A Man of Honor Page 8

  “Yeah. . . .”

  She shrugged. “Maybe one of them will keep her maiden name when she marries. Maybe both of them will. There’s no law, you know, requiring women to take their husbands’ names when they say ‘I do.’ ”

  “Ah. So that’s your plan is it? To keep your maiden name after you say ‘I do’?”

  “Now who’s the silly one? I thought you knew . . . I’m never getting married.”

  “In point-four miles, turn right,” Stephanie said, “on Mary-land Ah-vin-you.”

  “Never?”

  “Nope.”

  “Pretty li’l thing like you? Besides, you know what the sages say. . . .”

  When she didn’t respond, Gavin said, “Never say never.”

  Grace fixed her attention on the GPS, and hoped that would help her sidestep his comment. She didn’t much like admitting how much time she’d spent praying for the “white picket fence” life. She’d need a man of honor for that, and two broken hearts, a cousin and an uncle who seemed dedicated to stealing her blind left her with the belief that such a man didn’t exist.

  “Keep right. At ramp. . . .”

  “So how are things over at Angel Acres these days?”

  The man had an incredible knack for being able to read her mind. Grace wondered if he did it with everybody, or only with her. “I hate to admit it, but I’m so far behind that I can’t decide if I lost my horse or found a rope.”

  Gavin slapped a palm over his eyes. “Aw, you can do better than that old saw, Gracie! It’s old as the hills and twice as dusty!”

  Dusty. Even that slight reminder of him sent a shiver down her spine. “Speaking of whom, tell me about him.”

  “Who?”

  “Your cousin, Dusty. Youth counselor. Chaplain. Only God knows what other titles he holds. Well, God, and maybe you. . . .”

  “His dad and mine were brothers, figuratively and literally. They were in the same band, see, and . . . and they died in the same bus crash.”

  Dusty had skimmed over that part of his history. Hearing even that small detail roused an ache inside her. Knowing her friend had suffered the same pain only intensified the feeling.

  “You’re probably too young to remember The Rangefinders,” Gavin continued. “They’d been together for about five years when one of their singles—‘Seasons’—went platinum. They were nominated for three Grammys that year. They were driving to the awards ceremony. It was dark. And raining. And the road to LA isn’t exactly the straight and narrow.”

  He paused as Stephanie said, “In three hundred feet, turn left.”

  “A truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and swerved into their lane, and. . . .” He clapped his hands together. “And bam!”

  It made Grace jump, dislodging the GPS. Stephanie was on the floor when she said, “Arriving at address. On left.”

  “I was nineteen, and Dusty had just turned ten. My mom wasn’t in the band, like his was, so my life didn’t change as much as his did.”

  “So sad,” she whispered. “So very sad.”

  “His dad’s brother took him in. Houseful of rowdy boys and dogs and cats, and if memory serves, a potbellied pig.” Gavin chuckled at the memory. “He was a tough kid. Adjusted pretty fast, and turned out well, all things considered, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do.” Her heart ached for Gavin. For Dusty, too. Though she’d been older—nearly sixteen when her own parents died—she had a first-person understanding of what they’d gone through.

  “Uncanny, isn’t it?”

  She parked alongside the curb at the church entrance. “What’s uncanny?”

  “How much the two of you have in common.”

  “There you go, being silly again.” She held up a forefinger. “One similarity. One, Gavin. That’s hardly ironic.”

  “Uncanny is the better word, by a long shot. Oh. And by the way, he’ll be here today, probably with Mitch and the boys.”

  Now, why did hearing that Dusty might show up start her heart to pounding like a parade drum? Grace made a big deal of wrapping the cord around the GPS and stuffing it into the glove box. “Now then,” she said, opening her car door, “stay put, okay, while I go inside and save us two seats near the door. I’ll be right back.”

  He launched into his Humphrey Bogart imitation. “Yer a schweetheart,” he said, winking. “Why, if I wasn’t schuch an old fuddy-duddy, I’d marry you, myshelf.”

