A Moment in Time (56 page)

Reedville, Tennessee.

Thunder boomed in the distance—undoubtedly Granny Frye kicking open the Pearly Gates. If Saint Peter knew what was good for him, he'd take his coffee break about now.

Standing beside the open grave at the Eternal Peace Cemetery, Bridget Colleen Mulligan glanced down at her dark-haired, six-year-old son and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Even with Granny gone, she wasn't completely alone. She had Jacob.

But poor Granny was definitely dead. The old woman had never even seen the truck that hit her as she'd chased General Lee—dear departed Grandpa's deaf and senile coon hound—across the highway.

Unfortunately, General Lee didn't possess enough integrity to have thrown himself beneath the screaming tires along with his benefactress. Now that stupid old dog was sprawled out on Granny's bed, waiting for someone—namely, Bridget—to come home and feed him. Didn't seem right for that dog to outlive both Granny and Grandpa.

Danged unfair to Bridget, too.

She turned her attention back to the funeral service, trying not to grieve over Granny's death or the dog's insatiable appetite. Granny had been saying for years that she was ready to go on to her reward.

Lord, y'all best play Bingo every Friday night in heaven or there will be hell to pay.

Grateful no one could read her mind, Bridget glanced around the sparse gathering and adjusted the umbrella over her son's head. She suppressed a shiver as the damp March wind whipped through the threadbare fabric of her old coat and the black dress she'd bought at the church rummage sale.

Brother Marvin's nasal voice droned on and the biting wind blew even harder. Though she knew it was irreverent, Bridget wished the service would end so they could all go home.

Granny would've cursed the sun for not shining on her funeral, and she wouldn't have been very happy about the low- budget coffin and lack of flowers either. Of course, the old woman hadn't exactly been a realist. Her life insurance policy had devalued to the point where it didn't even cover the cost of this service, let alone anything more extravagant. Bridget had been forced to ask for an advance on her wages to make up the difference.

Money—there was never enough. She had a child to feed and bills to pay, but at least Granny's rundown old trailer was paid for. It was the only home Jacob had ever known, and the only one Bridget could remember.

Now all she had to pay to keep a roof—such as it was—over their heads were the taxes and lot rent. She could handle that. Since Granny had spent every Social Security check the minute she received it, Bridget had been paying the bills anyway. Barely. She hadn't been forced to accept Food Stamps in order to feed her son yet. However, if it came to that, she would swallow her pride and do what needed doing. Jacob came first—even before her pride and dignity.

Pity General Lee wasn't a hog or a cow.... She bit the inside of her cheek in self-chastisement.

Fortunately, Bridget's employers were generous. Cleaning house for the only lawyer in town and his wife had its advantages. They didn't mind her bringing Jacob along, and meals were included in her salary. Hers and Jacob's. Plus, Mr. Larabee had agreed to go over Granny's will and transfer the deed on the trailer without charging Bridget for his services.

The service ended, and Bridget forced her attention back to the present. Mourners filed past to pay their respects, such as they were. The Widow Harbaugh reminded Bridget that Granny had borrowed her red patent leather handbag in 1967 and never returned it. Bridget promised to look for it right away. Mrs. Poole asked for Granny's raw apple cake recipe, and Bridget made yet another promise.

Of course, most of the good women from First Southern Baptist Church had brought casseroles, pies, and cakes by the trailer. Bridget had frozen as much as possible to make the sudden windfall last, and thanked them all profusely, grateful the mourners would not gather at the home of the deceased as custom dictated. Their trailer couldn't hold more than six adults, plus Jacob and General Lee. For once, she was grateful for the minuscule size of her home, because entertaining folks this afternoon would've exhausted the very last of her tact.

The truth was, these people had scorned and belittled Bridget all her life—a legacy handed down from her parents, who'd married during high school after Bridget was conceived in the back seat of Daddy's old Chevy. When Bridget herself had eloped with a handsome stranger with a beguiling accent and more charm than the law should allow, that had clinched her reputation.

