Read Online Where You Belong by Barbara Taylor Bradford - Free Book Online Page A

became separated from Nicky and Clee. And a second or two later we found ourselves being ushered down one of the aisles and into a pew by a church official.
    Once we were seated, I grabbed Jake’s arm ferociously, pulled him closer to me, and hissed, “You never told me anything about a wake.”
    â€œI thought it better not to, at least not until we got here,” he admitted in a whisper.
    â€œWho’s giving the wake?” I demanded, but kept my voice low, endeavoring to curb my anger with him.
    â€œRory and Moira.” He glanced at me swiftly, and again nervously cleared his throat. “I have the distinct feeling we won’t be going, will we, Val?”
    â€œYou bet we won’t,” I snapped.
    III
    It was just as well other people came into our pew at this precise moment, because it prevented a continuation of our conversation, which could have easily spiraled out of hand.
    I was furious with Jake for not telling me about the wake before then, not to mention irritated with myself for not anticipating that there would be one.
    Tony, after all, had been Irish; on the other hand, a wake was usually held after a funeral and not a memorial, wasn’t it? But the Irish were the Irish, with their own unique rules and rituals, and apparently a wake today was deemed in order, perhaps because the funeral had been held in Ireland. A wake was an opportunity for family and friends to get together, to comfort each other, to reminisce and remember, and to celebrate the one who had died. I was fully aware I wouldn’t be able to face the gathering. Coming on top of the memorial, it would be too much for me to handle. What I couldn’t understand was why Jake didn’t realize this.
    The sound of organ music echoed through the church, and I glanced around surreptitiously. Here and there among the crowd I caught glimpses of familiar faces—of those we had worked with over the past couple of years. There were also any number of famous photographers and journalists, as well as a few celebrities, none of whom I knew, but instantly recognized because of their fame.
    It was an enormous turnout, and Tony would have been gratified and pleased to know that so many friends and members of his profession had come to remember him, to honor him today.
    I went on peering about me, hoping to see Rory. I felt quite positive that I would recognize him, since Tony had shown me so many photographs of his son, and of his daughter, Moira. They were nowhere to be seen, yet they had to be there. It struck me then that they would be sitting in the front pew, facing the altar, and that was out of my line of vision.
    I sat back, bowed my head, and tuned myself in to the organ music. It was mournful but oddly soothing. I closed my eyes for a moment, and I was filled with relief that I was keeping my feelings in check. Well, for the moment at least.
    When the organ music stopped, I opened my eyes at once and saw a priest standing in front of the altar. Immediately, he began to pray for Tony’s soul, and we all knelt to pray with him and then we rose automatically and sat in our seats again. The priest continued to speak, this time about Tony and his life and all that he had done with it, and what he had accomplished.
    And I took refuge by sinking down into myself, only half listening, absently drifting along with the proceedings, and endeavoring to remain uninvolved. Instinctively, I was scared to be a participant for fear of making a fool of myself by displaying too much emotion or weeping. Yet, tears had risen to the surface, were rapidly gathering behind my eyes, and I struggled desperately to control myself.
    Soon the priest drew to a close and glided over to one side of the altar, and as if from far, far away a lone choirboy’s voice rang out. It was an extraordinary voice, a high-pitched soprano that seemed to emanate from the very rafters of the church. The voice was so pure, so thrilling, it sent chills