Free Gypsy Sins by John Lawrence Reynolds Page B

entire acre of that godforsaken country so we can bury him here.” And she had laughed, not the soft laughter of amusement but a dry, bitter laugh of anger. “He’s already buried, isn’t he?” Cora said, framing her own answer. “That’s the beauty of how Terry died, you know. That’s the wonder of modern warfare. One moment you’re alive and, a heartbeat later, you’re not only dead but you’re buried right there. And here. And there. And over there,” and she swept her arm in a circle as though she were sitting in the killing ground of a Vietnam rice field instead of her Cape Cod house with its floral-upholstered sofas and pine furniture and her brokenhearted husband upstairs, drinking bourbon alone in his dead son’s bedroom.
    And so, in many ways, McGuire became Cora’s child.
    â€œHow long will you be staying here?” June Leedale asked, and McGuire realized she had been watching him.
    â€œNot long.” When he looked back at her she turned quickly away to stare through the window at Cora’s house again. “Your husband wants me there for the reading of the will tomorrow. Then I’ll decide what to do.”
    â€œShe left everything to you. All her property, all the contents.”
    McGuire pursed his lips and shrugged.
    â€œI know I’m not supposed to say that but Parker drafted her will and I typed it up. It’s all yours and the ACLU’s. You get the house, the contents and her car. The ACLU gets her cash.” She turned away. “Please don’t tell Parker I said anything. About the will, I mean.”
    â€œWhy did you tell me?”
    It was her turn to shrug. “I’m not very good at making conversation. And this is my . . . our house and you’re a guest. I felt I should talk to you. That’s the extent of my conversational abilities, I guess. Proves what I am. A lawyer’s wife who acts as his part-time secretary.”
    â€œHow long have you been doing that?” McGuire asked. “Working as your husband’s secretary?” What’s wrong with this woman? he wondered.
    â€œSince we’ve been married. Twenty-six years. Last year we had our silver wedding anniversary.” She looked down and smoothed the front of her dress. “When I hear myself say that, I can’t believe it. When I hear my own age I can’t believe it. Would you like another drink?”
    â€œYes,” McGuire said, lifting the tray of deviled eggs from the cherrywood desk. “I think that would be a very good idea.”
    He followed her across the room to where the others were sampling the food, sipping their drinks, talking with the easy familiarity of old friends.
    â€œYou two looked like you were into something serious over there,” Parker Leedale said as McGuire set the tray on the table.
    â€œWe were talking about Cora,” June Leedale replied. “And how much we’ll miss her.”
    â€œMiss her?” Ellie’s sharp voice from the other side of the table was like a cracking whip followed by a hollow laugh. “Who? Him?” She pointed a celery stick in McGuire’s direction. “He hasn’t seen her in years. How the hell’s he going to miss her?” She was standing between Mike Gilroy and her husband, Blake.
    McGuire smiled indulgently at Ellie Stevenson who rested a hand lightly on Mike Gilroy’s arm.
    â€œI’m just kidding,” Ellie said before others could respond.
    No, you’re not, McGuire replied in silence.
    At the far end of the table, Bunny Gilroy was ladling punch into small cups held by Reverend Willoughby and Jerome Harper, the organist. “Mike saves everything,” Bunny was saying to them.
    â€œWell, that’s not such a bad idea, holding on to remnants of our past,” Willoughby answered. “Personally, I have copies of every sermon I’ve delivered for the past thirty years.”
    â€œIs that a