Reinventing Leona (23 page)

Leona fought the urge to saw off an arm and lay the bloody stump before Ivan as a sacrifice. J.D. had told her of Ivan Tucker’s many kindnesses, but being on the receiving end was more than she expected or deserved. She would prove to Modyne that Leona Harper was a good hire if she had to stay up nights reading every yellow
Dummies
manual in Royce’s checkout line.

Offering her best it-will-work-out smile, Leona resisted the urge to peer at Modyne’s screen to see if the old woman’s typing speed was real or merely an intimidation tactic. “You’ll see, Modyne. I’ll catch on so fast, you’ll be out on the open road before the first wildflower shows its color.”

“Sure you will.” Modyne’s nails picked up their frantic pace as she glanced over her shoulder at Ivan. “Wayne Darling called. Councilman Pond died last night.”

“Oh no. Poor Goldie.” Leona felt the starch drain from her legs. “What will she do without her Owen?”

“Sit down, Leona. You don’t look so good.” Ivan eased her into the desk chair. “You sure you’re up to obit writing?”

“No, I’m not sure.” Leona’s tears refused to be held back. Through blurry eyes she could make out the smug smile under Modyne’s hairy lip. Leona swiped at her damp cheeks. “But I can’t sit around. Idleness is the devil’s playground. I need to keep my mind busy. If I can make things better for Mrs. Pond, then that makes things better for me, right?”

Ivan pulled a hanky from his pocket. “Good girl.”

Good girl?
Then why did that malarkey she had just spewed make her blood boil? Leona made a mental note to frame the foolish rhetoric that had just rolled off her tongue as a tangible reminder that clichés offered no comfort to the hurting. She would think twice before touting those hollow words to another in the throes of grief. How could helping someone else possibly make her own pain go away? Short of dropping over, she couldn’t think of a single thing that would remove the ache constricting the empty corridors of her heart.

Leona took Ivan’s hanky and dabbed her eyes. “You said I was hired to proof write-ups. I think I can do that.”

That Ivan was not hiring her to actually write anything original had been disappointing news, but Leona tried to swallow the bitter pill with dignity and grace. After all, she couldn’t expect the resumption of a career after a thirty-year hiatus to begin at the top of the heap. Given time, she could work her way up. But the jury was still out on whether or not she was up to the climb. Since J.D.’s death, even getting out of bed required monumental effort. How could she ever muster the stamina to start her life over?

Ivan tapped his templed fingers. “I’m afraid your job’s a little more involved than we originally discussed.”

The troubled look on Ivan’s face, coupled with Modyne’s silent keyboard, gave Leona pause. “In what way?”

“Usually Wayne brings the write-ups to our office . . .” Ivan fiddled with the pencils in the coffee can on Leona’s desk. “But he’s shorthanded at the funeral home. I’m afraid I’ll have to send you over there to pick up any piece he needs to submit.”

“Can’t he e-mail?” Leona regretted telling Ivan how to run his business the second the words leapt off her tongue. Apparently, the transition from being in charge of nearly every church project to doing just her job would take some getting used to. “Sorry, Ivan.”

The editor waved off her apology. “Wayne feels this sensitive material deserves a personal touch. Quirks of the service industry.” Ivan’s tolerance reminded Leona of how much she had to learn, making her regret her bossy remark even more.

From the corner of her eye, Leona could see Modyne’s gnarled fingers poised as if anxious to type a career obituary the minute the greenhorn dropped. One way or another, Leona intended to wipe the skepticism from the old girl’s wrinkled face and prove she could be successful at this job.

Leona stiffened in her chair. This dog pack wasn’t big enough for two females. One would have to be dominant . . . and Modyne wasn’t going to be the one. Leona squared her shoulders, praying the added height gave her added punch. “Just let me know when you need me to go.”

“This morning.” No one would ever accuse Modyne of a media blitz the way she doled out information segments in short, controlled blips. “Wayne’s expecting you.”

Leona swallowed the lump in her throat, along with any grandiose ideas of being pack leader anytime soon. “Tell him I’m on my way.” She donned her coat and headed into the darkening day.

Chapter Eighteen

Tiny snowflakes salted Leona’s shoulders as she hurried out on her first official assignment. She got into her van and twisted the key in the ignition. Pumping the gas pedal, Leona held her breath. When the fickle engine convulsed to life, she exhaled and gave the Lord credit. At least car trouble wasn’t plaguing her upside-down life.

