Free The Grave Soul by Ellen Hart Page A

Cordelia, grumbling as she dug through a paper sack.
    â€œNo worries,” said Jane. She lifted out three flats of ornaments to reveal what was at the bottom.
    Cordelia peeked inside and turned up her nose. “I don’t like those larger bulbs. They’re old fashioned. I like the tiny new ones.”
    â€œNot me,” said Jane. “I’ve even got a string of bubblers that Christine bought for our first Christmas together.” She removed the lights and began to untangle them.
    â€œCan I assume,” said Bolger, climbing down the ladder, “that you’re preparing some spectacular edibles for the party?”
    â€œI’m still working on the menu,” said Jane, though in truth, she hadn’t had time to give it much thought.
    â€œWho all’s coming?” asked Bolger, lifting the ladder away from the tree.
    â€œCordelia, Hattie, and me,” said Jane. “And then my father. I doubt he’ll bring a date.”
    â€œAnd me and my boyfriend,” said Bolger. “That’s six.”
    â€œAnd Daddy Radley,” said Hattie with a delighted cry.
    Radley Cunningham had been number seven in Octavia Thorn-Lester’s extensive husband collection. Octavia was Cordelia’s sister—Hattie’s bio mom—though Cordelia had been the constant in Hattie’s life. Radley was an Englishman, a movie producer who had formed a strong bond with the little girl during the time he and Octavia had been together. He liked to take Hattie on location shoots when it didn’t interfere with her schooling. A charming, decent, gentle man, Radley was the closest thing to a real father in the little girl’s life.
    â€œI think Radley’s bringing his sister this trip,” said Jane.
    â€œWhat about Octavia?” asked Bolger, retrieving the bottle of pinot from the mantel and pouring everyone more wine.
    â€œShe’s making the rounds of casting couches in Hollywood at the moment,” said Cordelia. “And I mean that in the literal sense.”
    â€œWhat’s a casting couch?” asked Hattie.
    â€œOh, sweet pea,” said Bolger, scooping her into his arms. He straightened her black satin cat outfit, which she insisted on trying out before her auntie’s New Year’s Eve bash. “Auntie Cordelia was just being silly.”
    â€œCouches aren’t silly,” said Hattie, poking the cleft in his chin.
    The doorbell rang, causing the dogs to bolt into the foyer.
    â€œYou expecting someone?” asked Cordelia, sitting down on the edge of the couch to unwrap the ornaments.
    â€œNot that I know of,” said Jane. When she drew back the door, she found Guthrie outside.
    â€œUh, hi,” he said tentatively, removing his watch cap. “I’m sorry to bother you like this, out of the blue. Do you have a second? I really need to talk to you.”
    â€œSure,” said Jane. He was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, and he looked so frazzled, so wired, that she couldn’t turn him away. “Come in. Can I get you something? Water? A glass of wine?”
    â€œI’m fine,” he said, though he clearly wasn’t.
    Jane was glad now that she’d filled Cordelia in on Guthrie’s situation over lunch. Cordelia had known Guthrie almost better than Jane had because she’d employed him so often to staff her legendary theatrical soirees back in the late nineties. Cordelia might see herself mainly as a theatrical diva, and yet another persona she claimed was Earth Mother. In that capacity, she felt it was her duty to listen to anyone with a problem, especially romantic problems, which Guthrie seemed to have in abundance as a younger man. Cordelia freely dispensed what she considered to be golden advice.
    â€œGuthrie,” cried Cordelia, sweeping out of the living room and nearly lifting him off his feet with in a hug. “Oh, my poor boy, how are you? Jane has told me all.”
    â€œShe