Breaking Ground (16 page)

“Thank you, Steven,” the minister said quickly as she walked backed toward the podium. “Thank you for those very loving words, words that only a son can offer at a moment like this. Please know that our thoughts and prayers are with you and Elizabeth now, as well as with Mary Ellen. After the singing of our last hymn, will the pallbearers please come to the front, and will the rest of the congregation stand as we carry the remains of our beloved friend down the aisle? Commitment at the cemetery will be private, but Steven and Elizabeth have very kindly invited you all to his mother's house for a reception, beginning at noon—is that right?”

“I knew I was supposed to say something else!” Steven said to the whole church, his composure now back. He rose and added, “Mom would very much want you all to come. Grander Hill Road, I'm sure most of you know it.”

The minister gestured toward Steven, who walked up to the coffin. Several other men rose from other parts of the church,
including Howard, Henry, several Julie knew only as faces around Ryland, and—to her surprise—Dalton. Nickie leaned over and whispered to Julie, “Dalton was honored to be asked. Figured he was called on because he was one of the few trustees who could actually heft a coffin, but I see Henry is there, too.” The group assembled and gathered around the coffin as the funeral director, who had suddenly materialized, as members of his profession do, entered from the side and gave low-voiced instructions. As the coffin passed up the aisle beside her, Julie realized that tears were streaming down her face. But she felt better seeing she was not alone in having that response to saying good-bye to Mary Ellen Swanson.

“I'm meeting Dalton there,” Nickie said to Julie when they reached the steps outside the church. The hearse was gone, but Julie could see the blue lights of Mike's cruiser at the end of the street and knew the hearse and the few cars of the procession were behind it. “I can give you a ride,” Nickie added.

“Great, thanks.”

“I'd enjoy the company. Did they say noon? It's ten of now. The family won't be back by then, but I guess we're supposed to go anyway. My car's up the street.”

It was a comfort to Julie to ride and chat with the cheerful Nickie. And the day was simply gorgeous—bright blue skies, warm but pleasant temperatures, a gentle breeze blowing in off the mountains, which were dramatically visible to the west through the crystal-clear air. As if reacting to the same stimuli, Nickie said, “Seems like a cliché, but she sure had a great day for it, didn't she?”

Julie agreed, and went on to say what a lovely service it was. “There's another cliché for you,” she added.

“I know what you mean, but a lovely day and a lovely service just have to be better than a gloomy old sermon on a rainy day.”

“The minister was great,” Julie said.

“Annie Richardson? She sure is—funny and with-it, but serious in her way.”

“I'm still not used to that abbreviation, by the way,” Julie said. “
Congo
for Congregational—but no one seemed bothered by it.”

“Standard, I guess,” Nickie said.

“Like knowing which pews you can sit in. Sometimes I think I'll never figure out how things work here.”

“Don't be silly, Julie! You've figured out everything that matters.”

“Not quite.” Julie said. “I mean, who would murder Mary Ellen?” She was silent for the rest of the short drive.

Mary Ellen's house always seemed incongruous to Julie. The Swansons were one of Ryland's oldest families, and their homestead on Main Street was a huge Victorian four doors above the large but by contrast modest Harding House. Worth had pointed it out to her when he gave her a walking tour of Ryland, so the first time Mary Ellen had invited her to dinner just a few weeks after she arrived, she was prepared to make the short walk up the street. But the morning of their dinner date, Mary Ellen had dropped into her office to remind Julie of the time and that her house was at the very top of the hill. To Julie's puzzlement, Mary Ellen had explained that they had sold the family homestead to a couple from Boston and built a new house on Grander Hill Road several years before Dan Swanson's death. “We just love the views,” Mary Ellen had said then.

It was easy to see why. As Nickie pulled into the driveway below the house, the views out toward the Presidentials made Julie gasp, despite her having been here several times before. “I always forget how great this is,” she said to Nickie.