Starting the wipers, she noticed a piece of paper flapping under the flimsy blade. She followed the arc of the note, but could not read the streaky words smearing the windshield. She turned off the wipers, jumped out of the van, then freed the soggy paper.

Customer parking only. Violators towed. Koffee Kup Management

“That brazen hussy.” Leona wrenched open the van’s rusty door, got in, and slammed it behind her. She hurled Ruthie’s threatening notice to the floorboard. The newspaper’s next headline flashed before her eyes: “Pastor’s Widow Drives Family Vehicle through Local Restaurant Window.”

Leona revved her engine, then threw the gearshift into reverse and floored it. She smiled at the significant portion of her bald-tire rubber now embellishing Ruthie’s coveted space. The van fishtailed around the slick corner of Main and Elm.
Better calm down and get control before I cause an accident.
Lifting her foot from the accelerator, praying for her enemies came to mind, but she quickly pushed the charitable thought from her head. In less than two weeks, Satan had summoned his whole army, formed an intimidating line of assault, and attacked her on every front. Family, finances, church. If she prayed anything, the petition would be one of King David’s psalms begging God to give the adversaries an extra helping of what for.

As she came within sight of the funeral home, she noticed the flurries had grown into large wet flakes landing with a splat upon the cracked glass. Leona cranked the steering wheel and pulled in under the funeral home’s portico, parking alongside the hearse. From her idling vehicle, she stared at the gleaming black car that had transported J.D.’s abandoned body to Oak Lawn. A shiver went down her spine. Her head knew her husband was not lying out in this miserable cold, but her heart wanted him in where it was warm. Wanted J.D. Harper home. Wanted the man she loved sitting in his old recliner with a book in his lap. Wanted her husband’s strong, safe arms wrapped around her. Tears stung her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

Leona removed Modyne’s form file from her large handbag, then reluctantly killed the engine. Legs quivering, she sat in the frigid quiet, waiting for the aching gush from the crevice in her heart to harden like the precipitation icing her windshield.
Lord, I can’t do this. Help me.
She wiped the moisture from her face.

Next thing Leona knew, she stood before the mortician’s receptionist, manila folder tucked under her arm, completely unsure how she had walked through the office door. A pine scent wafted from red and green Christmas pillars, but did not mask the aura of death hovering in the room. Nor did the radio talk show host droning from the out-of-place boom box on Rosie’s desk camouflage the lethal quiet. A wave of nausea crested in Leona’s hollow gut.

Rosie Cass stuck a pencil into the indentation in her beehive hairdo and smiled. “I’ve been keeping up with the weather.” She fiddled with a dial and lowered the radio volume. “Modyne called and said you were on your way. How are you, Mrs. Harper?”

Leona stifled the urge to scream the bloody truth in response to Rosie’s ridiculous question. How did the woman think she was? Less than a month ago she was in here picking out her husband’s coffin. Was anyone ever fine after that?

“Hard to come back in here, isn’t it?”

Had she voiced her exasperation, or was the mortician’s assistant able to read the thoughts of the walking dead? “Excuse me?”

“After my Morris died, I never wanted to set foot in a funeral home again. But when I couldn’t pay the interment bill, Wayne offered me a job. That was twenty years ago, and I still can’t go into the casket selection room.”

The woman’s quiet confession pricked Leona’s conscience. She’d been to enough funerals in this one-funeral-home community to know Rosie Cass could stride up the aisle and seal a coffin as well as the funeral director. But not once had she taken the time to notice the secret pain hidden behind those horn-rimmed glasses.
Forgive me, Father.
Blinking back stinging tears, Leona whispered, “Thanks, Rosie.”

“You’ll make it, doll.” Rosie winked and wheeled her chair away from the immaculate desk. “Mrs. Pond is in with Wayne now. Why don’t you sit here and warm up a bit while I make sure they’re finished in the back.” The spry woman bustled from the room, leaving Leona alone . . . again.

She glanced around the spotless waiting room. The candles burning in glass holders set on oak end tables flickered like silent tributes to all the sadness that had passed through these heavy doors. No doubt Rosie used the noise of the low-pitched radio announcer to drown out the haunting quiet the same way Leona flipped on the TV at night while she picked at her frozen dinner. On the surface, the living-room coziness of funeral homes removed the chill of death. But if experience had taught her anything, it was that there weren’t enough candles and soft music in the world to fill the empty hole death left in the lives of the bereaved. Dropping into the upholstered chair, Leona was grateful for the opportunity to stabilize her shaky legs.

