A Fallow Heart (Tommy Creek #2)(92)

Neither of them had sat in his father’s chair at the end of the table since he’d moved to the nursing home, but Thad’s spot seemed particularly empty today.

“B.J. said my appointment with the funeral director is this morning at ten. Do you want to come?”

He lifted his face. “Of course, but don’t you want to wait until Brendel and Stacia arrive? I’m sure they’d like to—”

His mother gave a vigorous shake of the head. “I want the business details done and over with.”

When her voice wavered, he nodded, immediately acquiescing. “Okay, Mama. Whatever you want.”

So they arrived at the funeral home by ten. He didn’t notice the file folder she brought in with her until they’d seated themselves and she flipped it open.

Blinking a few times, he listened to her and the director discuss their contract agreement before he realized she’d pre-planned both hers and his father’s funeral four years before.

“I’d like to keep the pallbearers the same, but there’s been one change in the surviving descendants. We had another great-granddaughter born two years ago.”

Coop folded his hands in his lap and felt useless as Loren spelled out his great-niece’s name. He was glad she’d already taken care of everything and had the task well in hand, but he began to wonder why he’d needed to come with her at all. It was a relief he didn’t have to give his opinion about a casket design, but his mother didn’t even seem to need him for moral support. She was so well put together he felt like falling apart even more. What’s worse, he didn’t even have a new name to add to his father’s decedents list for his obituary, while his nephew, Chet, had three.

At least his mother let him drive her back to the farm. Once there, the neighbors began to arrive. About as soon as one would leave, another would show up, sometimes two or three appeared at the same time. He finally found his purpose when he was told to eat. So he ate all the cherry pies, and Mexican lasagnas, and spinach and artichoke casseroles his mother put in front of him.

He was never so happy to see his sisters and their families arrive by late afternoon. The house filled with noise and chaos, and more people for the neighbors to feed.

His sisters hugged him as they would a favorite but long-distant nephew. Brendel had just turned fifty that year and Stacia was about to become forty-seven. When he was growing up, he’d only seen them on special occasions, and even then, he’d been pushed into playing with their children instead of getting to know them.

Closest to him in age, Chet and Sonia—Brendel’s two—tried to talk to him now, but they were city dwellers and understood pretty much none of his farm talk, which was about as much as he understood of their corporate, computer-based techno jargon.

By the time the sun dipped low in the sky, he sought solace outside. He stayed away from the barn because every time he looked at it, it reminded him of Jo Ellen. He ached for her. He’d been tempted more than once to call her and tell her what had happened. He knew if he asked, she’d come. But since he wanted her to come so bad, he refused to call. He didn’t want her out of sympathy; he wanted her freely out of love.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strolled toward his mother’s vegetable garden, thinking his mother hadn’t had time today to check if anything was ripe enough to pick. But before he reached the tilled soil, the sound of squeaking swing hinges caught his attention.

He glanced over to spot Chet’s oldest boy, Harry, sitting on the porch swing watching the sun set. Feeling a connection with another soul seeking solitude, he meandered that way. When he stepped onto the first stair, Harry glanced over.

With a sad smile, Coop waved. “Bet it’s a lot quieter out here than where you’re from, huh?”

Harry nodded and turned his gaze back to the dropping daylight. Just as Coop settled on the free end of the swing, Harry asked, “When do you think Poppa Thad will be back?”

Cooper froze, not certain how to answer. Particularly fond of his Poppa Thad, Harry was probably six or seven years old, old enough to know once you were gone, you didn’t come back. At least he was old enough in Coop’s opinion.

But he didn’t try to explain. He leaned back in the seat, studied the colored sky and let out a sigh as he squinted for an answer in the pinks and purples and oranges among the clouds. “Well…Now that he’s in heaven, I reckon he’s already back with us and will stay for good, watching over us from above.”

With a frown, Harry whirled to scowl at him. “Heaven?” he thundered out the words as if Coop had let a nasty expletive like the f-bomb slip. Cooper paused, wondering if Chet had even raised his boy to believe in heaven and hell. Great, he hadn’t meant to start some kind of religious debate with the kid.

Before he could backtrack, however, Harry jumped off the swing, breathing hard. “My…my puppy went to heaven last… m-month.” So upset he could barely spit the words out, he clenched his fist and his face flooded with a panicked kind of red. Then he burst into tears. “D-does this m-mean Poppa Th-Thad’s…dead?”

Cooper lurched to his feet, wide-eyed and feeling a bit panicked himself. But dear God, hadn’t Chet told him yet? He reached for the shaking child to comfort him, but Harry dodged away.

“Daddy!” he screamed at the top of his lungs and dashed for the screen door leading back inside.