Page 29 of Clashing Moon

“Nonsense. We’re glad you’re here. I’ve already talked to the funeral director.” Stella remained on the other side of the island. “I told him you weren’t sure what you wanted yet but that we’d get back to him. He said to take your time.”

“This is going to be expensive, isn’t it?” I asked.

“More than it should be,” Rafferty said. “Such a racket.”

Stella shot him an annoyed look. “That’s neither here nor there at this point. It is what it is, and we need to help Arabella figure out what she wants to do, not go into a rant about the funeral business.” She spoke with a humorous lilt in her voice, but Rafferty clearly got her point as he humbly nodded and returned to his sandwich.

I’d been thinking about the funeral on my way over to Stella’s and had decided to do only a graveside service. I said as much to Stella and Rafferty now before taking a bite of the sandwich. Although it tasted like sawdust in my mouth, I knew it was best to eat something. After the harrowing twenty-four hours I’d just experienced, I needed to keep my energy and strength up.

“I’ll call him again after you eat,” Stella said. “But he mentioned the coffin. You’ll have to decide which one you want. Which means we’ll have to go into the funeral home.”

I sighed, feeling tears prickle the backs of my eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll take you,” Rafferty said. “If you want.”

I glanced sideways at him. His expression was so earnest and sweet it almost set me off crying again, but I held it together. “I’d like that, thanks.”

We finished up our sandwiches, and then Stella sent me upstairs to take a shower and change clothes. Rafferty said he’d go home to do the same and come back to get me in an hour. Stella promised to call the funeral home director to let him know we’d be in to choose a casket and make the rest of the arrangements sometime that afternoon.

Fifteen minutes later, I got into the hot shower and scrubbed and washed my hair with more vigor than necessary, as if I wanted to wash death away. When I finished, I turned off the water and donned the fluffy robe Stella had hung in the bathroom. A wave of grief hit me, and I collapsed onto the floor. I wrapped my arms around my knees and wept.

My father was gone. I’d never hear his harsh criticism again. He’d never again call me the nickname I hated. I tried to think of a fond memory of him that didn’t include a stinging remark or violent outburst but couldn’t muster a single one. How sad was that? A man whom no one would miss, not even his daughter? It was not a legacy anyone would want. Yet it was the truth.

We buriedmy father on an afternoon so bright and cold I had to wear sunglasses. The irony of such beautiful weather was not lost on me. Not only had he perished in a snowstorm, but he’d been the opposite of light.

As I’d requested, the service was held graveside, with only the Moon family and a few men of my father’s generation. The old men stood at the back of the gathering, heads bowed respectfully. I knew at least one of them had had severalaltercations with my father over the years. Yet he’d come out to pay his respects, which touched me.

Our pastor had asked me if there was anything specific I wanted him to say about the dearly departed. After some soul-searching, I’d asked him to speak about my father’s love of his land that had been in our family for generations.

The cemetery was quiet, save for the faint whistle in the pines and the occasional chirp of a bird braving the cold. Our family plot was set on a small rise overlooking the foothills. Buried here were my grandparents and great-grandparents. A small tombstone marked the burial place of my father’s only sibling, who had died during infancy.

A forgotten memory rose to mind as I stood there, looking at the gleaming coffin. He’d brought me out here one Sunday afternoon when I was about thirteen or so. Although he hadn’t often attended church, he had that day. After the service, he’d dragged me out to the cemetery to pay his respects to his mother and father.

“This is where you’ll lay me to rest someday.” He’d knelt to wipe a few leaves and debris from the top of the tombstones of each of his parents. He’d paused at the grave of his little brother. “Samuel was only six months old when he died. My mother went to get him from his cradle, and he wasn’t breathing.”

I’d cried at the thought of the tiny baby and his mother. My father had seen my tears and straightened, a harsh shimmer in his eyes. “My mother never got over it. Stopped living the moment she found out he was dead. She was like a ghost after that, was until the day she died. The old man, well, he just wandered out to the barn and never came back.”

“He left?” I asked, thinking of my mother.

“Not physically, but he may as well have—nasty man. Never had much to do with me. Once, he told me I was an albatross around his neck. I was so ignorant I didn’t even know what thatwas. Had to ask my teacher at school what he meant. Once she told me, I knew where I stood.”

I thought of that now as the pastor opened his Bible to begin. Dad had grown up without love or affection. He’d passed that legacy right along to me. How could I possibly have a husband and children and not do the same? Was it in my blood? Cruel men who stayed. Weak women who left, one way or the other.

The pastor—a stooped, gray-haired man who’d known my father since they were kids—cleared his throat and looked out at us, his face a blend of compassion and stoicism.

"Harold Collins was a man who loved his land. Land that had been passed down from multiple generations. He was of this place, rugged and rough, strong and resilient. Despite the hard times that came his way, he kept on. He was not a man of many words, but his actions spoke volumes.”

Yes, they did, I thought, touching my gloved fingers to my cheek that no longer bore the bruise of his last gift.

A breeze picked up, tossing a lock of my hair across my face and sticking to my lip gloss. I tucked it back behind my ear and kept my gaze on the casket.

The pastor went on, “He understood the beauty and the harshness of this place, and he lived his life with a fierce loyalty to it. In this modern world, where young people change jobs and locations as easily as the wind changes directions, Harold Collins stayed where he’d walked his first steps, devoted to the stewardship of place. Surely, there is beauty and grace in such a thing. I hope it will give his daughter peace in the days to come.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. My father may not have loved me, but he did love the land beneath his feet, with its untamed beauty and brutal winters. Was there peace to be found? I wasn’t certain. All I knew was that he was now free of the burdens this life had brought him. And I was free of him.

The pastor paused, drawing in a breath before he quoted from the book of Psalms: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."

A weight pressed down on my chest, heavy and bittersweet.

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