The Dark Light of Day (The Dark Light of Day 1)

FOUR YEARS LATER…

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

IT WAS SEPTEMBER WHEN MR. DUNN’S already weak body gave out and was crushed under the heavy weight of his addictions.

Leave it to the people of Coral Pines to turn what should have been a small simple service into an event that could rival their annual mullet-toss festival.

Every meddling church lady and bored husband within twenty miles dressed to the nines to pay their “respects” to a man they didn’t really know, and certainly didn’t respect.

A group of chatting woman smiled and laughed on the top step of the church before the service started. They all clutched handkerchiefs as if letting everyone know they were capable of springing a leak at any moment. Although a lot of people had cared about my Nan, more people had come to her service as an excuse to finally dust off their best mourning outfits and compete in a Who’s Sadder competition than to celebrate her life.

This felt just like that had.

Mrs. Garrith, a woman with white blonde hair and bright pink nails, was getting ready to jump into the fray as I approached the steps. “And when he lost his sweet Marlena I made sure to bring him a casserole every day for a month. I could tell he really appreciated my gesture of kindness... told me so himself. Those casseroles were a lifesaver to that man.” She adjusted the fingers of her short black laced gloves.

“Well, bless your heart, Mary,” Mrs. Morrison added. Everyone knew it was Southern slang for Go fuck yourself. “Did you know that Franklin asked me to go steady with him in high school? Practically begged me, really, before he and Marlena became an item of course. That boy was sweet on me, I tell ya.” She fanned herself with one of the funeral programs handed out by choir boys.

I took a program from one of the boys and pushed passed the crowd into the church. Loud whispering had always followed me wherever I went, and today was no different.

Mrs. Morrison might as well have been speaking into a microphone. After she spotted me, the comments about my inappropriate funeral attire began. She leaned in close to her cohorts and whispered, “I think that Abigail Ford and Franklin had a ‘special’ relationship.” She had the balls to quote the air when she said the word special. “It turns out the girl helped plan this entire service. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

That statement was met with gasps and exaggerated sighs from the clones that surrounded her. The group added their own speculations, fueling the rumor. It was like listening to creation itself in the beginning, where it all started, with these dumb bitches poisoning the water.

I don’t know how Nan ever got along with those ladies. It never seemed to me that she ever really fit in with them. Nan was someone who would show up to a funeral wearing her brightest floral colored sundress instead of a black funeral gown. I don’t know how she did it all without drawing all the negative attention I seemed to attract, or maybe she did draw negative attention and I just never really noticed. Maybe, I was too wrapped up in my own self-pity and bullshit to notice that these ladies hurt her, too.

I’d thought about her a lot when I got dressed that morning. Her funeral was the last one I attended, over four years earlier. It was in her honor that I wore a bright coral colored spaghetti-strapped sundress that crossed in the back with a long-sleeved white cardigan over it and wedge sandals instead of the black mourning uniform of the gossip mafia.

Not because I was ashamed or afraid anymore.

I just thought it was more appropriate for church.

It was those people, those nasty two-faced women who preached their impossible morals about town to whoever would listen, that pissed me off the most. Those women didn’t live the lives they preached about any more than the people they shunned for it. They just knew how to hide it better. The more I heard them talk, the more I realized they weren’t speaking about Frank’s life. All their stories or revelations were about their attempts to associate themselves with him. They wanted to paint themselves into the picture of his life for the attention only.

The truth was that, even with all his problems, Frank Dunn was someone who would be missed, even if it was only by me. The know-it-all church ladies on the steps were just selfish bitches.

Those were always the worst kind of bitches.

So, I was going to have a little fun with the ladies.

I squared my shoulders and walked back out of the church and right to the center, where the coffee klatch from hell was taking place. Before they could pick their jaws up off the floor or squawk out a fake greeting, I spoke first, laying on my Georgia accent much thicker than usual.

