The Seacrest Read Free

over time, both Cora and I had given up our elusive dreams and fell into the jobs as groundskeeper/groom and housemaid at the Vanderhorns’ mansion by the sea.
    The Seacrest wasn’t a bad place to work, and part of the deal was free use of a one-bedroom cottage on the far side of the barn. Where I used to sleep every night with Cora. Every night with Cora. Never again with Cora. Never.
    Cora.
    I surveyed the contiguous plots beneath the tree. Beside the graves of my parents and little sister, there was a space for me, a plot for my brother, and two adjacent spots for our wives. Jaxson’s wife had left him years ago, so I had no idea who would end up buried between him and me. My brother and Berra had produced no kids, thank God.
    Cora and I had no little ones, either, although I’d always wanted a family. She’d said we “weren’t ready” every year, for the past eight years. It always came down to finances, the fact that we had no home of our own, and her insistence that she wasn’t ready to be a mother.
    Now she’d never get the chance. And I’d probably never be a father.
    Another stab of pain hit me hard in the chest. I’d really wanted a family.
    I clutched at the tie I borrowed from Rudy, loosening the choking fabric. The sun blazed overhead, and I’d broken into an uncomfortable sweat since we left the shelter of the cool limousine. I wore the same dark suit I’d bought for the triple funeral when my parents and sister died in the fire. It hung loose on me now, especially since I’d worked all day, every day outdoors for years.
    Today Rudy and Libby flanked me, also dressed in black. Rudy had kindly arranged for the funeral details for both Cora and my brother. Somehow, the flowers and service were ordered and paid for. Jax’s funeral was yesterday, a complete blur. I was certain it had displaced a number of July Fourth barbecues. I remembered very little, except some of the hymns we used to sing in church when we were a whole family. A complete family. A living family.
    How can I be the only one left?
    Reverend Mitchell droned on and on, but I didn’t process his words. He hadn’t known Cora. His words were hollow, and I almost resented the way he talked about her as if they’d been best friends.
    I watched his mouth move, his hands holding a worn bible. His wizened mouth puckered and turned to a frown when a crow tried to compete with him and yammered in the white pine overhead, seeming to mimic the pastor’s words.
    I almost laughed out loud.
    I hadn’t stepped foot in the quaint little Presbyterian Church where he preached since the deaths of my parents and sister.
    I was still mad at God for that one.
    But I was also equally mad at Jax. I was certain it was his cigarette that started the fire.
    “Finn?” Libby took my arm and guided me toward the car when the coffin was lowered. Someone’s hand—maybe my own—had dropped a handful of soil on it.
    I held in my grief like a man.
    My father would’ve been proud. My mother would have wept. And my little sister would have comforted me, holding my hand and telling me she loved me with those big green eyes.
    But I felt it welling up in my throat, and if someone approached and was too nice, I was afraid I’d lose it.
    “Finn? Come on. Let’s get you home.”
    Libby had been kind for the past three days, sparing me her usual quips and complaints. Her father had treated me with respect and kindness, also out of character. Yet both of them had tactfully avoided the question I still agonized over.
    Why had Cora been in Jax’s car?
    I didn’t think they’d ever met. She’d asked about him, of course. Wondered why he inherited the farm and I got nothing.
    She’d treated me like I lost my mind when I told her I’d rejected the inheritance and told him he could have it. All of it. The three hundred and fifty acres of blueberry fields and woods. The house and barns. The stand for the berry picking operation.
    I’d given it all up to flee the