The Healer's Touch (35 page)

“Father,” she prayed, “I think—no, I
am
—in love with Joseph. I think he may love me too, odd as that sounds, but I'm not certain. Keep him alive, Father. Keep him alive and safe.” She wiped away the tears that had fallen on her cheeks. “And Father God…if he's
alive, and if he doesn't return to say goodbye, would I be an utter fool to go after him?”

She looked out over the creek expectantly, as though waiting for an answer.

None came.

And then it came. Not a sound, not a voice, just a sweet certainty:
Go home.

20

W
hat are you reading?”

Ian glanced up, startled by Lyric's voice. She stood before him, weary and dirty as a street urchin. Getting to his feet, he cleared his throat. “A note.”

“A note?”

“Where have you been? I've been waiting for you.” It was nigh on to noon now.

“I've been…out.”

His gaze scanned her untidy appearance. “Looking like that?”

She focused on the paper in his hand. “What's that?”

How did he tell her? Did he hand her the paper and let her read the grim message for herself? Or should he blurt out the news and tell her what had happened? Neither way seemed less hurtful. “I'm sorry, Lyric. Your…Edwina has passed.”

He put the note in her hand and watched as she read the three sentences. Jaw-dropping disbelief, and then puzzlement, clouded her eyes when she lifted her face. “I don't understand.”

“I found her a little while ago, sweetheart.” He reached to take her into his arms. “She must have known her time was near, and she used her last few moments to write that note. She wanted you to know the truth.” Allowing time for the news to penetrate, he held her, brushing her damp hair free from her eyes. Seconds passed and she gave a tremulous sigh. Her shoulders heaved with silent sobs.

“Cry it out. I'm here for you,” he whispered.

“Why would she wait so long? Why not tell me years ago?”

“You know Edwina. She liked things her way.” He drew her closer to him. If she was going to fall apart he wanted her to do it now, when he could hold her. “Do you understand what this means? The woman you thought was your mother is no relation to you.”

She shook her head. “Edwina never spoke of any of this.”

“Maybe that's good.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and rubbed a hand across her back, their bodies swaying with the gentle breeze as Lyric clung tightly to his neck. He liked the feel of her dependence, welcomed it. If God allowed him, from now on he'd protect her, and never allow her to spend another day like the ones she'd spent in Bolton Holler.

“Lark will be along any minute.” Lyric pulled away from his arms, wiping her nose on the handkerchief he'd put in her hand. “I'll need to tell her.”

“I'll help you break the news.”

Her eyes filled with gratitude. “I'm free now,” she said.

Smiling, he drank in her spirit. “You're free.” The way she said the word had such a soulful sound, and his heart sank within him. She'd spent her whole life here, catering to Edwina. Was it fair to tie her down to a husband and family now that she was finally free?

“Where is Edwina?”

“She's still in her room.”

“We'll need to bury her.” She paused, taking another absent swipe at her nose. “I've never buried anyone.”

“I'll do that for you.”

“There needs to be a wake.”

A wake. He hated those things. “Lyric, do you really think that's necessary? The woman didn't have a friend on earth.”

Shaking her head, Lyric said, “I'm going to do this properly, Ian. There will be a wake. Tonight.”

Later, Lyric set a damp cloth aside and studied the woman she'd called
Mother
all these years. Lark worked silently beside her. The girls had washed Edwina's hair and brushed the gray locks until they shone. Adding a touch of color to the woman's cheeks, she stood back and admired her efforts. “You are quite the deceiver,” she said. Never once had Edwina let her deception slip—not even during the worst of her mad spells. What a sly fox she'd proven to be.

Resentment bubbled up in her throat but she swallowed it back. What was done was done. But why had Edwina hidden the truth all these years? Out of fear? Did she think the girls would desert her if they knew she wasn't their blood kin? Or was her motive one of pure self-interest? She had two girls who cared for her day and night, saw to her every whim. Cooked her meals and cleaned her house. Was that her reason for keeping the girls in the dark? Or had there been some part of Edwina that loved the girls?

