Hester’s niece had relied on Susan Tucker to help her with the other necessary arrangements after finding her name in Hester’s address book. She’d placed a gold star next to Susan’s name. Hester used different colored stars and gold meant the best.
Sarah also had the presence of mind to give the address book to the sheriff.
As the mourners filed out after the service, they walked down steep steps to the parking lot below. Wesley Speer and Buddy assisted the elderly down the hazardous steps, the older folks grasping the railing for all they were worth.
Slowly descending next to Harry, Big Mim said, “Staunton is a town of hills. One can find a wonderful view for a reasonable price.”
“True,” Harry replied.
“Mary Baldwin has the best spot in town,” remarked BoomBoom, just behind them.
Mary Baldwin College did indeed have a wonderful setting. The prestigious school had been continually graduating women since 1842, and most of those alumnae had flourished, often bucking the odds against women.
Woodrow Wilson’s house rested not far from the college, and Harry wondered whether as a boy he had watched the girls walk by. It was hard to imagine the former president as a man being dazzled by women. In photographs, he appeared rather cold.
“Well, on to the cemetery. It’s really beautiful,” Alicia noted. On the west side of town, the graveyard was a refuge for the living to think and reflect, and a fitting place for the departed.
The graveyard was glowing with October sunlight when Hester’s Crozet friends reached it. Again, the burial service for the dead was dignified and brief.
The reception that followed was held in Hester’s home and started at four. It took most of the crowd about forty-five minutes to drive to the simple brick two-story house, a graceful structure that had belonged to Hester’s grandparents. The paint on the brick, a creamy yellow, had flaked in spots, and the soft paprika of old brick shone through. The old place felt warm and lived in.
Having never been inside Hester’s house, Harry was curious to see it, and paused in the entryway.
Cooper, right next to her, also paused a moment. “Some of this furniture has to go back to the Revolution.”
“Heppelwhite,” Big Mim, close by, crisply filled her in. “And the silver is Georgian, but not just any George. George II.”
“I had no idea,” Harry exclaimed.
“That was her way.” Big Mim removed her hat. “Hester lived simply. She wanted it that way.”
Always proper, Big Mim wore a hat in church, as did most of the older women. Harry and Susan also wore hats, mostly because their mothers had long ago drummed it into them. Neither woman much liked hats.
Big Mim knew Hester better than the others. “She inherited most of what one needs in life. Not an ounce of the snob in her; she would never have called attention to the quality of the furnishings, the fabrics, and, of course, the elegant silver. I will miss her.” The older woman smiled sorrowfully, then began moving about, a pure political animal regardless of circumstance. Big Mim was of that generation that worked through men. Her husband, Jim, was mayor of Crozet.
“Well, old girl, ready for the shake and howdy?” Harry teased Cooper, who had not been born and bred in the region.
“I’m getting ready.” Cooper followed Harry.
Susan stood next to Sarah, introducing her to the guests.
“Sarah, please meet my best and oldest friend in the world, Harry Haristeen, and with her, one of our sheriff’s department deputies, Cynthia Cooper.”
Sarah shook their hands. “Thank you so much for helping to celebrate my aunt’s life.”
“The service became her: simple and elegant,” Harry complimented her.
Cooper stepped up to the plate. “And the gravesite is so beautiful.”
“Thank you. Please have some refreshments,” said Sarah. “Buddy Janss made the punch. He said it was my aunt’s favorite.”
The two moved on, glancing at each other with raised eyebrows.
Harry pushed Cooper through the crowd. “You first.”
“I am not drinking that stuff.”
“A sip. Come on, girl. You can do it.”
They arrived at an enormous silver scalloped punch bowl; the family initials in elegant script were intertwined on its front.
Between laughter and tears, Buddy ladled out a full silver cup.
“Buddy,” warned Coop, not yet committed to this alcoholic endeavor.
“Come on, Coop. You’re not on duty.”
“If I drink this, I will pass out,” Coop protested.
“First your legs will lock up. But I’ll carry you home,” he promised.
He was irresistible, so Coop took a too-big swig. Harry wisely sipped hers.
Coop gasped. “My throat is on fire.”
Buddy laughed. “Well, go on and talk to people. That will cool you down. Neil, come on, your turn.”
Neil Jordan accepted a silver cup, drank a bit. His eyes watered. Reverend Jones squeezed in next to him and laughed.
“Did Hester really drink this stuff?” Neil sputtered. “My God, what a tough broad.”
“You’re just now figuring that out?” Reverend Jones slapped him on the back.
Neil didn’t spill a drop. He reached into his pockets, pulled out tickets to the Halloween Hayride, and began moving through the crowd—with difficulty, but he was selling those tickets.
“Reverend, did you have a clue that Hester had such impeccable taste in home furnishings?” Harry asked as he was now pushed next to her.
“Well, I’d been here once or twice. Knew her people, of course, as did you. All of them quiet living. Well, you knew her mother and father and her older brother.”
“I was pretty little and they seemed so old. I don’t remember her brother except that he was tall,” Harry responded.
The party grew louder as the punch took effect. Faces red, people in the crowd talked over one another as they each recalled their favorite Hester stories. Some burst into tears, but that’s the way of a Virginia celebration. Emotions rise right up to the surface.
“She was not lonely,” said the reverend. “People thought she was, because in this part of the world you march in twos. Crozet is a Noah’s ark.” The preacher took a sip, peered over the silver rim. “And, Coop, you’ll be walking side by side with someone before you know it.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“A good-looking woman like you? Just you wait.” He beamed at her, then returned to the subject of Hester. “She threw herself into good works. I believe she was a fulfilled person, a good person. Granted, sometimes the notions about black gum trees or the fact that food modification would make us all idiots took me aback, but we all have our pet peeves.”
As the conversation continued, Wesley Speer moved toward Buddy. A funeral gathering is as good a place as any to patch up hard feelings.
Buddy held out a full cup. “Wesley.”
“Buddy, I’ve been pushing you a little hard about those one hundred acres. I’m overanxious.”
Buddy took a deep breath. “Wesley, in these times I think we are all overanxious. Let’s just set it aside for now and we can talk maybe after Thanksgiving. I can’t sell rich soil without replacing it, you see?”
“I do, Buddy, I really do.”
The two men clinked cups and Buddy then nodded to the next person pressing at the punch bowl.
“I can hardly breathe,” Cooper whispered.
“What?” Harry inclined her ear toward her.
A bit louder, Coop repeated herself.
“It’s the punch,” said Harry. “It’ll stay with you for a while. Don’t drink any more,” she advised.
“I’m sorry I drank what I did. This can’t be legal.” Cooper ruefully smiled.
“Well, dear Deputy, if you run a roadside stand and you’ve lived here all your life and your people have lived here since way back, your friends know where to find the best country waters to see you off with.”