Father Martinez spoke about my father’s generosity, his integrity, the way he gave quietly and helped loudly. I heard every word and none of them. I could only stare at the crystals on Becca’s neckline, at Grant’s arm stretched behind her on the pew, at the neat blond widow from Dad’s sailing club dabbing her eyes while my marriage bled out one row ahead of me.
My father would have hated this.
James Crawford had adored good manners, but he adored loyalty more. When Grant asked for permission to marry me, Dad took him sailing in rough water and came back with windburned cheeks and a split lip that he claimed came from “an overly enthusiastic boom.” Grant had laughed about it for years. Much later, Dad told me, I just wanted the young man to understand weather can turn fast.
The eulogies started. Mark spoke. Then Dad’s law partner. Then Father Martinez looked down the row and said my name.
I stood on shaky legs and felt Helen squeeze my hand once before letting go.
As I walked past Grant, he finally looked up at me. There was panic in his face now. Not sorrow. Not shame. Panic.
Good, I thought.
Very good.