Free Dearly Depotted by Kate Collins Page B

opened my eyes just a little and saw Claymore. He hadn’t fainted—that was a good sign—so I shifted to Jillian, whose mouth was open, but not in horror. More like Wow!
    Holding my breath, I took the plunge and looked straight at it. What I saw was—a vase. Not an ordinary vase, naturally—this was my mother’s creation, after all—but a two-foot-tall vase that curved and swayed in graceful motion like a wet manicotti noodle. My mother had painted the clay in soft pastel colors, then heated it somehow so that the colors ran and bled into each other, forming a hazy aura that was actually rather attractive—in an offbeat kind of way. Just the thing Jillian would go for. I let out my breath in a whoosh. I’d been holding it so long I might have blacked out for a second.
    “Let me through,” Grandma Osborne called, jabbing people with her bony elbows. She pushed her little gray head between two people, fixed her gaze on the gift, and said, “What the hell is that?”
    “Aunt Maureen, it’s beautiful,” Jillian exclaimed, ignoring the outburst. She knelt beside the vase and stroked a hand lovingly down its curves. “Isn’t it beautiful, Claymore?”
    “Yes. Lovely,” he said, rather stiffly. But at least he was being a sport about it, which is more than Pryce would have been.
    I glanced in Pryce’s direction and could see the snicker building behind those taut lips, so I flashed him a look that said, Don’t you dare make fun of my mother. I’m the only one allowed to do that.
    “Dearest,” Claymore said quietly, “we really must be going.”
    Jillian jumped up, threw her arms around my mother, then bent to hug my dad. She turned, saw me, and rushed over to crush my head against her pearl-studded bodice. “Little Abs.”
    “I know,” I said, trying to untangle my hair pins from her dress, “you wub me.”
    “Actually, I’m so beyond the wub thing now.” She squeezed my head between her hands, pressed a kiss on my forehead, and dashed off, pulling Claymore by his sleeve.
    “Well, Abigail?” my mother said as I scrubbed lipstick off my forehead. “What do you think of my sculpture?”
    “Mom, you couldn’t have made anything more perfect or beautiful.” And I meant every word.
    She sighed, very pleased with herself. “My work here is done. Jeff, let’s go home.”
    “When can we leave?” my brother Jonathan asked, indicating the other family members, who were standing around forlornly, looking like cast members from some long-forgotten Survivor episode.
    “Have you all been fingerprinted?” my father asked.
    “An hour ago.”
    “Come with us,” my mother said. “Your father will spring you.”
    At a tap on my shoulder I turned, and there was Grace. “May I have a moment, dear?”
    We moved to a quiet spot where Grace said softly, “I’m worried about Richard.”
    I glanced beyond her and saw Richard chatting amicably with some of the other guests. He certainly didn’t seem worried, but that was in keeping with his character. Richard Davis was a throwback to the rootin’-tootin’ cowboy of old—a shade on the aggressive side and always in charge, which seemed at odds with Grace’s quiet, refined ways. I was surprised when they started seeing each other. Until two months ago, Grace had maintained that she was beyond needing a man’s companionship. Yet they seemed to adore each other, so who was I to say they weren’t a good match?
    Richard had moved to town from Austin, Texas, shortly after his wife had died three years ago. His only son had attended the university here, then married a local girl and settled down to raise a family. Deciding he was ready to retire and be a grandpa, Richard had sold his hugely popular roadhouse and landholdings in Texas, packed up his belongings, and headed to Indiana. Within a year he’d purchased a bowling alley and miniature golf course and had built a recreation center. Now he had a sporting empire that employed more than one hundred