A Deceptive Homecoming Read Free

father had a scar above his right eye, across his eyebrow.” I motioned to the exact placement of the scar with my finger above my own eye. “The man in the casket doesn’t bear that scar.”
    â€œIt was above his left eye, Hattie. His left.” His left side was the side damaged by the horse. Any trace of the scar would’ve been destroyed by the trauma done to the poor man’s face.
    Oh my God, what have I done?
    As realization of the mistake I’d made dawned on my face, Ginny surprised me again. Instead of railing against me for my ghastly mistake, for the false hope I’d placed in her, for the spectacle I’d made at this most solemn of occasions, her countenance softened and she patted me on the cheek.
    â€œI’m his daughter, Hattie. Do you think I wouldn’t have noticed?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Ginny.” I placed my hand on hers. “I don’t know how I could’ve made such a dreadful mistake.” Truly, I’d no idea. All of my memories of Mr. Frank Hayward had the scar cutting across his right eyebrow. Could time have tainted all my memories of home? “Can you forgive me?”
    â€œOf course, Hattie. You meant well. Coming all this way after all these years. I remember how difficult it was when your father died. You were trying to spare me the same grief.”
    She was right. If my memories of anything or anyone in St. Joseph were tainted it was because they were clouded by the loss of my father and the memory of his horrible end.
    â€œThank you for coming, Hattie.” She gently pulled her hand away. I nodded, still shocked by what I’d done. I was suddenly eager to put distance between me and the friend whom I’d traveled hundreds of miles to see. I’d come to comfort her, not to cause her more pain. “Be safe returning home.”
    Home. She’d said it gently, but the irony wasn’t lost on me, even in my present state. Where was home? Newport? Where Walter waited for me? Richmond, where Sir Arthur lived? Any of the countless cities and towns I’d visited in my travels? No. Wasn’t St. Joe supposed to be my home? I’d been born and raised here. I was baptized here. My parents and baby brother were buried here. Yet clearly Ginny knew, whether I wanted to believe it or not, that St. Joseph wasn’t my home anymore.
    â€œWe will begin.” A broad man wearing the clerical collar of a minister took his place near the casket.
    As I made my way toward my seat, I heard Ginny call out, “Mr. Upchurch,” a slight pleading in her voice. I glanced back to see Ginny reaching out to the man in the muttonchops. He immediately left his companions, crossed the room in a few long strides, and took her hands in his.
    â€œAre you not well, my darling girl?” Tears began to stream down her face as she shook her head. He gently guided her into his comforting embrace. He then led her to her seat.
    I turned away before the tears welled up in my own eyes. I nodded greetings to a few girls who inappropriately waved and giggled as my gaze fell upon them. Before I had time to ponder why they were acting silly, the minister began the service. I put my head down, unable to look at Ginny or the casket, while the minister’s voice rose and fell in accordance to the sentiment he was trying to convey. I heard little of his actual words. Instead, I prayed: for Mr. Hayward’s soul, for Ginny’s peace, and for forgiveness for my unconscionable mistake. When I finished, I glanced up and wished I hadn’t. Ginny sat stiff in her chair, a handkerchief clenched in her hand in her lap. Her face was frightfully pale, even her normally rosy lips were pale. She looked straight ahead, her clear eyes unblinking. For an instant she glanced my way and our eyes met. Mortified, I dropped my gaze once more. When I finally glanced about again, a small bouquet of flowers caught my eye. In a vase, set between a large