Time Will Tell (34 page)

huge relief to have it dealt with, and with Gerald's blessing and approval.

‘Thank you, it's a huge weight off my mind,' she said, tapping the envelope. ‘I'd better get going.' They all made their way out into the hall.

‘Dear, even if you had divorced our son, we still would have thought of you as family,' Thora said as she enveloped Emily. ‘We still do,' she added in a tight whisper. Emily almost erupted into tears again.

‘Yes. So please don't be a stranger – after tomorrow's over and done with,' Gerald said a little gruffly, as if trying to keep the emotion at bay.

Emily nodded.

‘Would you like us to pick you up, or will you go with your parents?' Gerald asked.

‘Thank you, that's very kind. But I'll go with Mum and Dad.'

‘Okay. Well, we shall see you there then,' Gerald said, opening the door for Emily to leave.

‘Thank you for being so understanding,' Emily said, turning on the front step.

‘Drive safely on the wet roads,' Thora said with a weak smile.

Emily got in the car, turned it on, and drove away. She returned Gerald and Thora's wave, thinking it seemed way too jolly given the circumstances.

It was as though she was teleported back to the Bakers' house. One minute she was leaving the Strattens' and the next she was letting Grace out of her yard and giving the wet dog a cuddle, with scant memory of the journey. Though she did recall standing at Barbara and David's post box and wondering for a moment if

she should drive up the driveway, before sliding the envelope in and getting back in the car.

She hung her legs over the verandah feeling dazed, and struggled to grasp what had gone on, what had been said.

All she knew was that she was free. She could inherit John's estate unencumbered. And she had sorted out leasing the farm to David.

But none of it felt good. She felt numb. And fully aware that she had a horrible day yet to get through. At least she might have spared Thora and Gerald some embarrassment.

Chapter Thirty-eight

After sitting up late packing boxes, Emily was so exhausted she could barely see straight. When she finally crawled into bed, her whole body ached so much it was impossible to isolate any particular area of painful muscles. But somehow sleep evaded her.

As the early hours became morning, she lay awake, taking an inventory of the past day and making a mental to do list for the one to come. A quiver of nervousness ran through her, followed by the deeper twang of angst.

John's funeral
.

She checked her watch – six-thirty. In around seven hours she would be expected to stand up in front of the whole district and play the grieving widow. Christ! Her heartbeat began to race. Her stomach began to churn to the point she thought she could probably be sick if she let herself. She ignored it all and got up to let Grace out. Giving up on sleep, she decided take her morning walk a little earlier. Hopefully expending the energy would calm her down.

Business as usual
, she told herself. Though with her hand shaking on the doorhandle and her breathing ragged, Emily knew she was kidding herself. She strode up the gully after Grace who had bounded off ahead.

Just take it one hour at a time. You'll be fine
, she told herself over and over.

Emily reminded herself she was doing this for Gerald and Thora. They had made all the plans. All she had to do was turn up and stand beside them. It didn't matter if she was vague or forgetful or anything; this was a funeral, it was expected, almost mandatory.

This is not about you.

Emily allowed herself to cringe on John's behalf at his parents' choice of venue; he had been a very reluctant churchgoer. Oh well, it wasn't as though he was in a position to object. And it was what was expected in the small town. Gerald and Thora were old school through and through, and had certain expectations to uphold.

Most of John's friends would skip the church part of it anyway; catch up with proceedings at the cemetery. They'd stand with their heads bowed through the short ceremony, then file past the hole with their heads bowed and chuck in the single carnation offered by the funeral people. Then they'd go off to the pub and get shitfaced – send their mate off in style – while the older women caught up over cups of tea and the older men the odd beer in the bowls club the other side of town.

At least John's death hadn't involved drink driving. It meant the wake wouldn't be the complete farce it usually was – mourners drinking to farewell a mate who had died because of alcohol. Could no one else see the irony in what they were doing? One day one of them would kill themselves driving home from a funeral. Maybe then the stupidity would end.

