Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Eighteen

The house's seams struggle to hold the friends, family, neighbors, old employees, and strangers bloating the rooms and hallways after Gramps's funeral. Many of the faces are foreign, but they regale me with stories that are vintage Gramps. It makes me feel inflated, too, ready to burst from the grief and happiness and celebration lining the walls and dusting the carpet. As good as solitude sounds, I also have a desperate desire to keep these people around me indefinitely, because it feels like my grandfather isn't gone.

He'll never be gone from Heron Creek. I know that.

Aunt Karen took charge of organizing today, which is fine with me. I'm exhausted from crying, from the endless decisions about food and times and programs, not to mention the question of what I'm going to do next. The house will probably belong to the Coopers now, but I'm holding on to the smallest sliver of hope that my aunt will be gracious and let me stay, at least for a while.

It will kill me if she wants to sell it, but there won't be anything I can do to stop her.

I wander from room to room with a giant yellow trash bag, snagging stray paper plates and balled-up napkins, funeral programs that have been discarded on end tables, content to be among the mourners but, for a few precious moments, fade into the background.

"Hey, Grace."

My shoulders tense at the familiar face, heart still struggling with my mixed-feelings over Gramps's last request. I know my instant reaction of ire has more to do with my own sorrow than anything she's done, but recognizing that and controlling my reaction are two different things. The whole maturing plan is a work in progress.

"Amelia. It's nice that you were able to make it today. Have you tried the punch?"

She closes her eyes for a second, and I take the opportunity to study her. Amelia's always been the prettier of the two of us, and though we share the same green eyes—handed down from Grams—she's got her mother's blond pixie looks as opposed to the dusky brown hues that darken my features. Her skin glows today, peachy and dewy, and even though she's barley showing, that she's pregnant seems written all over her.

Her bright green eyes flutter open, and they're guarded in a way that never would have seemed possible ten years ago. She doesn't trust me, and even her sorrow is masked by a cool facade designed to keep me at bay. "I meant to come sooner, Grace, I did. Can I help?"

The weakness of her apology kills what little energy I have left. We're both reeling from the loss of Gramps, whether she thought it was important to show up before the fact or not. This isn't the time to revisit our personal war, and a tired sigh wriggles loose from my chest. "Sure. I was going to wash up the coffee cups and silverware. Your mom is going to want to drop once everyone leaves. Are you staying tonight?"

"Yes, I'd planned on it. I'll get those dishes."

My cousin heads off toward the kitchen, having done the impossible—made me feel guilty for treating her coolly, when she's the one who should feel badly. She'd only driven into town this morning, in time to change clothes and go with us to the church, then the graveside, and I'd avoided talking to her until now. The thought of seeing her pig husband had twisted my guts into hopeless tangles all day, but he didn't made an appearance. Now, I'm not sure why I expected him to be here at all.

I follow her into the kitchen after cleaning the trash out of the music room and stuff everything disposable on the counters into the bag before tying it closed. She washes dishes, a disquiet about her that sets my nerves on edge. No matter what else is going on, I'm not going to miss out on the opportunity to talk with her while she's in town—really talk, and see if she can convince me the thrum of dread I feel is unfounded.