  “If you wait until I’m old and suffering from dementia,” she said, winking back, “I might just say yes.” And she closed the door before he had a chance to respond.

  The instant her high-heeled shoes hit the blood-red carpet, she saw that Dusty and his boys had nearly filled the pew, second from the back. He was whispering something to Axel, who sat on his left, when Grace stepped up beside him. “You clean up well,” she said.

  “Hey, Grace,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.” He stood in the aisle. “You didn’t get a chance to meet Mitch the other night.” Dusty invited the younger man to join them.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said when he extended a hand.

  Grinning, he countered with, “Not as much as I’ve heard about you, I’ll bet.”

  “All good things,” Dusty interjected, hand raised in the Boy Scout salute. Then he smiled, sending her heart into overdrive. Again. Get a grip, she thought. “I’m here mostly as Gavin’s chauffeur. He had an accident. Totaled the convertible and broke his leg.”

  “No way!” Dusty stood, looked past her toward the door. “Where is he?”

  “I came in to save two seats, so he wouldn’t have to walk too far. He’s right outside.”

  “You parked in a handicap zone?” Mitch rolled his eyes. “With a hundred cops milling around!”

  “Only for a minute,” she said, laughing. “Surely when they see that gigantic cast. . . .”

  Dusty took her elbow and eased her to the door. “No point taking chances. While you’re moving your car, I’ll get him situated.”

  Ten minutes later, her elbow was still buzzing from the warmth of his gentle touch as she and Gavin sat side by side, watching Dusty slide the strap of an acoustical guitar over his shoulder. He tapped the microphone—thump-thump—then announced that the wives of the fallen men had requested two songs. He’d only sing one verse from each, he promised, to leave enough time for friends and family who wanted to say a few words. The strings went plink when he removed the pick from under the tuning keys. “If you know the words, I’m sure Tucker would want you to sing along.”

  And then he strummed, filling the church with mellow, melodious tones.

  Gavin leaned in to whisper, “Did I tell you that he inherited his parents’ musical abilities?”

  No, she started to say, but Dusty’s voice, soft and low, drifted all through the church, and made the words stick in her throat.

  “Let us look beyond the grave,” he sang, “for death is not the end. Death is but the door to God for our departed friends. Lord be with us who remain for our brief stay. Bless and comfort us who mourn, and wipe our tears away. . . .”

  If she’d ever heard a more beautiful sound, Grace didn’t know where. She rooted around in her purse in search of a tissue. By the time she found one, buried under her wallet and cell phone and a handful of ancient Hall’s lozenges, he’d finished that hymn and started the next one.

  It was a song she’d harmonized to, years ago, when she joined the youth choir at her grandmother’s church. Written by Ray Dahrouge and Mickey Holiday, it had always been one of her favorites. But just because she was descended from angels didn’t mean she could sing like one. The group leader said the right things: “I love your enthusiasm!” and “Your joy is contagious!” But he always made sure to put her as far from the microphone as possible.

  Despite the bittersweet memory, Grace closed her eyes and hummed, and soon the music moved her so much that she was swaying and singing—quietly—but singing! “One day I was wondering, what’s it all a
bout? Life is full of heartbreak, restlessness, and doubt. Then a gentle Stranger whispered words of love; pointed me to heaven, and wrote my name above. Now I know where I’m goin’, and who I’m gonna see; I have a friend named Jesus, waiting there for me.”

  When she opened her eyes, Dusty sent her such a sad smile that she could hardly keep from racing to the front of the church and wrap him in a comforting hug.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” Gavin said, breaking into her thoughts.

  “A deal? What kind of deal?”

  “I promise never to do another Bogart imitation if you promise never to sing that loudly again.”

  The comment struck her so funny that it was all she could do to prevent a giggle fit, just like the ones that attacked her and Leslie, right in the middle of Sunday services. It seemed the harder they tried to stifle their laughter, the longer it lasted. Oh, how she missed that sweet, big-hearted, crazy girl!