Momma and Daddy were both dead and gone now, but these people still looked down their high and mighty noses at their love child twenty-eight years later. Well, Bridget had done all right without Reedville folks, and she only tolerated them now out of respect for Granny. Once the thank-you notes were sent and the Tupperware returned, they need never darken her door again. And vice-versa.

Soon, the only people left in the cemetery were Bridget, Jacob, and the men from the funeral home. Even Brother Marvin beat a hasty retreat the moment he could. Who could blame him? March in Tennessee could be as fickle as a forty-year-old spinster.

Right now, Bridget wondered if they'd ever feel warm again. With a sigh, she gazed down at Granny's coffin. "Well," she said, clutching her son's hand and swallowing the lump in her throat. "I'm not going to say good-bye, because you'll always be in my heart."

She'd always loved that wise old woman, even though Granny had dipped snuff and cursed like a Marine. If not for her grandparents, Bridget would've been lost and alone after her parents' deaths. Granny and Grandpa hadn't thought twice about bringing their only grandchild into their home.

And now Bridget and Jacob were the end of the line. Except for General Lee, of course.

Bridget's eyes stung and she sniffled, willing herself not to cry. Jacob squeezed her hand and she glanced down at his large green eyes. Granny's eyes. Yes, the old woman would live on through both of them. Bridget would see to it.

"Let's go, Jacob," she whispered.

"All right."

She walked down the tree-lined street to the edge of town, where her employers' grand home stood. The brick house was three stories high with white shutters and a broad expanse of porch that would've made Scarlett O'Hara proud.

Bridget had promised Mrs. Larabee she'd stop by on her way home and she always made every effort to keep her word, no matter what. Of course, she suspected the real reason her employer had asked her to stop by was to make sure Jacob had a decent meal. The Larabees were good folks and she never let a day go by when she didn't thank God for her job and being able to keep a roof over her son's head and food in his belly.

Once upon a time she'd nurtured dreams of going to cooking school to become a famous chef, and maybe even teaching folks the forgotten art of down-home cooking. She'd never be a Martha Stewart—not that she couldn't carve butter into flowers if she wanted—but maybe folks would like learning about good old-fashioned home cooking. Comfort food. If there was one thing Granny had taught Bridget, it was how to fix the world's finest comfort food.

Instead of fame and fortune, fate had given Bridget a beautiful little boy. Her eyes blurred with tears of pride as she glanced down at him, walking quietly at her side. Her breath hitched and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from blubbering right there in public. Then what would Jacob think of his momma?

She always wanted him to think well of her. The worst thing in the world would be to have her own flesh and blood ashamed of her. Bridget couldn't bear the thought, let alone the reality. It would destroy her.

So, by God, she wouldn't allow it.

Regaining her composure, she led Jacob through the garden gate and along the cobblestone path through Mrs. Larabee's prized rosebushes. There would soon be a profusion of fragrant blossoms, but now only twisted, thorny vines lined the path.

Bridget and Jacob were tired and cold and hungry by the time they slipped through the back door into the warm, spacious kitchen. She immediately removed her son's damp coat and hung it from a hook on the back porch, and hers joined his.

"I'm going to put some soup on to heat while I see what Mrs. Larabee needs me to do today."

"Mmm, chicken noodle?" Jacob asked, and she ruffled his almost black curls.

Bridget opened the cabinet door and removed the familiar red-and-white can. "Chicken noodle it is." She opened the can, mixed in the required amount of water, placed the dish in the microwave, and punched a few buttons. "Granny would've loved having one of these for her instant cocoa."

"Yep. The kind with them little marshmallows." Jacob opened a drawer near the pantry door and removed the coloring books and crayons Mrs. Larabee had bought for him, then sat at the table.

"You're a good boy, Jacob Samuel Mulligan." Bridget's heart swelled with love for her son. She had no regrets for those few nights in her husband's arms. None at all. "Sometimes you look just like your father."

