Just Down the Road (9 page)

As she picked up the newspaper he’d been reading when he’d had his last heart attack, she gulped down a sob. Reagan had been in the kitchen, but Foster Garrison, the live-in nurse, had been with her uncle when he dropped in pain. They’d rushed Jeremiah to the hospital. Everyone had done all they could to save him, but Reagan knew it was his time to go.

Funny thing was, Jeremiah knew it too. He spent his last days telling her not to overreact and to make sure she got the apple trees ready for winter.

Standing up straight, she realized she’d miss this old man who would always be her uncle even though they were not blood kin. She’d cried every night in the hospital waiting for death to finally come, but she wouldn’t cry anymore. He would think it foolish with all the work to do.

The knowledge of what she had to do, of who she was, settled in around her. She now owned an orchard, and if she didn’t take charge, all the apples wouldn’t be picked, packed, and delivered. Each year for the past four years she’d increased production. Now she had to meet demand or her business would suffer, not to mention all the pies and jelly in the state that wouldn’t get made. Her uncle had loved the trees, but she loved the business of it.

Though she’d come to Harmony as a runaway, Jeremiah not only had taken her in as his niece, but he’d made it legal. As far as everyone in town knew, she was the last Truman. And Trumans, like the Mathesons and the McAllens, founded this town and somehow were responsible for it. And now, unbelievably, she was a part of the history also.
She not only had the farm and the business, she also had the town to care for.

Reagan walked out onto the porch and was surprised to see her next-door neighbor, Pat Matheson, sitting in the rocker Jeremiah always sat in.

“Evening, Reagan,” the old woman said. “I thought I’d drive over and watch the sunset with you tonight.” Her hands were almost as wrinkled as Uncle Jeremiah’s had been as she patted the rocker arm with each sway of the chair.

Reagan couldn’t get any words out as she took her chair that faced the west.

The old woman stilled and her fingers covered Reagan’s as they watched the sun go down in silence. In the shadowy light before darkness fell, Pat whispered, “I believe that was about the prettiest one I’ve ever seen. Jeremiah would have liked it.”

“Did you love him?” Reagan wouldn’t have been able to ask if it hadn’t been dark, but somehow, today, on the day after his death, it was important to know.

“All my life, child.” Pat Matheson gave a sharp laugh. “I never remember a day that I didn’t love him. But loving and living with a man are two different things.”

Reagan thought of asking why they never married, but maybe they had what they wanted. Maybe looking over the fence and seeing the light of his place just down the road and knowing that he loved her just as much as she loved him was enough for them both. “He loved you too,” Reagan said, “but he hated that you called him Dimples.”

“I know he loved me, dear, and I called him Dimples because I knew it bothered him. There was always a part of me that got a real tickle out of needling that man.”

Reagan rocked back in her chair. Jeremiah wasn’t an easy man to care for. His own sister had moved to Oklahoma rather than have to live with him. He had his way of doing everything—the right way, he claimed—and he never listened any more than necessary to anyone.

“Will you sit beside me at the service tomorrow?”

Pat nodded. “I will if you want me to.”

A huge black pickup turned off Lone Oak Road and headed toward them.

“That’ll be Hank coming to get me. I told him I could walk home, but my sister never believes a thing I say I can do. I think secretly she likes calling our nephew and enlisting his help.” She smiled as if enjoying complaining about a sister she’d lived and worked beside all her life. “Will you be all right here by yourself again tonight?”

“Sure. This is my home.” Reagan almost smiled. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d want to be.”

Hank Matheson got out of the truck and walked around to open the door for his aunt. “Reagan,” he said as he helped Aunt Pat in, “you call us if you need anything. We’re here if you need us.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that,” Reagan answered, and waved. She walked into the house and up the stairs to her room.

Just before she fell asleep she tried Noah’s number one more time. No answer. Her best friend was several states away at some rodeo and didn’t know her uncle had died.

She remembered when she’d been in high school and Noah had told her once,
Everyone wants to hug you when someone in your family dies. They don’t know what to say and there really ain’t nothing they could say that helps, so about all you can do is stand there and let them hug you.

Tonight she’d give all she owned for one hug from Noah McAllen. Months had passed since he’d been home, and Reagan felt like he grew less real and more the legend every day. Folks around here talked of Noah as if he were a movie star. Like his father, he’d done the town proud on the rodeo circuit.

She tried to sleep but couldn’t seem to empty her head. An hour before dawn, Tyler Wright drove up in front of her house and waited. He didn’t knock, or honk. In the country everyone knows when someone comes to the house.

When she walked out dressed in a black pantsuit, Tyler stood by the car waiting.

She tried to smile at him. “Can I ride up front with you, Mr. Wright?”
She couldn’t stand the thought of being in the back alone.

“Of course,” he said, and opened the door.

They drove to the cemetery and waited in the car while the hearse arrived. The pale glow of first light came as six men, all dressed in suits, carried the casket up a small hill to an open grave.

Reagan watched without really seeing them. She saw the flowers being brought up and put across the simple wooden box. Wildflowers of spring somehow didn’t fit with the cool fall morning.

“Did my uncle order flowers when he made his plans?” she asked, realizing she hadn’t even checked with Tyler about the details of the funeral.

“No,” Tyler said honestly, “but I thought he’d like them.”

“He wouldn’t,” she answered, knowing he’d say they were a waste of money. “But I do. Thank you for thinking of them.”

Tyler smiled. “It will be sunrise in a few minutes. I have chairs next to the grave.”