“It is pretty grand, isn't it? Dalton says that if he'd come to Ryland earlier and gotten the commission to design a house for the Swansons on this site, he probably wouldn't have given up architecture to run an inn. Of course he would have done a better design,” Nickie added as they walked up the drive and around to the front entrance. “Though this isn't too shabby.”

Indeed, Julie thought as she looked up at the high shingled wall that formed a screen against the traffic of Grander Hill Road. Four irregularly placed sash windows, small like gun slots in a castle, provided the only break in the facade. The entrance was
nearly hidden under a gable. The door was opened by a young woman Julie didn't recognize—a college-student waitress from the Ryland Inn, hired for the event, she guessed. As Nickie and Julie walked through the narrow entrance hall they heard subdued voices, and then they entered the great room. The house was all about views. The entire wall of the great room consisted of glass panels, running close to twenty feet from just above the floor to the ceiling. A couple of dozen guests had positioned themselves at intervals along the glass, staring out and exchanging quiet words. Loretta Cummings, Julie was happy to see, was one of them.

“What a gorgeous view,” Julie said when she walked over to join Loretta.

“Mary Ellen always had the best, didn't she? Wasn't it a lovely service?”

“Very nice.”

“Mary Ellen would have been pleased,” Loretta continued. “So simple and dignified, but light enough. And Steven's eulogy …”

“Must have been awfully hard for him.”

“I'm sure, but I thought he did a good job of catching Mary Ellen's spirit—like that comment about how his mother got after him for not coming home much. Couldn't you just hear her saying that? She didn't mince words, as you know. But I'm sure she really missed her son.”

More people were arriving behind them, and Julie turned back and saw the family and party from the cemetery weren't among them. “He seems very nice,” she said. “What's his wife like?”

“I've only met her a couple of times,” Loretta said, “but from what I gathered she and Mary Ellen didn't get along. I suppose that's easy to understand: Elizabeth took Mary Ellen's golden boy from her, and both of them are strong women. Bound to clash.”

“I wonder how Steven felt about that.”

“Caught in the middle of his strong mama and his strong wife, like a lot of guys. Not an unusual story, I guess. Now I was
lucky—my husband's one of six kids, and his mother was happy to see him get out of her kitchen and into mine!”

The low murmuring came to an abrupt end just as Loretta was finishing, and everyone pivoted as if on command to see Steven and Elizabeth come down the entrance hall into the great room. Behind them were Reverend Richardson and the pallbearers. Steven stopped at the long table serving as the bar and poured a glass of something Julie couldn't identify but was sure wasn't the white wine she and Loretta were sipping. He took a long gulp and then looked around at his now-silent guests.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said. “The circumstances of Mom's death are tragic, but today, let's put aside our questions and concerns and celebrate her life. Mom would be happy to have all her friends in the house today. Elizabeth and I are happy you're here, too.” He turned his head to the right to confirm this, but Elizabeth was already moving away, toward the windows. In fact, she was headed toward Julie, who stepped back, hoping the other woman's path would change. When it didn't, she found herself face-to-face with Elizabeth.

“I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Swanson,” she said.

“Myerson,” the woman corrected her. “I didn't take Steven's name, but please call me Elizabeth. You're Dr. Williamson from the Ryland Historical Society, aren't you?”

“Yes. Julie. We met briefly a couple of months ago.”

“One of those interminable get-togethers about the building! She certainly enjoyed all the fuss. Too bad she can't enjoy the building.”

Julie didn't know how to gauge the sincerity of Elizabeth's regret. “It certainly is” was all she said, hoping that would prompt further commentary. When it didn't, Julie continued: “I think your husband's point about the new building being a monument to both his parents was really good. I'm sure the board of trustees will want to pursue that.”

“You'll be getting the rest of the money, Stevie said, so your board ought to do something.”

Stevie! Julie thought. Mary Ellen was so insistent on calling her son Steven; Mary Ellen's daughter-in-law obviously didn't agree.

“Yes, I understand from Henry LaBelle that Steven is going to ask the probate court to release the rest of the gift right away. That's very generous of you.”

