Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Icould lie or defer, but I don’t.
“Becky told me about Cra—Mr. Gilbert.”
After a brief stare, my mother turns away, opens the refrigerator, and removes a large, covered bowl. “Chicken salad,” she announces as if it’s a response to my answer.
Shannon Thorne’s chicken salad is legendary in Blue Gil. It also takes time to make. There’s no way she threw it together in ten minutes.
“Homemade?” My questioning response hangs in the air as I wonder if we’re avoiding the conversation at hand.
“Of course it’s homemade.” She doesn’t peer in my direction as she arranges lettuce leaves and tomato slices on two plates and adds large spoonfuls of chicken salad. Looking up, she says, “I saved some for the family.”
Saved?
My stomach turns as she places a plate before me. “You made it for the funeral.”
“That wasn’t a question, but yes.” Her blue eyes meet mine. “There was a gathering in the high school cafeteria after the service. It turned out that the service had to be moved from the funeral home to the high school gymnasium.”
“Really? Why not at the church?” The sanctuary of the Methodist church is nearly twice as large as the funeral home. It isn’t unusual for funeral services to be held within.
My mom shakes her head as she comes around the breakfast bar to sit on the tall stool at my side.
“Oh, Jillian, it was something else. Entire football teams arrived via buses from all over the state. The coach over in Lawton arranged the gathering as a tribute. Every team in our conference was represented. Once the funeral home found out about the tribute, they contacted me.” She turns my direction. “It was the right thing to do.”
Reaching over, she pats my knee. “Eat, Jillian. You could use some home cooking. You’re too thin.”
I’m far from thin. I am blessed with genes that cause curves. Keeping the curves from becoming too voluptuous requires diet and exercise. I’m better at exercise than diet.
“I cook,” I reply with a feigned tone of defensiveness, and then add, “I learned from the best.”
“Oh, you should stay for dinner. Your dad and sister...why don’t you move your things home? You can stay as long as you’d like.”
I take a deep breath and let my senses take everything in. “I don’t know how to say this.”
“Say what?”
Laying the fork down, I try to sum up my feelings. “It feels...good to be here, better than I imagined or hoped. It also feels like I’m eighteen again, and if I just let go, I could let you and Dad take care of my needs while pretending I’m no longer an adult.”
“You didn’t exactly do that when you were eighteen. You’ve always been the independent one.”
“It’s tempting, Mom, but I’m not eighteen.”
“No, but you’re not too old to be taken care of.”
“I think the separation that staying out at Stark Lake provides is good. I have work to do while I’m here. It’s quiet out at the cottages. That doesn’t mean I won’t come around if you and Dad will have me.”
“You’re always welcome,” Mom says. “That shouldn’t need to be said, but if it does, Jillian Thorne, you’re part of this family and always welcome.”
I wasn’t certain if it needed to be said, but maybe I needed to hear it.
“You’d have the house to yourself during the work week.
” When I didn’t reply, she feigned a smile.
“Of course you can stay for dinner tonight, but tomorrow is Sunday. We’ll make a family reunion out of it.
Come with us to church, and then we’ll have our meal here after.
Olivia and Matthew can come, and I’ll send Ollie a text. ”
Olivia is a year younger than me. She and Matt met at Michigan State.
The two of them live together in Three Rivers—about twenty minutes away.
I met him once when they came to California after their college graduation.
He seemed a bit quiet but obviously supportive of Olivia.
I haven’t seen their place. Liv has sent me pictures.
It looks homey. My sister’s degree is in human resources and Matt’s is in agriculture.
Currently, they both work for a logistics company that transports livestock.
I contemplate my mother’s offer. “I’m not sure I brought church clothes.” It’s a backhanded excuse, and I say a little prayer it works.
“God doesn’t care what you wear.”
Another unanswered prayer.
Mom goes back to her chicken salad. “Now, I know you, Jillian. Before the entire family is here, ask what you want to ask or say what you’re burning to say. I won’t have talk of the deceased during our family time.”
Instead of replying, I take my first bite of the chicken salad. “Mom, this is so good. I’ve tried and tried to make it, but mine never turns out exactly like yours.”
“You left Blue Gil before learning the secret ingredient.”
“Seriously? You held out on me? I want to know what I’m missing. Will you tell me?”
“After you enlighten me on this visit. You said Rebecca called you to tell you that Craig passed. Why would she do that?”
“Because,” I say, “she thought I’d want to know. I mean he’s—he was a prominent person in Blue Gil.”
Mom nods as she takes another bite. “I need to give it some thought, but I suspect other prominent Blue Gillians have passed in the last six years who didn’t warrant a visit. And as I recall yesterday, I didn’t see you at the funeral or meal.”
