Page 70 of Chosen Path
She turned to Ed and chirped, “Where are we?”
“We’re deciding how to present the coffin.”
“Flowers on each side,” she said without hesitation.
“Photo easel at the entrance to the room?”
“Of course.”
Greg sidestepped out of the conversation and headed to the cloakroom bearing Kimberly’s wool coat and an outsized sense of relief. In the process, he nearly ran into Officer Perth, who wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking. He was staring at Ed and Kimberly.
“Sorry, Sam. Excuse me.”
At the sound of Greg’s voice, Sam Perth whipped his head around. “Greg, I didn’t see you there.”
“No worries.”
Perth seemed to be frozen on the spot. Frozen, that was, except for his head, which swiveled from Greg to Kim and then back to Greg. It was as if he were paralyzed by some decision. Finally, the police officer narrowed his eyes and nodded at the coat in Greg’s arms.
“Are you taking that to the coat closet?”
“Um, that was my plan.”
“And then you’re coming back here?”
Good grief, no. He was going to find a quiet, empty room to hide in for a few minutes of peace.
“Ah-yup,” he lied.
“Okay, then.” And then Officer Perth seemed to make up his mind and strode toward the funeral director and Kimberly.
Greg hurried toward the coat room before anyone else could waylay him. He hung Kimberly’s coat on a hanger, then slipped down the hallway to the staff-only wing of the funeral home to get away from everyone for just a bit. He rested his head against the fire door and closed his eyes.
On balance, he enjoyed running the council. Enjoyed might, he allowed, be too strong a word. But he was good at it, and it gave him a sense of satisfaction, a feeling of connection to his ancestors and the village’s forefathers.
Kimberly and Corrine were always after him to say forebearers, but the original Ättestupa Council had consisted of the men of the founding families, and the men alone. Greg was willing to bet they’d never had to make decisions about floral arrangements and organ music.
Yes, on the whole, he was proud and pleased to serve as the head of the council. But, of late, the role had been unusually demanding, putting an undue strain on his relationship with Wendy, distracting him from the hardware store, and, he had to admit, causing him no small amount of anxiety. He wasthisclose to sneaking one of Wendy’s tranquilizers to help him sleep.
We’re in a season of change; that’s all it is. It happens from time to time.
He knew that it did. As a member of the governing council, he had access to all the past records. He enjoyed rereading them, much like his uncle’s home repair encyclopedia. Each secretary had their own style of writing. The secretary from the 1950s through the late 1960s, who’d chronicled the upheaval in the wake of those turbulent years, was a particular favorite. Elvira Grant, the first female executive council member and the current librarian’s great-aunt, had been a gifted writer. Her reports read like the breathless dime-store western novels he’d devoured as a kid.
Of course, she had had fertile material with which to work. Not only had society gone through a sea change during her tenure—yes, the social revolution and counterculture reached all the way to Scandia Bluff—but the village itself had been a powder keg, on the verge of exploding. From the creation of the state medical examiner’s office, to the incident that forced out Doc Collins, to Doc’s Larson’s crusade to close the cliffs, Elvira had covered it all.
And Scandia Bluff had survived it all.
He sometimes wondered how history would view the current turbulence. The months since Doc’s death had been especially fraught, as the council had found itself in uncharted territory and, more recently, short-handed.
Nik had been the secretary, and it was the angle he’d taken in reporting recent events that had caused the rift in the executive council: two against two. Nik and Corrine on one side of the issue; Greg and Kimberly on the other. Nik’s version of the events had put Greg and Kimberly in a poor light, which had infuriated Kimberly.
For his part, Greg had hoped—no, he’d been convinced—they’d mend their fences in time, and dislodge the wedge between them. But, now, that would never happen. Now, only he and Kimberly were left.
They needed to replace Nik and Corrine. He knew they did. But the way things were now, adding more personalities to the mix seemed unwise. So he’d been dragging his feet and had been keeping his own diary of the relevant events so the historical record would be complete and, perhaps, a bit more flattering to him.
“Greg?” A woman’s voice pulled him out of his reverie.
He opened one eye and spotted Officer Jenny Booth, her head cocked at an angle. She studied him like he was a painting. Or possibly an animal on exhibit at the zoo. He hoped she at least viewed him as a lion or a bear. Something strong and fierce.