She never referred to the man who'd married her then left her alone and pregnant as Jacob's
daddy
, because he never had been. Sowing his seed didn't make a man a daddy.

But it sure as heck made a woman look the fool.

No, she didn't mean that. She had loved him in her own way. If not for that hurried trip to the Justice of the Peace and a honeymoon at the Super 8 out on the highway, Bridget wouldn't have Jacob. Besides, someday her son would want to know about his father, then she'd have to find the man.

She sure hoped someday didn't come too soon.

She'd chosen to keep her married name after the divorce, especially once she learned she was expecting. Culley Mulligan hadn't seen fit to respond to Mr. Larabee's letters or even acknowledge the divorce papers. Eventually, the law allowed the divorce decree to be finalized without his cooperation. Or child support...

Jacob flashed her one of his best smiles and she melted inside. She'd do anything for her son. Anything at all. Even look up that no-account father of his when the time came, and she reckoned it would. Kids were naturally curious about things. She just hoped Jacob took his sweet time about getting around to curious.

She blew her son a kiss and said, "I'll be right back, darlin'. Stay put."

"I will, Momma."

And she knew he would. She slipped through the swinging doors and passed through the dining room before she heard voices coming from the study. Mr. Larabee was home, too. They'd offered to attend Granny's funeral, but Bridget had asked them not to. She couldn't bear for them to see how skimpy the funeral had been, despite their generosity. With a sigh, she lifted her hand and knocked on the heavy paneled door.

"Come in, Bridget," Mrs. Larabee said, swinging open the door. "It's a dreadful day, but I suppose that's only appropriate. Considering."

"Yes'm." Bridget didn't bother to explain that Granny would've preferred a sunny day for her laying to rest, because her wishing it wouldn't change the weather. Besides, it was too late.

"Have a seat, Bridget," Mr. Larabee said, rising from his massive leather chair behind his equally daunting oak desk.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and willed her hands to cease their infernal trembling. Was she in trouble? Had she forgotten to do a chore she'd been asked to perform? No, never. If anything could be said of Bridget Mulligan, it was that she excelled at being conscientious.

Her knees turned to the consistency of that wretched green gelatin Granny'd loved as Bridget sat gingerly on a dark burgundy wingback chair across from Mr. Larabee. Mrs. Larabee stood beside her husband, and when he returned to his seat, she perched on the arm of his chair, her hand resting on his shoulder. They both looked solemn and Bridget gulped.

"I've been going over your grandmother's estate," Mr. Larabee said.

"Estate?" Bridget coughed and shook her head. "I don't hardly think we can call a trailer house older than me an estate."

"No, but with her insurance and such, everything together is her estate... for legal purposes." Mr. Larabee drew a deep breath and folded his hands on his desk in front of him, his eyes gentle as he stared straight at her. "Did you have any idea about your grandmother's gambling problem?"

"Gambling?" She shook her head, searching Mrs. Larabee's sympathetic expression. "Granny liked her Friday Night Bingo. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, and I'm afraid she was betting on the ponies at the fairgrounds, too." Mr. Larabee bit his lower lip, then reached up to pat his wife's hand where it still rested on his shoulder. "However, the situation isn't all bad."

The flesh around Bridget's mouth went numb and her blood turned colder than the rain that had pervaded Granny's funeral. "Exactly what do you mean, Mr. Larabee? I have a right to know."

"Yes. Yes, you do," Mrs. Larabee said in her soothing way. "No matter what you decide, though, I want you to know you always have a position here, as long as you want it. Don't worry about that. And a room if you ever need it."

Thank heavens.
Bridget slumped back in her chair, her breath releasing in ragged spasms as she tried to make sense of nonsense. Girding her resolve, she pinned Mr. Larabee with a look she hoped would get to the bottom of this in short order. "Give it to me straight, sir. Please?"