Cunningham Family: Lost And Found Part 17

c.r.a.p. I should have known better than to stand in front of a giant rack of magazines. I might as well have hung a sign around my neck.

"Hey," the woman says, "aren't you-"

I don't wait to hear the rest. I move quickly down the aisle and toss the pregnancy test aside as soon as I have the chance. I can't buy it now, not with all of these people watching me. I can only pray that the first girl didn't get any photographic proof that will end up on the internet. I can only imagine what the gossip sites will do with that.

This is mine! I tell the universe. Mine and Ward's. Let us have this one thing to ourselves! People can call me crazy all they want. They can slap my face onto a thousand magazine covers. But they can't have this. Not this.

I realize I'm pressing my hands against my stomach. I don't even know anything for sure yet and I'm already trying to protect this baby.

I keep throwing glances over my shoulder as I return to where I left Ward. I should have sucked it up and bought some hair dye. Anyone following my story knows that I'm blond these days. What did I think would happen when I walked into a busy airport, a place with thousands of people pa.s.sing through and gossip magazines displayed at regular intervals throughout the terminal? Even people who don't normally give those publications a second glance might pick up some of that trash for some mindless reading while they're waiting for their flight.

I can't get back to our gate soon enough. And when I do finally sink down next to Ward again, he looks worried.

"I was about to come looking for you," he says.

For a minute, I consider telling him everything-about being recognized, at least. But he looks so tired, so worn. I wonder if he actually got any sleep last night. His eyes are full of anger and grief and exhaustion, and though he tries to hide it, I suspect he's barely holding on.

I take his hand and squeeze it. "I just walked around for a bit."

His fingers bounce against mine. He's almost jittery. And that's when I notice the strange rectangular shape in the pocket of his jeans.

"What's that?" I ask.

He looks almost ashamed. But he releases my hand and s.h.i.+fts in his seat so he can pull the mysterious item out of his pocket.

It's a pack of cigarettes.

"Grabbed them from over there while you were gone." He jerks his chin in the direction of a duty-free shop. "Don't worry-I'm not actually going to smoke them. I didn't even get a lighter. I just need to know that they're there."

He gives me a look that tells me he doesn't expect me to understand. And honestly, I don't. But I'm the girl who made up an ident.i.ty in order to get a job at her family's former estate. The girl who threw herself at a stranger in an attempt to distract herself from her grief. I have no right to judge Ward for how he deals with all of this.

He seems to get it. He shoves the pack back into his jeans. I slide closer to him and lean into his side, resting my head on his shoulder.

Truthfully, if smoking a few cigarettes makes this easier for him, then maybe he should. There are certainly much more destructive things he could be doing.

Which is why I don't say anything when I s.h.i.+ft and suddenly feel something through the pocket of this jeans that's shaped suspiciously like a lighter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

St. Augustine's Church is enormous. It's beautiful, yes, but in a cold, regal way, which seems fitting for our current circ.u.mstances. I wrap my arms around myself as I look up at the ma.s.sive stone face. Beside me, Ward is quiet and still.

I reach out and take his hand. He grips my fingers. We stand across the street from the church, watching from the doorway of a small bistro. There's a crowd around the steps, and it's not just funeral attendees. There are a number of people with cameras and at least three news crews-their vans are in a line just down the street-plus a bunch of casual bystanders who have gathered to gawk at the commotion. As we watch, a black limousine pulls up to the curb. The reporters all crowd around the sidewalk, their microphones and digital recorders outstretched as the door slides open.

"Mrs. Carolson!" some cry.

"Laura!" say others.

They elbow each other as they try to get closer to their target.

But instead of Laura Carolson, Edward's widow, getting out of the car, several men in dark suits emerge from the vehicle. They're tall and broad-shouldered, and in a matter of moments they've ushered the crowd of journalists back several steps. As much as I dislike the family, I'm glad for Laura Carolson's sake that she had the foresight to hire security personnel for this event. I know what it's like to attend a high-profile funeral. There's nothing worse than reporters bombarding you with questions when you're just trying to hold yourself together.

Laura Carolson steps out of the limousine a moment later, followed by her two children, Troy and Rebecca. They keep their heads down as they push through the crowd and up the church steps. The reporters call after them, but none of the Carolsons acknowledge their presence.

My fingers have tightened on Ward's. If these people are hounding the Carolsons, what will they do when Ward and I try to enter? The headlines fly through my mind: "Insane Daughter of Wentworth Cunningham Crashes the Funeral of the Esteemed Edward Carolson!" or "b.a.s.t.a.r.d Son of Carolson Pays His Disrespect!"

That's not how I want this day to end.

"This was a bad idea," Ward says, echoing my thoughts. He sighs and looks down at me. "There's still a chance for you to bail on this, you know."

"And miss the excitement? No way. I'm sticking with you." I try to make my voice sound light, but I fail miserably.

