Take Me Home for Christmas

“You always say that.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Why not now?” Alexa asked.

“I don’t feel well.”

“You’ve been sick for two weeks.”

“I’ll be okay soon. Have some more soup.”

Her daughter let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m tired of bean with bacon.”

“It’s better than going hungry, isn’t it?”

Alexa didn’t answer. She’d obviously heard the irritation in Sophia’s voice. “Will you let me go?”

“By yourself? It’s too far to walk.”

“Nature’s Way might be too far, but Mel’s Quickie Grocery isn’t.”

Sophia didn’t have the energy for this conversation. “They don’t have much.”

“They have more than we do! I could get bread, milk, cereal, cheese...”

She was so adamant. Why not let her go? Whiskey Creek was as safe a place as any. And Sophia wanted to be left alone. “Fine. But hurry back.”

“What money should I use?”

Money. God, just that word made Sophia freeze in terror. Soon they wouldn’t have a dime....

Alexa clasped her by the shoulder. “Mom? Did you hear me? Should I get your purse?”

Dragging her brain back to the problem at hand, Sophia thought of what she had in her wallet. Since she couldn’t use her bank accounts, she’d cashed the check Gail had given her. But the gardener, the young man who washed Skip’s cars and Marta, the once-a-month housecleaner—they’d all needed to be paid. Once Sophia had seen to that, there hadn’t been much left—maybe fifteen hundred dollars.

Knowing it wouldn’t last forever made the anvil of worry sitting on her chest feel even heavier, as if it would crush her.

“Take a hundred from my purse.” She rolled over because she couldn’t bear to face what her daughter had to be thinking.

Once Alexa was gone, silence fell, allowing Sophia to drift in and out of sleep. Then the phone rang, but instead of leaving a message, whoever it was hung up and called back, over and over again.

“Alexa?” Sophia wanted her daughter to put a stop to the noise. But then she remembered that Alexa wasn’t home.

Rousing herself enough to move, she crawled across the bed to Skip’s side and grabbed the handset from its base. She intended to set it down and ignore it, but the thought that her daughter might need help made her bring it to her ear.

“Hello?” God, she sounded drunk even though she hadn’t had so much as a drop.

“Mrs. DeBussi?”

“Yes?” It was the piercing voice of Clarence Halloway, the undertaker who’d handled Skip’s funeral.

“I haven’t received a check from you for your husband’s service,” he said. “Can you tell me when I might expect to be paid? Or do you plan on ripping me off like you did everyone else in town?”

She managed to shove herself into a sitting position. “Ripping you off! It’s Dale and Sharon who owe you. They made the arrangements.” She hadn’t wanted that expensive casket and headstone, or all those flowers. She’d wanted to have Skip cremated and be done with it, but her in-laws had taken over, and she’d let them because she didn’t have any money to insist one way or the other.

“I called them. They told me it’s your responsibility. I guess Gail DeMarco-O’Neal gave you some money while she was here? Sharon said that was supposed to cover Mr. DeBussi’s burial costs.”

What? Anger flooded Sophia’s system. She should never have told her in-laws about that kind gesture. Gail hadn’t given her that money for any such purpose. It wasn’t enough, anyway. Skip’s parents were the ones who’d ordered everything. Sophia had been shocked by how much they were willing to spend, considering he’d cost them their life’s savings, but she’d chalked it up to habit and that fierce DeBussi pride. They could never be honest about anything. Appearances were all that mattered. Perhaps she’d been guilty of the same thing earlier in her life. But she hadn’t been guilty of racking up nearly $15,000 in funeral expenses!

“I’m afraid most of Gail’s money is gone, Mr. Halloway,” she said. “I—I had to pay the people who were working for me. And what’s left is all I’ve got to take care of Alexa until...until I find a job.”

“I have a family to support, too,” he pressed. “I told you in the beginning I wouldn’t perform the service unless you paid me in advance.”

“Exactly. And you didn’t change your mind until Skip’s parents got involved. You were dealing with them.”

“They’ve been part of the community for so long I never dreamed they’d do this to me, but it seems Skip inherited his dishonesty from them.”

Sophia didn’t want to be seen as a crook. She supposed it was a good sign that she still cared enough for that to bother her. But he was just one of many who were clamoring for money. She couldn’t possibly satisfy them all. “I’m sorry, I really am, but...I can’t help you.”

“I don’t feel it’s fair for me to take the loss,” he said. “I buried your husband, didn’t I? Now I’d like to stop by and pick up at least a partial payment.”

She had so little left. But how could she say no? It wasn’t fair that he shouldn’t get paid for the funeral. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else getting hurt.

“I can give you a hundred bucks,” she told him.

“That’s better than nothing. I’ll be right over,” he said and hung up.

With a sigh, she slumped onto the pillows. She had such a blinding headache, couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten and was beginning to feel dehydrated.

She hoped Alexa would get home in time to handle Clarence, but the doorbell rang while her daughter was still gone. Summoning what remained of her strength, Sophia managed to get up and force her leaden feet to move. She pulled on a robe, collected the money from her purse on the kitchen counter where Alexa had put it, and went to the door.

The undertaker raised his eyebrows when he saw her, but he glanced away and took the money. “I’ll come by next month,” he said tersely and turned to leave without another word.

Sophia stood in the doorway, watching until she couldn’t see his black Cadillac anymore. Next month? Fine. That sounded like an eternity from now. She had no idea how she’d survive until then—and part of her hoped she wouldn’t.

8

“What are you looking at?”

Eve Harmon glanced over as Cheyenne Amos came to stand next to her at the window. Since Chey had married Dylan, she didn’t usually work late at the B and B, not like she used to. When she’d been living with her sick mother and troubled sister, she’d taken advantage of any reason to stay out of the house.

“I thought you’d gone home,” Eve told her.

“I wanted to finish the new brunch menus.”

“Dylan must be working overtime at the body shop.”

“Aaron’s closing tonight. Dylan’s at the house, making dinner.”