Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [115]
Wishing he were anywhere but here, he watched as they lowered the coffin containing Katlyn Fitzgerald Mershan into the grave. He’d once read there were people who attended funerals of someone they didn’t know, because they drew some sick pleasure from the last rites. Well, no voyeuristic mourners lurked along the graveside today. Only Katlyn’s sons stood marking her passing.
“Too bloody wet and cold,” he said under his breath.
Jago sighed. The last three weeks had been a bad dream. Closing his eyes he thought back to Halloween, how the battery on his cell phone had died as Trevelyn received a ringing on another line. Julian Starkadder had been calling with news. After fighting cancer for nearly a year, Katlyn had taken a turn for the worse. The doctors were not sure how long she could last. Ever efficient, Julian had arranged for a limousine service to fetch Jago. When the tapping at the door came at first light, he’d never expected to hear the news his mother was dying.
In the half-shadows of the bedroom, packing to leave, he’d watched Asha slumbering peacefully, a smile on her beautiful face. Too much the coward, he had left her sleeping. Feeling as if his body had taken a hit from lightning, he couldn’t think. Trying to form some reasonable explanation for his hasty departure was beyond him. Bloody hell, he hadn’t even left her a note. He’d simply had asked Colin to take care of her when the man jogged down the hill to investigate the limo. Jago offered the excuse that a business emergency had arisen and he couldn’t take time to explain, that he had a plane to catch. There were questions in Colin’s gray eyes, but he merely nodded.
That seemed eons ago. Before his life had become one long nightmare of doctors coming and going, of them shaking their heads, resigned to doing little more than making his mother peaceful. Her room was private, so at first Jago and his brothers had stayed with her around the clock. In the beginning, they’d worn themselves out keeping watch. He never understood why hospitals couldn’t provide succor for families at such times. Des, Trev and he had slept in hard-backed chairs until Julian had finally brought small folding cots for them to use. As the days passed, the sorrow of losing his mother grew crushing to Jago. His personal devastation was overshadowed by the fear of what her dying was doing to Desmond.
Lifting his collar against the cold hitting the back of his neck, Jago looked over to Des, watching his brother with growing unease. The rain whipped around Desmond, yet he didn’t tilt his umbrella to stop the downpour from lashing against his face; oddly, he almost appeared to welcome the cold rain. Most people would assume Des was mourning. Jago wasn’t fooled. The rage, frustration—perhaps even a touch of madness—were part of a ravenous beast within Des, waiting to slip the leash. God help them all if it did.
Des finally sensed Jago observing him, and looked up to meet his stare. His mother had always said Desmond’s eyes were a mirror image of their father’s. Trev agreed, but he was merely repeating like a parrot what he’d learnt at her knee—Jago couldn’t recall their father, so he doubted Trevelyn could either. They had been babies when Michael Mershan had taken his life. The only father he had ever known stood staring at him, a wounded animal in pain. And Jago was helpless to ease his anguish.
Fearing for his brother’s state of mind, he crossed to Desmond and placed a hand on his arm. “Come on, Des. It’s not necessary to stay while they fill in the grave.”
Desmond didn’t move; sadly almost appearing rooted to the spot.
The sounds of shovels rhythmically tossing the wet dirt into the hole were the only noise the three cemetery staff made. Working quietly so as not to intrude upon the family, they finally raked the last clods of dirt onto the top and then placed the elaborate wreaths. One from each son, one from Julian.
“Des, it’s over.”