Free The Chocolate Bridal Bash by JoAnna Carl Page A

whose identities surprised me. Rollie Taylor and Jason Foster.
    Hmmm. Rollie, of course, would have worked with Bill’s mother. So maybe he was a fairly logical choice as a bearer, though he would have been older than Bill.
    But Jason Foster? How did he get in the lineup?
    Jason is a fairly close friend of mine, a fellow foodie and a great guy. He had worked for years as a waiter, bartender, and restaurant manager for Mike Herrera, Warner Pier’s mayor. He had recently severed ties with Mike and had submitted the winning bid to lease a restaurant on property owned by the Village of Warner Pier. This restaurant was located in the enormous house that Joe’s ex-wife had built, on the property Joe had given to the city to be developed as a conference center.
    The thing that made Jason a surprising choice as a bearer—thirty years ago—was that Jason is openly gay. Now, Warner Pier has a sizable gay community, but thirty years ago he might have been an outcast, unless he was keeping the closet door firmly shut.
    I’d known Jason several years, and he’d never mentioned that he’d known my mother’s fiancé. He was probably being tactful.
    But how had Jason wound up as a bearer at Bill Dykstra’s funeral? Were they family friends? Heck, they could be related. I didn’t know the family tree for everybody in Warner Pier. Even nearly three years in the town, I was continually being surprised to learn that people I knew were related—sometimes after I’d made a comment about one of them to the other. It’s never safe to talk about anybody in a small town.
    But I could sure ask Jason about Bill Dykstra.
    The librarian made her closing-time announcement, and I put the microfilm back in the cabinet and left. I put calling Jason at the top of my mental to do list for the next morning.
    Then I drove by Joe’s apartment to see if there was a light in the window. Nope. But on down the street I saw that there were cars at City Hall, so apparently the city council meeting hadn’t adjourned yet. On an impulse, I parked my van at the curb and went inside.
    Warner Pier’s City Hall is in yet another of the town’s classic Victorian structures, and the council chamber is up a steep flight of stairs. I tried to slip in quietly, but the swinging door to the chamber made a soft noise not unlike an elephant trumpeting in the distance, and every head in the room swung toward me. Joe grinned—he looked happy to see me, bless him—and our mayor, Mike Herrera, gave me a wave. I drew nods from Rollie, who was speaking, and most of the other seven council members as I sat down in a folding chair in the back row.
    I tried to look intelligent while Rollie described a grant that was being awarded to Warner Pier, a grant that would mean the summer recreation program could continue at the current level. It had faced cutbacks, Rollie said, but the grant from the McKay Foundation would allow the continuation of nature walks and beach activities.
    Mike Herrera heard Rollie’s announcement with a complacent smile. He’d obviously known about it and was allowing Rollie to claim the credit.
    “These grants from the McKay Foundation continue to amaze me,” Mike said.
    “Quinn McKay may not come to Warner Pier often anymore,” Rollie said, “but he spent all his childhood summers here.”
    Mike shook his head. “That time we went to Chicago to meet with him—when we asked for a million for the conference center—he said he was unlikely to ever be back. So, Rollie, I want to know—just what do you have on the McKay Foundation? You used to cite them as one of the worst polluters on the Great Lakes.”
    “That was in the old days, when Benson McKay the Third was in charge,” Rollie said. “Since Quinn took over, they’ve become good corporate citizens.”
    “Well, they never turn you down.”
    Rollie grinned. “I’m just lucky with money, you know, because of my initials.”
    “R.T.?”
    “My middle initial is A, Mike. You know that if