“I didn’t make it in time. My flight landed in Kalamazoo yesterday evening.”
“But you would have gone?”
My appetite is waning. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m curious. From what I’ve been able to learn, I find the circumstances of his death unnerving.”
It’s Mom’s turn to stop eating. “Why would you say that?”
“He was a healthy man. Hell, he coached and worked out and wasn’t even thirty-three years old. Why is no one questioning his cause of death? I mean, what the hell is accidental? That isn’t a COD. Was there trauma? Did he drown?”
Mom’s lips draw together for a moment. “Consider that I reach for my glass, and as I do, my fork is brushed to the floor. The fallen fork is an accident. I didn’t intend for it to happen.
No one meant for Craig to die. He didn’t mean to die.
Oh, Jillian, tell me you don’t think he committed suicide? ”
“What? No.”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to me. Would he? Why?
“And tell me that the two of you haven’t been in communication.” She lays down her fork as her blue eyes narrow. “Jillian, you haven’t stayed in touch with him. Please tell me you haven’t.”
“God,” I say as I stand, “no. I haven’t spoken to Craig Gilbert in years.
” I’ve worked to erase the memory of him from my life.
“So therefore, I have no idea of his mental state, but now that you mention it, what if...” I say what’s been burning in my thoughts.
“Mom, what if he never changed his ways. The wrong person found out. And he couldn’t face Serena? ”
“No.” She begins to shake her head.
“Okay, what if someone caused his death and it wasn’t accidental?”
“Stop. I don’t understand why after all these years, you’d come back to stir things up that don’t need to be stirred.” My mother quickly stands and walks around to the kitchen side of the counter. “Don’t do it.” Her voice is curt and her sentences clipped. “Don’t cause more problems.”
I let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, Mom, it’s me, Jillian, your child who causes problems.”
“Jillian.”
Turning a circle, I try to collect my thoughts. Once I’m facing her again, I confess. “Like I said, I’m working. I’m here for research. What better way to learn to portray fiction than with real life?”
“This is not to be repeated. Do not say a word to your dad. Do you understand?”
“You know you don’t have to worry about that.” The last time my father and I had a heart-to-heart was before my grandmother’s funeral, when he blamed me for her death.
“Craig Gilbert was a respected member of this community. Was he perfect?” Mom asks.
“We all fall short. We all make decisions and choices that we later regret. However, that does not need to be his legacy. He was a husband and a father. Serena has had to deal with things” — she says the word as if the extent of Serena Gilbert’s dealings is common knowledge.
Maybe it is— “ever since they moved to Blue Gil. Joey will grow up without a father. Let him remember Coach fondly. Let the town and neighboring communities remember the teacher and coach who brought Blue Gil to prominence.”
“I’m not here to darken his reputation, Mom. I’m here to find out if there’s more to this. I’m here because if one day I’m asked about him—why he died young—I want to be able to answer.”
My mother and Becky are the only ones in Blue Gil who truly understand that statement.
My mother presses her lips together disapprovingly.
“Let it go, Jillian. Get whatever you need for work. Spend time with family and friends. And then go back to California. Don’t ruffle feathers.
The next time you come back to Blue Gil will be easier.
The time after that will be easier still.
Each time. Don’t stay away so long. Show your face at church and on Main Street.
People around here are good folks. Give them a chance. ”
“So,” I ask, “you really think his death was an accident?”
She shrugs. “I would reason that if Sheriff Manes or Dr. Peed, the Mills County Coroner, had any reason to believe otherwise, they would have pursued it.”
“I can’t find any particulars on his injuries. Were there any? Did he have broken bones? Was there medication in his system? Did he have an undetected medical issue?”
Mom stands straighter. “This is our last conversation about Craig Gilbert.”
“You don’t think that any of those details are relevant?”
“I think the man has passed and speaking poorly of the deceased is wrong.”
Blue Gil etiquette.
Turning, I search for where I placed my purse. “I think I should go.”
“Each time it will be easier,” she repeats. “Church and dinner tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure of anything right now.”
“Service starts at ten thirty.”
I walk to the sofa and pick up my purse.
“The offer to stay here is still open,” she says.
Really?
“I think the Iverson cottage is a good place to get some work done.”
“You’re not the only one staying out there, renting a cottage,” Mom clarifies.
“I know. Becky told me that one of the cottages was rented. I saw a blue truck. I think it’s a man.”
“He is. His name is Keith. I spoke with him yesterday.”
“Okay,” I say casually. “Now I know his name. Is he from around here?” Before Mom replies, I answer my own question. “No, if he was, he wouldn’t need to rent a cottage.”
“He’s not from around here. He lives in Marquette.”
“Michigan? In the UP?”
“Yes,” she says. “He’s Craig’s brother.”