't answered the phone?
Tell them her mother was dead?
"No." Vicki felt Celluci's hand close over her shoulder and realized her voice had been less than clear. She coughed and scanned the room in a near panic. "There. The short woman in the khaki trench coat.” To point would expose the trembling. "That's Dr. Burke.
Mother worked for her for the last five years. Maybe she'll say something.”
Bright blue eyes focused just behind her for a second. Whatever Reverend Crosbie saw on Celluci's face seemed to reassure him because he nodded and said quietly, "I'll talk to Dr. Burke, then." His warm hand engulfed hers again. "Maybe you and I'll have a chance to talk later, eh?”
"Maybe.”
Celluci's grip on her shoulder tightened as the minister walked away. "You all right?”
"Sure. I'm fine." But she didn't expect him to believe her, so she supposed it wasn't exactly a lie.
"Vicki?”
This was a voice she recognized and she turned almost eagerly to meet it. "Aunt Esther." The tall, sparse woman opened her arms and Vicki allowed herself to be folded into them. Esther Thomas had been her mother's closest friend. They'd grown up together, gone to school together, had been bride and bridesmaid, bridesmaid and bride. Esther had been teaching school in Ottawa for as long as Vicki could remember, but living in different cities hadn't dimmed the friendship.
Esther's cheeks were wet when they pulled apart. "I thought I wasn't going to make it." She sniffed and dug for a tissue. "I'm driving Richard's six-cylinder tank, but they're doing construction on highway fifteen. Can you believe it? It's only April. They're still likely to get snow. Damn, I . . . Thank you. You're Mike Celluci, aren't you? We met once, about three years ago, just after Christmas when you drove to Kingston to pick Vicki up.”
"I remember.”
"Vicki . . ."
"Vicki, I have a favor to ask you. I'd . . . I'd like to see her one last time.”
Vicki
He held out a beefy hand. "Ms. Nelson, I'm Reverend Crosbie. The Anglican minister who usually works with Hutchinson's is a bit under the weather today, so they asked me to fill in." His voice was a rough burr that rose and fell with an east coast cadence.
A double chin almost hid the clerical collar but, given the firmness of his handshake, Vicki doubted that all of the bulk was fat.
"My mother wasn't a churchgoer," she said.
"That's between her and God, Ms. Nelson." His tone managed to be both matter-of-fact and sympathetic at the same time. "She wanted an Anglican service read to set her soul at peace and I'm here to do it for her. But," bushy white brows drew slightly in, "as I didn't know your mother, I've no intention of speaking as if I did. Are you going to be doing your own eulogy?”
Was she going to get up in front of all these people and tell them about her mother? Was she going tell them how her mother had given up the life a young woman was entitled to in order to support them both? Tell them how her mother had tried to stop her from getting her first job because she thought childhood should last a little longer? Tell them about her mother, a visible beacon of pride, watching as she graduated from high school, then university, then the police college? Tell them how after her promotion her mother had peppered the phrase, "My daughter, the detective," into every conversation? Tell them how, when she first got the diagnosis about her eyes, her mother had taken a train to Toronto and refused to hear the lies about being all right and not needing her there? Tell them about the nagging and the worrying and the way she always called during a shower? Tell them how her mother had needed to talk to her and she hadn't answered the phone?
Tell them her mother was dead?
"No." Vicki felt Celluci's hand close over her shoulder and realized her voice had been less than clear. She coughed and scanned the room in a near panic. "There. The short woman in the khaki trench coat.” To point would expose the trembling. "That's Dr. Burke.
Mother worked for her for the last five years. Maybe she'll say something.”
Bright blue eyes focused just behind her for a second. Whatever Reverend Crosbie saw on Celluci's face seemed to reassure him because he nodded and said quietly, "I'll talk to Dr. Burke, then." His warm hand engulfed hers again. "Maybe you and I'll have a chance to talk later, eh?”
"Maybe.”
Celluci's grip on her shoulder tightened as the minister walked away. "You all right?”
"Sure. I'm fine." But she didn't expect him to believe her, so she supposed it wasn't exactly a lie.
"Vicki?”
This was a voice she recognized and she turned almost eagerly to meet it. "Aunt Esther." The tall, sparse woman opened her arms and Vicki allowed herself to be folded into them. Esther Thomas had been her mother's closest friend. They'd grown up together, gone to school together, had been bride and bridesmaid, bridesmaid and bride. Esther had been teaching school in Ottawa for as long as Vicki could remember, but living in different cities hadn't dimmed the friendship.
Esther's cheeks were wet when they pulled apart. "I thought I wasn't going to make it." She sniffed and dug for a tissue. "I'm driving Richard's six-cylinder tank, but they're doing construction on highway fifteen. Can you believe it? It's only April. They're still likely to get snow. Damn, I . . . Thank you. You're Mike Celluci, aren't you? We met once, about three years ago, just after Christmas when you drove to Kingston to pick Vicki up.”
"I remember.”
"Vicki . . ."
"Vicki, I have a favor to ask you. I'd . . . I'd like to see her one last time.”
Vicki
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