“Why, hey y’all,” I started. I smiled at the two ladies who seemed to be the leaders of the group. My voice dripped so much false sugary sweetness, I probably made their teeth ache. “Thank you so much for comin’, I know that Mr. Dunn would have appreciated his dearest friend—” I gestured toward Mrs. Garrith. “—and his high school sweetheart—” and I gestured toward Mrs. Morrison. “—goin’ out their way to pay their last respects.”

Mrs. Garrith looked me up and down like I was wearing fishnets and nipple tassels instead of a simple sundress and sweater. She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

“Honestly, toward the end there, he didn’t know if y’all would show up. Especially since the three of you have such history together.”

The smiles from both their faces melted into frowns. One of the other ladies from the crowd questioned this new found piece of information out loud. “History?”

“Oh sure. You know that these ladies and Mr. Dunn go waaaaay back.” I winked.

“Not really.” Mrs. Morrison protested while smoothing the collar of her dress before looking down at her feet. She knew what was coming next. I knew all their secrets, and now they would know that I was the wrong person to fuck with.

“Oh sure, he said that in high school the three of you had quite the connection.” Their faces paled, and Mrs. Garrith looked down right gray. “Oh, don’t be modest, ladies. It’s perfectly natural to want to experiment at that age with your alternative feelings.”

Alternative feelings was a phrase the church ladies made famous when speaking about the immorality of homosexuality.

Frank had let that bit of information slip to Reggie one day when Mrs. Garrith had come in for an oil change. I just happened to overhear.

“Abigail!” Someone faked shock and shame, though her voice said very clearly that she was truly entertained by this bit of information. I kept my smile big. Laying into those parasites was more fun than I’d thought it would be.

I was about to finish them off with some inside information about Mrs. Garrith using store bought orchids for her entry in the flower festival —which, believe it or not, would probably have been considered the biggest secret of them all—when the reverend opened the doors of the church and told us it was time to find a seat. The service would be starting.

I went in first, but not before looking back over my shoulder at the visibly shaken women. I turned to go in, satisfied that Nan would have scolded me for chastising the church ladies in public, but I also knew she would have been holding back a laugh.

I sat in the first row marked ‘Reserved for Family’, but since Mr. Dunn didn’t have any that would be attending, I figured it was a space that needed to be filled. There were quite a few whispers directed at my bold seating decision.

The reverend tried to speak about Mr. Dunn, but I could tell he was struggling to find anything positive to say about a man he barely knew. Frank rarely left his house, and when he did it was only to work at the shop. Even then, he kept mostly to his office, keeping the blinds shut and the world out. It wasn’t as if he’d even needed to be at the shop, but he made it a point to come in when he wasn’t sinking too low. I paid his bills, both business and personal, and between me and Reggie, we had Dunn’s Auto Body running like a...well, like a well-oiled machine.

The reverend began speaking about life and death and the rewards waiting in heaven for those who lived their lives by the light of God and the good book. It made me wonder: even if I did believe in God or religion or the power of the “good book” did I know anyone who qualified?

Not in Coral Pines.

The reverend asked for a moment of silent prayer, bowing his head and folding his hands in front of him as the crowd followed suit. I did, too, but my mind was not on prayer; it was on what I was going to have to do next.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my thighs. When the reverend said “Amen” and the crowed echoed him, he gestured to me. I took out the piece of wrinkled yellow notepad paper from my pocket and ironed it out on my knee before heading up the steep steps to the pulpit.

It was a packed house, and all eyes were on me. They were probably wondering why the hell I was up there.

I cleared my throat and stared at the paper in front of me. My opening paragraph was about why I was the one up there, explaining the nature of my relationship with Frank.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel the need to explain anything to these people. This wasn’t about them. It was about Frank, a man who, over the last few years, helped me in more ways than I could have ever repaid him. I had written the words in front of me and had even practiced reading them aloud at home, but for some reason, I was having a problem reading them now. Instead, I decided to tell them about the Mr. Dunn I’d known.