Read Online Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] by Shadow on the Quilt - Free Book Online Page B

turned to Juliana. Something in the man’s kind, gray eyes drew her in. She offered her hand. He took it and repeated, “I am so very sorry.”
    Juliana swallowed. How could those simple words evoke emotion, when Reverend Burnham’s visit had succeeded only in making her angry? Her voice wobbled when she thanked him.
    “Mr. Lindermann said he’d be out in a moment.” The pastor gestured toward a circle of chairs arranged around a low table adorned with a floral spray. “Perhaps you’d like to be seated while you wait?” As soon as Juliana was settled, he reached into his vest pocket and took out a card, which he offered to her. “In time, you may wish for someone to yell at. If so, please remember that I am at your service. Of course God can handle yelling, too, but I have found that sometimes it helps to have a more visible target.”
    He shook Aunt Theodora’s hand briefly, but when Aunt Lydia reached for him, he held both her aged hands in his and said, “Don’t forget, Aunt Lydia.
God knows. God allows. God plans. God permits.
And someday, we will know, too—even as we are known.” He released her hands. “I’m praying. For you all.”
    Just as Pastor Taylor exited by the front door, Mr. Lindermann entered through a door in the back wall. Thinking of what was behind that door, Juliana looked away to concentrate on the flowers and the elegant card on the brass easel at the base of the arrangement.
Provided by R. S. Frey. Mourning wreaths and bereavement our specialty.
It was odd to think of people “specializing” in bereavement. Yet she supposed they did. Reverends and pastors, undertakers and florists. Mr. Lindermann bowed a greeting and took a seat in one of the empty chairs. His next words swept her into a foreign landscape.
    “You will of course want memorial cards printed.” He had written a preliminary newspaper announcement that he wanted Juliana to approve prior to publication. Had she decided who would read the eulogy? Had she selected pallbearers? Mr. Duncan would expect to be asked, as would Mr. Graham. Which suit would the deceased wear? He had done his best, but they might wish to forgo the window in the casket lid. As to flowers, Frey’s would be the best. Mr. Lindermann dared to suggest a large casket spray. It was customary to provide long-stemmed roses at the graveside service so that mourners could file by and offer a gesture. They could meet another time regarding a monument, but there was definitely something stately about an obelisk. Had they selected a lot yet?
    Juliana frowned at the word. “Lot?”
    Aunt Lydia answered for her. “We’ll have Alfred drive us home by way of the cemetery. We’ll let you know.”
    A grave.
The man who had owned so much still needed one last bit of land.
    What had Pastor Taylor said when he gave her his card?
“In time, you may wish for someone to yell at.”
She wanted to yell now. Not at God, but at Sterling. Brave or betrayer, either way he’d left—left her alone to deal with the absurdity of all these questions. With Aunt Theodora’s disapproval. With that half-finished monstrosity south of town. And with questions that would never be answered. The unanswered questions were the worst of it.
    Mr. Lindermann’s voice faded. Memories Juliana had been avoiding all day finally found their way to the forefront. Young Sterling’s handsome face, smiling at her through the small crowd that had attended that first literary club debate where she’d defended—something. She couldn’t remember the topic. She only remembered being drawn to the tall man with the thick, wavy hair, an air of self-confidence, and strong hands calloused from hard labor. He’d apologized for those calluses the first time he’d caressed her face.
    As Mr. Lindermann talked on, Juliana lost the battle to keep doubt and anger at bay. Emotions swirled. Her pulse quickened. Her stomach clenched. Tears threatened. Again. She must not let them come. Not here. Aunt Theodora