Every time she heard of a young life cut short from drink driving, she thought about writing to the local paper. But as much as the local copper and the paper's editor went on and on about stopping the needless waste of life, you weren't allowed to point out the obvious. Doing so meant you were being disloyal. Country people were meant to stick together, no matter what.

Emily's sneakers stamped hard on the sharp rocks and uneven ground that was firm but still damp underfoot. She strode on autopilot, following her usual route, deep in thought.

Damn John for putting her in this position; for not telling his parents they'd separated, and then for bloody dying on her. How inconsiderate! It was doing her head in. She had to stay calm, stay dignified, and just get through the day. For Gerald and Thora. It annoyed Emily that, really, she was doing this for John and her mother as well. But that couldn't be helped.

And damn Tara Wickham for making her move just when she'd got settled and when her life was finally starting to look okay again.

Emily hadn't worked off all her frustration when she arrived back on the verandah. She slammed the door behind Grace, filled the kettle, and thumped it down hard on its base.

She was just pouring out some muesli – even though she wasn't hungry, she'd never get through the day without breakfast – when her mobile rang. Barbara or Jake wishing her all the best for today? She hadn't heard from either of them since Saturday. No, it was her parents' home number.

Bloody hell, that's all I need!
she thought as she pressed the button to answer.

‘Hello, Emily speaking.'

‘Emily, it's your mother.' Emily rolled her eyes.

‘Hi Mum.'

‘Now, I'm just ringing to check you're all organised for the funeral.'

‘Er, yes.'

What am I meant to have organised? Don't I just have to turn up? Oh, hang on, this is her way of asking, ‘You're not going to embarrass me by not showing up, are you?'

No Mum.

‘I know this must be hard for you. We haven't really spoken properly since…'

Emily cut her off. ‘Yes, I'm all organised.' Well, technically, she still had to iron a shirt to wear with her black skirt suit. ‘Was there anything else you wanted?'

‘No, that was all.' She hesitated. ‘Well, we'll see you just before one-thirty at the Uniting Church then?'

‘Yes. See you then.'

Emily hung up and sat staring at her breakfast. She looked from the bowl of cereal to the carton of milk in front of her and back again with disinterest. But she had to eat. It was doubtful she'd be able to force down any lunch. So breakfast it would be. The last thing she needed was to pass out and make a spectacle of herself at the funeral.

The way my luck is going I'll probably fall in the bloody hole!

Emily filled in the time before getting ready for the funeral with packing more boxes. She was still angry about it, and bitterly disappointed, but tried desperately to push those particular thoughts aside whenever they came up. She was trying to look on the bright side.
At least I have somewhere else to live.

She wondered what the Wattle Creek locals would make of Tara's swift actions. The bush telegraph worked with amazing speed when it wanted to. By the end of the funeral, everyone would know she'd been turfed out of Donald and Trevor Baker's house – if they didn't already know.

Her father would be so hurt that she hadn't told him or asked for his help. But it would hurt more if he knew that the reason she hadn't called was to save herself from the negative comments and gloating that would inevitably come from her mother.

Would other people be sympathetic towards her and appalled at the speed at which Tara had got her hooks into her cousins' assets? Yes, they'd be appalled at Tara; there were certain protocols to be observed around death.

But will they be sympathetic to me?

That was the big question. Six weeks ago she'd been the talk of the town, thanks to her audacity in leaving John Stratten. And now, barely a week after his death, she was preparing to move back into his house. It had only taken Emily four days to dig up John's will and learn that she was his beneficiary. Whether or not she deserved it for the way he treated her, it sure wouldn't
look
good to those who knew about the split.

But it wasn't like that. I never
asked
to inherit his farm and his money. And I wouldn't be moving back if I had any choice.

Would that make any difference in people's eyes? Probably not. But what really mattered was that Thora and Gerald knew the truth. Idle gossip she could live with; she had before.