Lark shuddered. “I don't know how you can talk about her so nicely. What's she's done to us is unforgivable and you know what? I'm
glad
she isn't our mother.”

“It's not for us to judge,” she reminded her sister. “Edwina was a very sick woman.”

“A mad woman.”

“Be that as it may, she will stand before the Lord and account for
her life. We've only to answer for our own wrongdoings.” Lyric set a small vase of wildflowers beside the crude coffin Ian had earlier built. “Is Boots attending the wake?”

“She said she'd come.”

“Good. That will be four in attendance.”

“Four friends she didn't have. I can run to town and spread the word. I guess someone might take a notion to be kind and come. It's kind of embarrassing to have someone die and nobody come to pay their respects. And I wouldn't mind having one of those chocolate cakes I hear Mrs. Grannier takes to folks when one of their kin dies.”

“Lark, Mrs. Grannier is not going to send a cake. You should know that by now. You can go to town if you'd like, but don't expect cakes or mourners. There won't be any.”

Lark set the brush aside. “You're free now. Are you going to leave with Ian and make me come with you?”

“Ian hasn't asked me to go anywhere with him.”

“If he did, you'd go.”

“Maybe.”

Her lack of denial gave Lyric pause. What
did
she want—really want? Now that she was actually free of Bolton Holler, would she forfeit her plans for a new life with Lark to blindly follow a man she still knew so little about?

Love said she would, but love was fickle. For years she had loved Edwina in a strange, dedicated way, and now she discovered that her loyalty was misplaced. If she went away with Ian, would she come to feel the same about him, that she'd given her love and loyalty to a man she barely knew?

Boots arrived close to seven. Ian sat in the parlor, hat on his knee. Drapes and shutters were drawn. Heavy black crepe was tied to the
front door as though there would be a flurry of grievers to weep through the night.

Mirrors and picture frames were covered with the same material. All clocks in the house had been stopped; ticking clocks would bring bad luck. The kitchen counter sat empty of casseroles, cakes, pies, or neighborly expressions of sympathy. Lark had made a trip to the holler to announce Edwina's passing, but as Lyric predicted the effort was in vain. Her sister returned in tears. “All Mrs. Grannier said was, “Good, the madwoman is dead.”

Boots scuffed into the parlor and took a seat in front of the casket, crossing her arms. Lyric and Lark sat down beside her. “Cross your legs,” Lyric whispered.

Grunting, Lark complied.

After a bit Lark leaned over and whispered, “How long do we have to sit like this?”

“All night.”

“All night!”

A moment later. “Is the coffin screwed down tightly?”

“Tight as a tick.”

The moon rose higher. Lyric heard Ian occasionally shift in his chair. The old house creaked and groaned with the wind.

Around what she deemed to be midnight, Lyric served coffee and cold ham and biscuits. The mourners ate quietly and returned to the wake.

Lark dozed on Lyric's shoulder by early morning. Boots had slowly slid off her chair and now lay curled at the foot of her seat, snoozing. It would have been nice if one person from the town had come, if one pie or casserole had sat on the counter. After all, the town had been named after Edwina's great-grandfather who had supposedly been an upstanding citizen in the holler. He'd built the big house on the hill. He and his wife had formed the community. She turned her head slightly to see Ian and he smiled, encouraging her with his eyes.

Returning his grin, she softened her features.

He winked, flirting with her.

Turning back to the casket, she prayed for time to fly. Slowly, the minutes turned into hours. Lyric's back ached from sitting upright. There was no rule that one couldn't speak during a wake, but everything that could be said about Edwina had been voiced earlier and in a matter of minutes.

Lyric's head bobbed when she threatened to drift off. Jerking upright, she froze when she saw a prominent member of Bolton Holler had shown up. A gray—then green—light sat atop Edwina's casket, dimly blinking. The light—that silly, irrepressible light—had come to pay its respect to the Holler's most feared resident.

Lyric glanced around the room to see if others had spotted the nuisance. Ian's head lolled back and a half-snore escaped.