Chapter Thirty-Three

Mitch couldn't be persuaded to attend Ethel's funeral with me. So we parted company at the restaurant door with an exchange of "see you later." He attempted to dodge giant raindrops as he took off for his pickup. My hat took a slight pounding until I limped around the front of my car and dove in behind the wheel.

I was proud of myself for remembering to fish the umbrella from the trunk before I backed out of the garage at home. And it was right there on the seat next to me where I put it.

Some days I really wondered if it was worth the effort to climb out of bed. Especially days like this when I left my brain on the bed pillow. I probably could blame these occasional lapses of memory on menopause. And for all I know, that could very well be the culprit. No way was I ready to believe it was a part of growing old.

I cruised south on Front Street, past one funeral parlor and turned into the empty parking lot of the next one. I had been afraid of being late. I looked at my wristwatch.10:08. I was late. But the service wouldn't, couldn't, be over and done with in eight minutes. My mind may give me these occasional fits of memory loss, but I remembered what I read in the paper this morning. I was at the right funeral parlor. Besides, I just drove past another empty parking lot of the only other parlor in town. I also remembered reading the service was to be held at ten o'clock Saturday morning.

I reached for my umbrella and sent it out the door ahead of me. Just because the ankle felt strong enough to put the full weight of my body on it, didn't mean it was ready for me to sprint to the door. So I didn't.

As I climbed the steps to the door of the funeral parlor, I saw lights on inside. Before I had a chance to try the door, it opened. I recognized the handsome young man who greeted me.

"Good morning."

He was the doorman at Thomas's funeral the day before. I think he is also the undertaker's assistant.

I returned his pleasant greeting with a question. "Isn't the service for Ethel Johnson supposed to be held here?"

"Yes. But I'm afraid you missed the service."

"The paper said ten o'clock."

"Oh, yes. That would have been Thursday's paper. Yesterday's printed the correction. It was a nine o'clock service."

It must have been my heavy sigh of frustration that caused him to add, "They just left with her a short while ago. If you hurry, you might arrive at the cemetery before the preacher gives his final prayer."

I thanked him and retraced my steps to the car, although I was too steamed to step carefully and keep down the speed. Luckily, I made it inside the car without further injury to the ankle, because I felt no pain. But then, that could be because I was to busy demoting Doug Smith in my head.

Fay Cunningham is a woman of her word, I reminded myself as I slammed the car door beside me. I'll give you your six month reign as head honcho of The Susquehanna Valley Daily, as promised. But you can forget taking over on a permanent basis. This old gal is coming back.

I looked at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. A smile of determination lit up the face. The slightly pudgy one. "That is going to change too," I told my reflection in reference to the weight gain.

I fired up the Lincoln with a promise to myself. Chubby was not only going to reclaim her newspaper business, but do it at forty pounds lighter.