God, she wished she could just pick up the phone and call Barbara. Oh how she missed her friend. They'd been almost inseparable until now. So, really, it would be too awkward that almost three whole days had passed without seeing or talking to each other.

Anyway, it was still up to Barbara to apologise for talking to Jake behind her back. Maybe she had phoned and not left a message. Emily had kept her phone turned off a lot of the time lately unless she was making a call herself – there would be no record of missed calls when the caller didn't leave a message. Now she regretted doing that. What if Barbara and Jake had been calling without leaving messages? She sighed. Well, there was no way of knowing now.

Anyway, Emily sure as hell didn't want to hear Barbara's bolstering mantra about how everything would turn out fine and that she just had to have faith, blah blah blah. Her dream of renovating the Bakers' house was shattered and she was gutted, end of story. And returning to the farm felt like a bloody big step backwards. At least Barbara couldn't nag her about inheriting under false pretences.

As Emily ironed her shirt, she wondered for the umpteenth time in the last few days what had been so urgent for Jake to have to leave so suddenly. She remembered how ashen his face had looked.

She then wondered if he'd actually started a client file on her or if he'd just done the drawings as a one-off. Should she phone his office and tell them the project had fallen through?

If she did, Jake would want to know what had happened; offer his sympathy. As much as she liked his attention, Emily really didn't want his – or anyone's – pity.

And anyway, what would she say to him – about them? She'd have to admit she'd totally overreacted. She could see that now. She'd been feeling guilty about the inheritance, frightened of approaching Gerald and Thora. She didn't want to talk about her past with John – she was trying so desperately to forget it – and didn't want to start making comparisons. Telling Jake all she'd gone through would mean doing that. She just wanted to move on, get over John, and chalk that up to a mistake.

And how am I going to do that when I'm back in his house
?

Emily got dressed, shut Grace in the fenced-off yard, got in the car, took a deep breath, and set off for town.

As she turned onto the main road from the dirt driveway, something shifted inside her. All of a sudden it was as though everything around her was happening in slow motion – only it wasn't. It was almost like she was watching from beyond, like an out-of-body experience, but that wasn't quite it either. She wasn't hovering above looking down; she was in her driver's seat driving. Everything was just a little fuzzy; not quite right. The car radio sounded muffled, a distorted echo. She felt slightly puzzled as she watched the road before her and behind in the mirrors, her right hand on the wheel and her left automatically moving to the gear stick and back again.

She was making all the motions, knew it was her, but her mind couldn't quite connect the dots.

The weirdest thing was that she didn't feel the slightest bit anxious. She felt fine, better than fine; she was calm, perhaps too calm if anything. Her heart thudded slowly and gently under her ribs; gone was the jittery nervousness that had plagued her all day and made her feel queasy. She wondered if this was what taking valium or a type of sedative was like. Was it some kind of seizure or psychotic episode?

With all these thoughts going through her mind, her calm demeanour remained unchanged, her expression blank and solemn.

Emily arrived at the Wattle Creek Uniting Church with ten minutes to spare. She parked, locked the car, and made her way to the small stone vestibule where Gerald and Thora stood with the two men from the funeral company. They exchanged greetings and embraced. Emily was vaguely aware of being introduced to the two funeral directors as John's wife, and shaking their hands. She felt numb.

She allowed herself to be ushered into the church and seated in the front pew. Nearby, a highly polished mid-brown timber casket adorned in shining gold handles and knobs was resting on a stainless steel stand with wheels.

Emily fiddled with a printed order of service that she didn't remember being handed. She heard the faint shuffling of feet and murmurs of voices as the church filled up behind her. When a hand squeezed her left shoulder, she half turned and returned her father's nod. There was something she'd forgotten.

Oh, that's right, I was meant to meet them outside. Sorry.

Still she remained silent and expressionless. She turned back to the front.