  One after the other, firefighters and cops, EMTs, and SAR members told Tucker stories. And most of them, Grace knew, would be right back here tomorrow, to do it all again for Keith’s funeral.

  Next, family and friends shared personal memories. “What about you?” Grace asked Gavin. “Are you going to say a few words?”

  He rapped quietly on his cast and shook his head. “Later,” he said, “at the grave.” A deep furrow formed between his eyebrows. “If I can hold it together long enough to choke out a couple of words. Maybe.”

  Nodding, she gave his hand an affectionate pat as Dusty returned to the pulpit, gave cursory directions to the memorial park, and turned off the mike.

  If the time between service and cemetery seemed like a blur to Grace, who’d never even met Keith or Tucker, how much more surreal did it feel to their wives and children?

  A gust of wind skittered across the green carpet and rippled the flag-draped coffin, blowing enough grit to ping the big brass bell that hung from an arched support near the pulpit. If not for the diligence of Dusty’s boys, Old Glory might have floated away. Standing every bit as tall as the color guard and looking older than their years, each tucked one hand behind his back, and rested the other protectively on the casket, determined to prevent a repeat of nature’s folly. They remained in place as pipers played “Amazing Grace” and fellow firefighters, most wearing dress uniforms, filed slowly, reverently by.

  “Any last words?” Dusty asked.

  Gavin held up one hand. His voice trembled as looked at those gathered and said, “Tuck and I go way back, and I love him like a brother. . . .”

  Head down, he paused. At a time like that, every second seems like a minute. Grace slid a half step closer, until shoulders touched, praying that the insignificant action would reassure him—he could lean on her if he wanted to.

  He must have read her loud and clear, because he gave her hand a squeeze. “Love you, too, kiddo,” he ground out. “Not like a brother, of course, ’cause, well look at you.”

  “Happy to!” said a deep voice from the back.

  A quiet ripple of laughter filled the green tent, and when it faded, Gavin said, “Being that I’m ten years older than Tuck, we didn’t have much in common—except for fishing. I guess we spent a couple hundred hours over the years, waiting for our rod tips to bend. And when we weren’t complaining about sunburn and mosquitoes and the Orioles’ lousy coaching staff, Tuck talked about becoming a firefighter. Never changed his mind, like some boys do. Not once. Even for a minute.”

  He used the tip of one crutch as a pointer, directing attention to the coffin, then cleared his throat. “This past Memorial Day, Tuck and I were out on the Chesapeake, and he caught the biggest, fattest rockfish either of us had ever seen. He threw it back. ‘Are you nuts?’ I asked. ‘It’s regulation . . . you can keep it!’ And Tuck told me I didn’t get it—that when a man already has the perfect life, he’d be a fool to rock the boat.”

  Gavin looked at Tate and the girls. “He was right. I didn’t get it. But I get it now, and I’m jealous. Because unlike most of us here, Tuck was content with his life, thanks to you and those kids . . .” Now his eyes met those of the men who’d worked with him, day and night, “and firefighting.” On the heels of a shaky sigh, he concluded with “I sure am gonna miss that guy.”

  Dusty broke the somber silence with, “Tuck once shared with me that when he couldn’t sleep after a hard day, reciting the Twenty-third Psalm never failed to relax him and help him fall asleep.” He opened his beat-up Bible and began reading the psalm. One by one, others joined in, until at the end, they all recited together, “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the LORD, forever. Amen.”

  The firefighters who’d served double duty as pallbearers and honor guard stood at attention and saluted. They removed the flag and carefully folded it, then presented it to Tate. Tuck’s daughters hugged their mom—and the red, white, and blue triangle now clutched to her chest.

  As the color guard snapped off a white-gloved salute, Charlie took a step forward, the crumpled sheet of paper he held fluttering in his trembling hands. “I’m not much of a talker, but—”

  “Says the man who never shuts up!” came a voice from somewhere behind him.

  Snickers, and a few whoops and whistles, made him smile. “Some of you would do well to remember that I don’t need near as much sleep as you do. . . .”

