Page 60 of Point of Contention
The obituaries were on the third page from the back, and right at the top sat the one I was looking for.
Professor Leonard Millhouse Clements, 77
Beloved professor of classic literature and tenured faculty of Columbia University for over fifty years, Professor Clements passed away in his sleep. He was discovered in his favorite chair, a tattered copy of his favorite book open across his chest.
He is survived by his granddaughter, Greer Clements.
The article continued by listing the professor’s many accolades and accomplishments, but I hung my head without reading the rest, closing my eyes as I remembered the man who’d been such an integral presence in my formative years.
Stepping into the elevator, my heart ached for the friendship I’d once had with the professor. The knowledge I’d gained from knowing a man like that had been priceless. The gift of learning from him, incomparable.
When the doors opened on the ground floor, I strode into the lobby.
My car already awaited me at the curb, and as I reached the exterior doors, Cole stepped out and hurried to open the back door for me. Stepping outside, I glanced to either side of the sidewalk, pleased when I wasn’t accosted by camera flashes or shouted questions about my relationship with Rylan Blake.
Maybe they’d finally found a new scandal.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rylan
In all my twenty-four years, I’d never been to a funeral. As an only child of two only children, I’d grown up with no aunts, uncles, or cousins to speak of, and my mother’s parents had died long before I was born. My father’s parents, well… they might still be alive, but they wanted nothing to do with him. A theme, where he was concerned.
I’d known people who had died, though not many. My eighth-grade history teacher. A mailman.
But I’d never attended a funeral.
Even so, I expected funerals in Iowa were a bit different than whatever the hell this was.
As I stood at the entrance of the massive Catholic church, my mother and Greer by my side, I lost count of how many people shuffled past us. Lost track of the condolences. The handshakes.
People had been brought into the city on busses from God knows where. I couldn’t comprehend having even a small fraction of this many people in attendance at my own funeral.
I stood beside my best friend and smiled. Welcomed guests. Shook hands. Did what I believed was expected of me.
The whole thing was surreal and felt like someone else’s experience. Like I floated above, watching hundreds of people below, and three very uncomfortable, out of place people at the center of it.
Greer held my hand with an unrelenting grip as she welcomed each person into the church. She hadn’t cried again since she found her grandfather Sunday morning, but she hadn’t said much either. I didn’t push her to talk about it, didn’t try to convince her to cry it out. She would handle the loss of the most important person in her life however she needed to, and I’d be here by her side as she grieved.
Lacey stepped through the doors, stunning as always in a navy and black sheath dress with black patent kitten heels. As soon as Greer spotted her, her eyes held the first sign of life I’d seen all week. She didn’t smile, exactly, but the relief in her eyes was evident. As she released my hand to wrap her arms around Lacey, I watched the two of them and realized that my best friend had already fallen hard for this girl, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Lacey’s eyes were wet as she pulled back to search Greer’s gaze, and I wondered if she’d met the professor. Had she been to the house during the past month? Visited with the old man Greer adored? Gotten to know him and seen how much of him was in Greer? His sense of humor and dry wit, his deep belly laugh…
“We’re sitting in the front row,” Greer whispered.
Lacey kissed her cheek and released her, then smiled at my mom and me in turn, squeezing my hand as she passed us and made her way toward the front rows reserved for immediate family and close friends of the deceased.
There was a press circus outside the building, though this time, they weren’t here for me. Professor Clements was well-known, but it still surprised me how many different news outlets had shown up to report on his funeral.
Whether hired by the church or the university, I didn’t know, but two massive men in black suits stood on either side of the door, keeping the cameras and microphones at bay.
They were a godsend.
More people crowded the entrance, stepping past us slowly as they said their hellos and paid their condolences. As I shook what must have been the hundredth hand of the day, Cabot’s scent hit me before I’d even spotted him.
My lips parted on a gasp, then I tilted my head back and breathed deeply, closing my eyes briefly as I greedily pulled that seductive mix of musk and lust into my lungs.
Opening my eyes, I dropped the stranger’s hand and searched the incoming horde. He stood a few people back, dark gaze locked on me. When our eyes met, I could breathe again. Really breathe.
People continued shuffling by, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Cabot.
