Free In Winter's Grip by Brenda Chapman

his will that he wanted a service when he died. He’d set aside some money.”
    I turned and stared at her. Her eyes were too bright, and it looked like she’d been crying. She hadn’t taken the usual time to fix her hair, and it was uncharacteristically messy. I’d heard Claire and Jonas fighting upstairs after I’d gone to bed and knew she was mulling over whatever had gone on between them. “How do you know...?”
    â€œAbout the will? Your father made me executor a few years ago. Jonas wasn’t in any shape to think about something so complicated, and there was no one else to take it on.”
    â€œIs Jonas aware of this? He didn’t want a service either when we talked it over yesterday.”
    â€œHe may have forgotten that I was named executor. It’s not something we talked about after your father asked me.”
    My god. My father was manipulating us from beyond the grave. For the first time, I wondered what else was in his will. “Are there any more surprises I should know about?”
    Claire avoided looking at me as she spoke. “He pre-ordered a large headstone and has paid for a plot. He doesn’t want to be cremated.”
    â€œShit.” I stood and looked down at Claire. “I think I have to go for a walk. Why don’t you finish up the details? It’s probably better that you do.”
    I grabbed my coat from behind me on the chair and strode to the door. We’d come in separate vehicles, since Claire had to go to work afterwards. Now I understood why she’d insisted on coming with me, even though it meant she had to call in a supply teacher for a few hours. She’d known all along how this was going to play out.
    I drove through town, past the street of little shops with their washed-out clapboard siding and faded signs hanging over the sidewalk—Gerta’s Novelties and Flowers, The Early Bird Restaurant, Meghan’s Foodmart and the Minnesota State Liquor Store. This last building was the best maintained, a red brick exterior with a freshly painted sign. The town had spent money some years back beautifying the downtown to attract the Vermont-type tourist crowd. It looked like that era had ended with a whimper. A decline in fishing and lumber had all but killed the welcoming spirit in Duved Cove.
    I pulled into the parking lot, feeling like a little alcohol might help to fuel me through the next few days. The store was empty except for the man who greeted me from behind the cash register. It took me a few minutes to make my purchases: a French merlot and two bottles of sauvignon blanc for Jonas and Claire and a twenty-sixer of Chivas Regal for myself.
    I got back into the car after depositing my package on the floor behind the driver’s seat, then continued through town to the beach road. Houses clustered along both sides of the road at the turnoff from the highway, but they dwindled to one or two where the road curved to the left and began its descent to the waterfront. Luckily, this road was maintained throughout the winter because of a few homes strung along the point that stretched into Duved Bay. I drove past the last house as far as the road was plowed then parked. The wind was bracing nearer to the lake, but I welcomed it after the stifling air in the funeral parlour. I pulled the parka’s hood up over my head and set out on foot down the skidoo trail to the beach.
    The world was a white wonderland, and the sun glancing off the snow would have been blinding if I hadn’t been wearing my sunglasses. I walked in the ruts of the path through a copse of trees. Exiting the stand of pine was like walking through a gateway to another world. I stepped onto a flat stretch of shoreline at least a mile in length and half a football field wide. The snow-covered beach extended as far as I could see in either direction, reaching around points of land where huge rocks had been tossed carelessly into glacial heaps. Gigantic