“Leona.” Face flushed, Wayne appeared in the doorway. “I’m so glad you could make it.” He extended a hand of welcome, and Leona complied, tamping her desire to check for any traces of embalming fluid lingering on his mummified mitts. “We’ll try to keep this brief, but Owen was a pretty important man in the community. We need his obit done up right.” He offered a pasty smile and gestured for her to rise.

“I’ll do the best I can.” Leona clutched Modyne’s file under her arm and dragged herself out of the chair. She prayed her legs would not fail her as she followed Wayne across the hall.

The funeral director whispered over his shoulder as if rowdiness in his establishment might wake the dead. “Goldie insisted we wait for you after I told her you were the one who wrote J.D.’s obituary. Said she thought his write-up was exceptional and so she wants you to do Owen’s.” He offered the same satisfied-salesman smile he had the day Leona opted to upgrade J.D. from a pine box to something with inner-spring coils.

Leona shuddered, but Wayne did not seem to notice as he stepped aside like a true gentleman and allowed her to pass first into his office. The sight of Goldie Pond sitting in the exact same chair she had occupied so recently stopped Leona cold.

Curled up on the Liz Claiborne wool slacks of the councilman’s wife was the whitest cat Leona had ever seen.

Wayne pressed his palm against the small of Leona’s back, propelling her into the ornately decorated office. “Mrs. Pond, Mrs. Harper is here.”

The woman dabbed her dry eyes with a linen hanky. “Thanks for coming, Leona.”

Gathering her scattered wits, Leona shoved from her mind how she must have looked sitting in the same situation. “Mrs. Pond, I am so sorry about Owen.” She paused, racking her brain, careful to avoid any of the trite phrases people had thrown at her after J.D.’s death. Things like “He’s in a better place.” “At least the pastor didn’t suffer.” And Maxine’s take: “Apparently the Lord needed J.D. more than you, Leona.” Why in the world would the creator of the universe need a worn-out preacher? She settled on, “Nice cat.”

The widow’s French manicured nails combed the cat’s luxurious coat. “This is Pinkie Pond, my husband’s prize Persian.”

When the plastic surgeon ironed out Goldie’s wrinkles last year he must have pressed her emotions flat as well.
But who am I to judge?
Everyone handles grief in their own way . . . another information perk of the experience learning curve.

Leona nodded and took the chair next to the icy widow and the pampered fur ball. She prayed her allergies would not kick in before their business was complete. Once her eyes swelled shut, she wouldn’t be able to proof a word for hours. She cleared the mucus collecting in the back of her throat. “Pinkie is . . . beautiful.”

“Owen thought so.” Goldie fingered the rhinestone collar wrapping the feline’s furry neck. “He left her everything.”

“Oh. How nice,” Leona stammered. “I mean, for the cat.”

Goldie’s green eyes locked with Leona’s as she tucked a stray blonde hair into the nape of her French twist. “I want my Owen to have the obituary he deserves.”

“Absolutely. I can certainly understand that. I’ll do everything I can.” Leona shifted, but could not squirm out from under the piercing emerald gaze.

“Good.” Goldie’s eyebrows lifted without making a single crease across her taut forehead. “Then I want Owen exposed for the cheapskate that he is . . . was. I read J.D.’s obituary and was quite impressed.”

Leona gasped, “If you got the impression my husband was uncharitable, then I’m certainly not the person for this job.” She rose, intending to storm out of the room, but Goldie clamped her hand on Leona’s arm, pressing her back into the hot seat.

“Settle down, Leona. We wouldn’t want you to have a heart attack. I only meant you depicted your husband’s true colors. Everyone in town knew Reverend Harper to be an exemplary community servant and an outstanding family man. I feel I owe Owen the same due acknowledgment.”

Goldie’s intense scrutiny made up for Pinkie’s aloof indifference to the sordid goings-on concerning her doting master. Apparently coming into a large sum of cash really did calm the savage beast.

Meanwhile Wayne, who had taken a seat behind his desk, flashed the
Messenger
’s inexperienced obit writer a silent plea for help. Leona weighed the odds of shaking the evil threesome, but from the looks of things she had stepped into a bigger mess than last year’s Christmas pageant. The trap had been sprung, and when the spring was lifted she would be the unfortunate little church mouse with her chops on the cheese.
What an idiot. What made me think I could waltz back into the workplace and succeed at a real job?