He walked around and opened her car door while Reagan tried as hard as she could to convince herself that she could get through this. When the door opened, it was not Mr. Wright, but Brandon Biggs who offered his help. Big stuck out his huge hand and waited for her.

Reagan looked behind her and saw people all around emerging from their cars in the gray dawn. Then she looked at Big. He always seemed to know when she needed a friend.

“I thought you might need a hand,” he said as they began to walk up the hill.

“Thanks,” she managed as she moved closer to the casket sitting above where the grave had been dug. “Don’t let me do something dumb.”

“I’m right here, Rea. I’ve got your back.” He held her arm as she sat down in one of the chairs, then moved behind her.

As light spread over the land, people covered the hill. Pat Matheson, as she had promised, sat at her left, and
other old men and women took the remaining chairs. Most were either Mathesons or McAllens. The three families had started together on this land, and they seemed to band together when they buried one of their own.

A preacher Reagan had never seen gave a simple service as the sun rose, warming the air a few degrees. She looked out over the cemetery. There were people everywhere. Some standing in family groups, some alone, all facing the hill. Jeremiah Truman, a man who lived alone and liked it that way, had a world of people he’d touched.

When the last prayer was finished, Reagan stood and waited as one by one the people passed to touch the casket, to say their good-bye to Jeremiah, to hug her.

Two aging veterans folded a flag that had been draped over the casket. They started to hand it to Reagan, but she indicated that it belonged to Pat Matheson. The old men agreed. Everyone in town knew that Pat Matheson and Jeremiah Truman might have been married if not for the war.

Reagan thought of what Noah had said about hugging and knew that the people passing needed to give a hug more than she needed to receive one. An hour passed before Big walked her back to the funeral home’s family car.

“Mr. Wright, would it be all right if Big took me home? I don’t want to put you out.”

“It’s no trouble,” Tyler said.

Big nodded at the man. “I’d like to take her home if it’s not breaking any rules.”

“Of course,” Tyler said, understanding.

Reagan climbed into Big’s pickup and cuddled close to his big frame for warmth. The morning felt suddenly cold to her.

He started the truck and pulled slowly away.

She didn’t look back at the grave. She couldn’t yet. Someday, maybe in a few weeks or months, she’d bring flowers and sit beside it for a while, but not now, not today.

Big didn’t turn out toward Lone Oak Road but drove onto the highway. For a long while they just drove. Reagan didn’t
really care where they were going. After the weeks in the hospital and months before that when she’d been afraid to leave the house for more than a few minutes, just driving felt great.

When he finally stopped for lunch at a truck stop that seemed miles from anywhere, Reagan realized how hungry she was. They ate huge hamburgers and malts while they made up stories about the other people in the place. When the manager announced that there was now a shower available for Ichy, Reagan laughed until she cried … and then simply kept crying.

Big didn’t say a word. He paid the bill and began the long drive back to Harmony. It was late afternoon when he dropped her off at the farm.

“In the morning, I got to go over to Armstrong County and work with a crew there. It may be a week before the job’s done and I make it home. Will you be all right till I get back?”

She opened the car door and noticed Jeremiah’s old dog waiting for her on the porch. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got lots to keep me busy.” She leaned back in the cab and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the drive.” She guessed he knew she was thanking him for a whole lot more than just a drive.

“You’re welcome.” He smiled that big goofy smile of his. “Only, thanks isn’t enough, Rea. Not from you. I expect a whole pie when I get back. One of your chocolates would be nice, but I’ll take whatever you make.”

“You got a deal.” She closed the door and walked to the porch. Then she waved good-bye with one hand while she patted the old dog on the head with the other.

W
RIGHT
F
UNERAL
H
OME

T
YLER
W
RIGHT SAT DOWN AT HIS DESK WHEN HE RETURNED
to his office after the graveside service and began to write the facts of an obituary, even though there was so much more he wanted to say.

After an hour, he shoved his efforts aside and took up other chores.

He spent the rest of the day working on never-ending paperwork, and now that the sun was almost setting he had one more duty before he could climb the stairs to his rooms above the funeral home. Tyler thought he might sit out on the tiny balcony off his living area and watch the sunset, like he’d seen Old Man Truman do, when he finished this last task.

He picked up his pen and thought about what to write.
Jeremiah Truman slipped into a coma on the first cold day
of fall and, after the sun set, he departed this life, leaving a town to mourn his passing.

That sounded good
, Tyler thought, wishing he could add that when Truman’s niece came to live with him, everyone began to see him through her eyes, and she loved him with a depth that surprised the entire town. Except the Wednesday paper took only the facts. They never allowed Tyler much room to add more.

Jeremiah Truman was a veteran of the Second World War, a man who never married and a farmer who loved his apple orchard. His only surviving relative is Reagan Truman.

“How are you coming on the obit?” Kate asked as she brought Tyler hot cocoa into the room she called “his mess” and not his office.

Tyler smiled at her. Another month and she’d be officially retired from the army and moving to Harmony permanently. Long weekends were never enough time with his Kate. “You know, Katherine, according to gossip, we’re living in sin.”

She laughed as she moved a few papers so she could sit close to him. “I know, and since I’m over forty, I can allow myself to say that I’ve quite enjoyed it. I doubt at our age anyone cares, but for your good name I feel like I should marry you. Mr. Wright, you’re not a man to be gossiped about.”

He kissed her hand. Neither had ever married, and he suspected that, like him, Kate thought she never would. Somehow they’d found one another, and with or without a piece of paper he knew they’d be together until death. “When, my Kate, will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”