“Oh, I have nothing to do with it. It's Stevie's money, and he's welcome to use it however he likes.”

Julie didn't think it would be worth pointing out that the $500,000 was Mary Ellen's pledge, not her son's gift. “He'll get plenty,” Elizabeth continued. “Of course you would have gotten more if his mother had changed things, but then.”

Julie's mouth, quite literally, dropped open. She wasn't sure what words should come out of it. Was she supposed to know that Mary Ellen considered changing her will to give more to the Ryland Historical Society if Steven and Elizabeth didn't produce an heir? She wasn't going to fall into that trap, but she couldn't resist an indirect try. “I'm not sure what you mean, but then, it's really none of my business.”

“No, I suppose not, though I assumed Stevie's mother had told you. Well, it doesn't matter. Excuse me, please, I guess I should circulate.”

Julie watched her walk away—not, as she had indicated, toward other guests but toward the left side of the house where, Julie knew, the bedrooms and baths were. Probably needs to use the bathroom, Julie told herself as she studied the woman's retreating form. Elizabeth's was a lot like Mary Ellen's, Julie realized: slim, taut, elegant. Of course she was a lot younger—probably early thirties—and her hair was a dazzling blonde (too dazzling, Julie thought, to be entirely natural, but very striking). She didn't seem too interested in Steven's apparently large inheritance. Or had
Elizabeth deliberately brushed that off because she didn't want to be seen as a gold-digger?

“I thought Elizabeth was here,” Steven said in a lost-boy way.

“Oh, she was,” Julie replied. “She went that way.” Julie pointed toward the door that led to the private part of the house. “I thought your speech at the service was just right,” she added. “It must have been so hard for you, but what you said about your mother really evoked her spirit. It was good.”

“Thanks. Yeah, it wasn't easy, and like always I said too much and too little. Shouldn't have said that about Mom saying I was a stranger here. And I should have mentioned the reception.”

“It was just right, really,” Julie assured him.

“Mom never really understood her,” Steven continued as if Julie's presence was a fortuitous opportunity for him to work out something that was bothering him. “Mom never worked—outside the home, I mean,” he continued, “and she just couldn't get it into her head that Elizabeth does. And she works very hard, with long hours. It was hard for her to get away to come here, even if she had really wanted to.”

“What does your wife do?”

“She owns a mortgage company. That's how we met—I'm a broker, and when she was getting started she had a party for people in the business to introduce herself. She's very good at her job, and I still recommend her to my clients, but of course I tell them we're married, even though the business is entirely hers.”

“Of course,” was all Julie could say.

“Mom would have been a great businesswoman herself, you know, so maybe not having the chance to do something on her own grated her. Well, I should go talk to some others. Thanks for coming, Julie. I know Mom liked you very much. By the way, Henry LaBelle has all the papers ready for me to sign, the petition to the court, so as soon as the land sale closes he'll file them.
He said it might take a couple of weeks, but you should get that money pretty soon.”

Before Julie could thank him, Steven walked away and joined a group of old women standing by the window. Of course I should thank him, Julie said to herself, but the way he puts it, it sounds like
I'm
getting the money. And after all, it was what Mary Ellen had wanted. How grateful was she supposed to be?

Post-funeral receptions were not at the top of the list of social events that Julie felt knowledgeable about, but as she looked around the crowd in the Swanson great room she realized she would soon need to overcome that deficiency. Given the average age—somewhere north of seventy, she guessed—and the fact that so many of the people in the room were connected with the Ryland Historical Society as trustees, volunteers, or members, she imagined a string of post-funeral receptions in her future. One of the things she would have to learn was when to leave. Without a program, or cues from the host, it was hard to know. She decided to follow the crowd, making for the door when others did, but so far there was no sign a mass movement was about to commence. Maybe it was the food, both very good and very abundant, that held them. Certainly Julie was not alone in making lunch, a rather full lunch, out of the provisions heaped on the table and being passed by young men and women in white jackets.