Ward's scanning the crowd of reporters, probably trying to plan our next course of action. We're lucky they haven't spotted us yet. They're too busy running to the door of every car that stops at the curb, trying to capture every expression of the people who have only come here to pay their respects.

I don't care who these people are. They don't deserve this. These journalists have no idea what it's like to be a.s.saulted on a day like this, to have the whole world watching you, photographing you, throwing questions in your face. They have no idea what it's like to have their final farewell to a loved one displayed in front of thousands of people.

I want to run across the street, to dive into that crowd, and start grabbing some of those stupidly-expensive cameras and smash them into the ground. I want to scream and beat those idiots with their own microphones. I want to show them what they do to us. What they've done to me.

Maybe I should. If I made a scene, they'd stop focusing on the mourners. They'd turn all of their cameras on me.

Ward squeezes my hand. "I know that look. What crazy thing are you planning?"

I look sheepishly up at him. "The craziest of things."

I almost get a smile out of him. I catch the briefest flash of humor in his eyes, but it doesn't reach his lips.

Well, I don't think we're that desperate yet," he says. "I was thinking we might try sneaking around the back of the place first."

It's a good idea-good enough that I wouldn't be surprised if some reporters have thought of it, too. But it sounds like our best option right now.

"Lead the way," I tell him.

We move quickly down the street and around the block. I keep my head down but my eyes peeled-I don't want to be spotted. Fortunately, neither Ward nor I are wearing appropriate funeral attire-though we did manage to wrangle up enough change to wash our nicer sets of clothes at a laundromat this morning-so we look like anyone else walking down the street. If any reporters are looking for us, they're probably expecting us to show up in black.

We have to climb over a fence in the alley behind the church, but Ward helps me. His hands linger on my waist as he sets me on the ground, and though I feel the slightest tremble through his touch, there's a surety there as well. I've no doubt all of his emotions are as intense as ever, but now that he's here, there's a steady confidence in all of his movements.

He takes my hand again as we approach one of the back doors of the church. I brush my hands against my skirt, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of the fabric as I peek around for reporters.

There's no one back here. Maybe the universe is smiling on us again. Maybe it's trying to make up for all the c.r.a.p it's thrown our way.

I look up at the church. It isn't nearly as beautiful from this side, but it's still impressive. Awe-inspiring. And I need the courage it gives me.

I'm half expecting the back door to be locked, but when Ward pulls on the handle, it creaks open. He gives me a relieved smile and pulls me inside the building.

We're in a small hallway. The walls are lined with gorgeous framed prints of Biblical-inspired art. I look at them as we pa.s.s, trying to absorb what strength I can from the images of angels and saints. Finally, Ward stops in front of a set of double doors that bear a bra.s.s plaque that says "Sanctuary." I can hear an organ playing on the other side.

"This is it," he says, not to me.

I nod. "This is it."

I brace myself for the worst: for everyone to turn and look at us, for the family to recognize us and cause a scene, for the press to come rus.h.i.+ng in and capture the whole thing on camera.

But only a handful of heads turn our way. We've come in through a side door, and most of the mourners have already taken their seats in the pews at the front of the sanctuary. They're not even the least bit concerned with a couple of people joining them quietly in the back.

We sit away from the main crowd, taking seats beside a large stone pillar. They're less likely to see us back here, and besides, I think Ward wants the privacy.

But we have a perfect view of everything, and in spite of my best efforts to avoid looking, I find my eyes drawn to the coffin sitting just below the altar. It's huge, and it's made of dark, s.h.i.+ny wood with bra.s.s. It's closed, thank G.o.d-I don't think I could bear to look at Carolson's lifeless face. There's a wreath of white flowers on top, but that's dwarfed by the huge arrangements of blossoms displayed on either side of the coffin. They've spared no expense for this service.

The flowers at my father's funeral were yellow and pale blue. They weren't as elaborate, and honestly, I couldn't have cared less about the decorations that day.

I swallow. There's a certain sense of finality when you see the coffin. You can know someone's dead, but sometimes it doesn't sink in until you see him like this. Resting in his final bed. Neither Ward nor I will ever see Carolson again, but that doesn't mean we won't live with the effects of the man's actions for the rest of our lives.

Beside me, Ward slowly releases a breath. He tightens his grip on my hand until my fingers start to tingle. His other hand is resting on his thigh, pressing against the pack of cigarettes he has in his pocket. There's nothing I can say, even if I thought I could speak without breaking down.

My eyes s.h.i.+ft back to the coffin. The pastor leading the service has stepped up to the pulpit, but I don't hear anything he says. I can't stop looking at that coffin.

I keep seeing my father's coffin. My father's yellow-and-blue flower arrangements. My father's funeral.