  An unidentified voice said, “Uh-oh, we’re in for it now” while the first man said, “You’re the stuff nightmares are made of, Murphy!”

  The wheeled bell platform was rolled into place, bringing the moment of much-needed merriment to a close.

  “I’m not much of a public speaker,” Charlie said again, “but I stayed up half the night, thinking about what I’d say to those of you who never attended a firefighter’s funeral before, so that when you go home today, you’ll go with a better understanding of why we do what we do.”

  With a wave of his hand, he brought attention to the men and women, standing at attention among the civilians in attendance. “They’re all decked out in their Class A dress uniforms,” he said, “as a show of respect for the brave man who gave his life so someone else could live. Most of you,” he added, “put on your Sunday best today for the same reason. The pipers, the flag, the clothing, the Maltese cross, the choice of red for fire engines . . . all symbols of honor.”

  Max had volunteered to ring the bell, and he grasped the mallet as the honor guard stood and prepared to engage the mechanism that would take Tucker’s casket on its slow descent into the grave. When all were ready, Charlie said, “But probably none is more moving than the tolling of the bell.

  “A bell rings at the start of every shift, and when a fire breaks out somewhere, another summons us to duty. When the fire is out, a bell signals ‘duty completed.’ So now . . . three bells, the first to symbolize our brother’s call to duty. . . .”

  Max lifted his arm and brought the hammer down, and the bell rang the first haunting note.

  Amid its echo, Charlie said, “. . . the second, to honor his sacrifice. . . .”

  Another clang rang out as Charlie’s voice dropped to a near whisper:

  “. . . and a third, to symbolize his final return to quarters.”

  The note hung in the air for a moment, then rolled across the manicured lawn, where, at the same moment as the coffin disappeared into the hole, it was silenced by the waiting treetops.

  Gavin said, “Gone, but not forgotten.”

  And Dusty nodded. “He’s gone home.”

  9

  For the first time that day, Tucker’s wife let go of her teary-eyed daughters’ hands. Together they stood, approached the grave, and plucked a rose from a vase beside it. “My coworkers and neighbors,” Tate said, clutching the flower to her chest, “are back at the house, cooking and baking like fiends.” She faltered, but only for a moment. “If you don’t join us, the girls and I will be eating casseroles and Swedish meatballs for months!”

  A ye
ar or so ago, a rosy-cheeked student named Tate sat front-row center in Grace’s English classroom. Curiosity inspired a bit of research, which taught her the meaning of the girl’s unusual name: Cheerful. A fitting name, as it turned out, and judging by the serene expression on her face, it fit Tucker’s wife even better.

  “I hate to impose after everything you’ve already done, but do you mind spending a few minutes over there?” Gavin asked. “We don’t have to stay long. . . .”

  “I don’t mind a bit.” And she didn’t. “We’ll stay as long as you like.”

  “Thanks, Grace. You’re a good friend.”

  During the silent drive from the cemetery to Tucker and Tate’s house, she wondered if Gavin was replaying the morning’s events in his mind, too. Of all the funerals she’d attended, three were memorable: Her parents’, her grandfather’s, then her grandmother’s. She’d never forget this one, either. And though it shamed her to admit it, Grace was thankful that she wouldn’t be required to attend Keith’s services tomorrow.

  All this reminiscing brought her back to September 2001, when—

  “What’s going through that mind of yours?” Gavin wanted to know.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Baloney. Which reminds me. I’m starving. What’s that goofy GPS of yours say about how long before we’re at Tucker’s house?”

  “Unless ‘Stephanie’ is mistaken, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good. Because I’m about to start gnawing on my crutches. Now spit it out, girl, before I poke you with one of them.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise,” she said, “considering you’re wholly dependent on me today. And then there’s the fact that I’m behind the wheel. On one of the most dangerous inter-states in the country.”

  “Good point. How about this for a threat, then: if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, I’ll tell Dusty that in a weak moment, you confessed to me that you’re head over heels in love with him.”