Read Online Just Kiss Me by Rachel Gibson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Gibson
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the
Post and Courier
. When she was through, she hit “send” and closed the laptop.
If still alive, she knew her mother would feign modesty and toss in a bit of humility, but she’d secretly be very pleased with her own obituary. In keeping with the Southern tradition of embellishment, and her own momma’s lifelong aversion to a flat-out lie, Vivien stretched the truth just to the point of snapping like a rubber band. She wrote that Macy Jane was loved by many for her free (unpredictable) spirit, imaginative (dreamed of exotic places) mind, artistic (painted tables) ability, and award-winning (won third place for her peach jam once) culinary skills.
The last paragraph, she didn’t have to stretch anything. She wrote about her mother’s kind heart and gentle soul, and that she would be missed greatly. She mentioned family members who had preceded her mother in death, and the handful who still lived in various parts of the country, but she did not mention herself by name. The funeral service was about Macy Jane Rochet, not Vivien Leigh Rochet, and the last thing she wanted was to turn the day into a
Raffle
fan fair.
It was also Vivien’s lone responsibility to choose her momma’s burial clothes. When she woke the next morning, she laid out the pink silk dress her momma had worn at her housewarming party. She pulled a garment bag from the closet and added a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps her mother had only worn inside because she didn’t want to scratch the red bottoms. She added the thirteen-millimeter Mikimoto pearls and matching earrings she’d given her mother for Christmas five years ago, and because her momma wouldn’t be caught dead without shape wear, Vivien included her thigh-length Spanx.
She packed everything and hugged the pink dress to her chest one last time. The scent of her momma’s perfume lingered on the silk Peter Pan collar, but she refused to give in to tears. She’d spent most of yesterday crying, and if she started, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop. If she broke down, she wouldn’t be able to get back up.
Once everything was ready for Stuhr’s, she showered and pulled a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt over her one strapless bra. She wore black jeans and leather sandals and very little makeup. She picked up the garment bag before she headed out the front door. She moved along the cobblestone path toward the back of the big house and remembered the many times she’d hid in the boxwood or rose-covered gazebo and eavesdropped on Nonnie’s conversations, or climbed the live oak and dropped acorns on Spence and his friends.
It had been twelve years since she’d set foot inside the Whitley-Shuler house, but as soon as she stepped inside she could see that nothing had really changed in the enormous Greek revival. It still smelled of old wood and paste wax, mixed with a slight scent of musty fabric and restored wallpaper. It still felt like a museum with family portraits and paintings, marble statues and Duncan Phyfe furniture.
Vivien found Nonnie in the double parlor, the pocket doors open and the ornate room in the process of being cleaned and polished for the reception the day after tomorrow. Blue and gold period rugs matched the heavy silk drapes, swathing the floor windows just as Vivien remembered. The French doors were open to the piazza that wrapped around the house, and Nonnie stood in front of an ornate marble fireplace, tall and lean in a navy-blue suit with brass buttons. She looked like a general, directing a crew that had already begun to set up extra tables and chairs for the funeral reception. Everyone in the room seemed to snap to attention at her command. Everyone but the one man who stood with his elbow on the mantel’s edge, displeasure pulling at his brow. He’d rolled the sleeves of his blue-and-white-striped dress shirt up his forearms and a silver watch circled his wrist. His fingers tapped the marble mantel as he watched his mother point and
Post and Courier
. When she was through, she hit “send” and closed the laptop.
If still alive, she knew her mother would feign modesty and toss in a bit of humility, but she’d secretly be very pleased with her own obituary. In keeping with the Southern tradition of embellishment, and her own momma’s lifelong aversion to a flat-out lie, Vivien stretched the truth just to the point of snapping like a rubber band. She wrote that Macy Jane was loved by many for her free (unpredictable) spirit, imaginative (dreamed of exotic places) mind, artistic (painted tables) ability, and award-winning (won third place for her peach jam once) culinary skills.
The last paragraph, she didn’t have to stretch anything. She wrote about her mother’s kind heart and gentle soul, and that she would be missed greatly. She mentioned family members who had preceded her mother in death, and the handful who still lived in various parts of the country, but she did not mention herself by name. The funeral service was about Macy Jane Rochet, not Vivien Leigh Rochet, and the last thing she wanted was to turn the day into a
Raffle
fan fair.
It was also Vivien’s lone responsibility to choose her momma’s burial clothes. When she woke the next morning, she laid out the pink silk dress her momma had worn at her housewarming party. She pulled a garment bag from the closet and added a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps her mother had only worn inside because she didn’t want to scratch the red bottoms. She added the thirteen-millimeter Mikimoto pearls and matching earrings she’d given her mother for Christmas five years ago, and because her momma wouldn’t be caught dead without shape wear, Vivien included her thigh-length Spanx.
She packed everything and hugged the pink dress to her chest one last time. The scent of her momma’s perfume lingered on the silk Peter Pan collar, but she refused to give in to tears. She’d spent most of yesterday crying, and if she started, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop. If she broke down, she wouldn’t be able to get back up.
Once everything was ready for Stuhr’s, she showered and pulled a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt over her one strapless bra. She wore black jeans and leather sandals and very little makeup. She picked up the garment bag before she headed out the front door. She moved along the cobblestone path toward the back of the big house and remembered the many times she’d hid in the boxwood or rose-covered gazebo and eavesdropped on Nonnie’s conversations, or climbed the live oak and dropped acorns on Spence and his friends.
It had been twelve years since she’d set foot inside the Whitley-Shuler house, but as soon as she stepped inside she could see that nothing had really changed in the enormous Greek revival. It still smelled of old wood and paste wax, mixed with a slight scent of musty fabric and restored wallpaper. It still felt like a museum with family portraits and paintings, marble statues and Duncan Phyfe furniture.
Vivien found Nonnie in the double parlor, the pocket doors open and the ornate room in the process of being cleaned and polished for the reception the day after tomorrow. Blue and gold period rugs matched the heavy silk drapes, swathing the floor windows just as Vivien remembered. The French doors were open to the piazza that wrapped around the house, and Nonnie stood in front of an ornate marble fireplace, tall and lean in a navy-blue suit with brass buttons. She looked like a general, directing a crew that had already begun to set up extra tables and chairs for the funeral reception. Everyone in the room seemed to snap to attention at her command. Everyone but the one man who stood with his elbow on the mantel’s edge, displeasure pulling at his brow. He’d rolled the sleeves of his blue-and-white-striped dress shirt up his forearms and a silver watch circled his wrist. His fingers tapped the marble mantel as he watched his mother point and
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