The pastor could be talking about anyone. It doesn't matter who's died or who's leading the memorial-the words are always the same, aren't they? They'll call him a "wonderful man," or an "amazing husband and father," and follow that with a bunch of Bible verses they somehow think will make it easier-words of hope, or reminders that our loved one is now safe with G.o.d.

I don't care what people have to say about Edward Carolson. I'm a horrible person for thinking that, I know, but I can't imagine G.o.d would appreciate me lying about it, even in my mind. As long as I'm being completely honest, I didn't care about what people said at my father's funeral, either. I don't think I heard a word of Calder's eulogy. Words just seemed so inadequate, so meaningless then. Who cares what anyone said? It wouldn't have changed what I was feeling.

And sitting here staring at that casket brings all of those old feelings back.

I shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't have been there, either. My father wasn't a young man, but he was too young to die. He should've been alive to see me make something of myself. To give me away at my wedding. To see his grandchildren.

That's the thought that breaks me. My eyes start to burn, and I press my lips together to keep a sob from escaping my throat. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here.

It takes all of my power to stay where I am, to not go bolting from the room. I tear my eyes from the coffin and look down at my lap.

Hold it together, Lou. Ward needs you right now.

I peek over at him. His back is rigid and his face his blank. His fingers still squeeze mine.

This is his father's funeral. Not mine.

Numbness-my old, familiar friend-begins to settle over me, and I welcome it. I'm ready for all of these old feelings to disappear again. Today isn't about me and my issues.

Only when I'm sure I have myself under control do I raise my eyes again. I don't look at the coffin or the pastor-I'm not going to push it-but I let my gaze drift to the other people in the pews. Laura Carolson and her two children are in the front row. Rebecca's shoulders shake slightly, and I know she's crying. I can't forgive Carolson for the way he treated Ward or Ward's mother, but seeing the man's family like this reminds me that he was just that-just a man.

I know I can't look at them for too long. I can already feel the emotions rising in my chest again. I try to find the numbness again as I tear my eyes away from the family and skim over the other mourners.

There are only about fifty or sixty people here. A small service, for a man known to so many. Are these people all friends and family? Business a.s.sociates? Employees? What do they think of the man lying in front of us?

And then my eyes land on a familiar set of shoulders, and I suck in a breath.

Why...? Of all places, why...?

I'd know those shoulders anywhere. And that hair, which is so close to my natural color. Calder is here. My brother. And though I've only seen her a couple of times, I recognize the woman next to him, too-Lily, his fiancee.

Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. After all, the sale between my brother and Edward Carolson was a highly-publicized transaction. Given all the recent press about Huntington Manor and my actions there, his attendance was probably a good PR move for both families. I bet those reporters out there are eating this up.

But this makes things complicated for me.

I lean back in the pew so that I'm partially hidden behind Ward. I'm not ready to face Calder yet. And I'm definitely not ready to face him here.

Ward notices my sudden odd behavior.

"Are you okay?" he whispers.

I'm not about to make a fuss, but he should probably know what's going on.

"My brother," I mouth to him. I point at Calder.

Ward's eyes widen. "Do we need to go?"

It would certainly be easier to leave. But this is about Ward, not me, so I shake my head.

"I'll be fine," I whisper to him.

He looks at me for a moment, clearly unconvinced, then turns his face back toward the altar.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. This service can't go on too much longer. I only have to get through another half hour at most-then Ward and I can slip back out the side door, and it will be as if we were never here at all.

His fingers are still entwined in mine. The organ begins to play, and after a few bars, voices take up the words of a hymn. I try not to think about my brother. Or my father. Or Rebecca Carolson crying in the front pew. I try not to think about the things Ward must be feeling right now. Or how he'll feel a few days from now if I find out I'm actually pregnant.

Instead, I focus on lending him strength through the places we touch. I grip his hand and close my eyes and pray to G.o.d or the universe or whoever is up there listening. I'm out of practice, but it's surprisingly easy to pray when you're lost and desperate.

I pray for Carolson and his family. For my brother and for Lily. But most of all for Ward, because he needs my support and I don't know how else to give it to him.

The hymn seems to be affecting him, too. His calm mask has started to slip. I can feel his pulse through the thin skin at the base of his palm. Suddenly he releases my hand, and his fingers drop to my thigh. He moves his lips to my ear.

"Let's get out of here," he says, his voice rough.

I nod. That's probably a good idea.

Quietly, we slip out of the pew and move toward the side door. The organ is still playing, the mourners still singing, and we manage to slip out without anyone even turning to glance our way.

The minute the door to the sanctuary closes behind us, Ward grabs me and presses me up against the wall.

I don't have time to react as his mouth comes down on mine. He grips me by the waist and kisses me fiercely, and my body comes to life beneath his, my blood buzzing with sudden, sharp desire. Funny, how even the darkest of emotions make you crave s.e.xual release.