Chapter 33 Diane
Diane
The church on the corner of Bay and Lillian looks like every church I’ve ever seen in a beach town: weathered clapboard, stained-glass windows, roofline trimmed with faded red shingles, and the suggestion of a steeple more imagined than real.
The parking lot is already overflowing, so Nathan swings onto the grass, skirting a puddle that mirrors the low, swollen sky.
For a moment we just sit, watching the line of strangers snake up the front steps and into the yawning doors.
Inside the car, it’s too quiet. Cassie has her chin pressed to her knees, not crying but not quite composed either.
The shell from the hospital rides in her jacket pocket, a lucky charm or maybe an anchor.
Nathan adjusts the collar of his shirt like it’s a noose, but when he looks at me, there’s only steadiness in his eyes.
I want to tell him it’s okay to fall apart, that I might need him to, but the words stick to my teeth and refuse to budge.
“I didn’t think this many people would come,” he says, voice thin and full of apology. “Maybe we should’ve picked a bigger place.”
“I think Sara would hate that,” I manage. My mouth tastes like dust and panic. “She liked things small. Manageable.”
Cassie reaches for my hand. Her grip is dry and certain. I squeeze back, careful not to let her see how much I’m shaking.
The three of us make our way across the parking lot, wind clawing at the hem of my skirt, the air tinged with the same ocean salt that clung to Sara’s hair in summer.
There are faces at the door already, some familiar, others not, but all etched with the identical mask of bereavement, as if grief were a dress code.
Just inside, the vestibule is crowded and overheated, the walls papered with community flyers and the leftovers of last Sunday’s bake sale.
A teenager with a stack of programs stands by the guest book, eyes flicking from my face to Cassie’s and back again, unsure whether to offer condolences or just a polite smile.
I take a program anyway. The cover is cheap white card stock, the kind that wilts if you hold it too long.
Sara’s name is printed in block letters above a watercolor of the sound.
I have to blink twice before the letters stop swimming.
We find seats halfway down, wedged between a family I vaguely remember from the marina and a pair of men in dark suits who seem allergic to sunlight.
The sanctuary is filled beyond capacity, every pew jammed with people and stories and the unbearable hush of collective waiting.
Cassie clings to my hand; Nathan sits on my other side, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks carved.
The air in the church is thick with lilies, their sweetness so aggressive it borders on offensive.
The altar is drowning in white and yellow arrangements, and somewhere beneath their shadow sits the casket.
It’s made of plain, pale wood, almost humble, like a piece of driftwood the sea spat out.
There is no photo, no video montage, just the casket and the lilies and the hush.
At the front, Judy is already crying. Her shoulders hitch in silent spasms, the tissue in her hand shredded to confetti. The woman beside her rubs circles on her back, but Judy doesn’t seem to notice.
People keep arriving, crowding in wherever there’s room.
I spot a couple from the bait shop, a girl from Cassie’s old swim team, the mail carrier with the perpetually sunburned forehead.
There’s even a group from Andrew’s old law firm in Atlanta, according to the guest book, though I can’t tell who they are by sight alone.
For a moment I’m annoyed. Some of these people barely knew Sara, or else haven’t spoken to her in years, but the feeling passes as quickly as it came.
The math of loss is never tidy. It multiplies, divides, carries over into strangers’ lives without warning.
The service starts with a hymn. I don’t know the words, but Cassie mouths them anyway.
The minister is a thin, affable man who introduces himself as “Pastor Frank, but just Frank is fine.” He talks about Sara’s spirit, her “bright curiosity,” her “generosity of love.” It sounds canned, but he delivers it like a well-worn story, full of the pauses and sidelong smiles of someone who’s practiced it on real pain.
There’s a reading, a poem I recognize from Sara’s desk drawer, and then Judy stands to speak.
Her voice is jagged and wet, but she makes it all the way through.
She tells a story about a road trip she and Sara and my birth mother took in their thirties, how Sara insisted on detouring two hundred miles to see the world’s largest frying pan.
“It was hideous,” Judy says, cracking a smile through her tears.
“But she made us laugh until we couldn’t breathe.
” The congregation ripples with nervous laughter, the kind that has to escape or else turn into sobs.
The rest of the eulogies blur together. I stop hearing the words and start watching the crowd instead.
There are people hugging in the aisle, clasping hands, dabbing at their eyes with whatever’s handy.
The rawness of it is overwhelming. I wonder if Sara would be touched, or if she’d just make a face and say, “Jesus, you’d think I cured cancer or something. ”
It’s during the last hymn that I notice him.
He’s standing at the very back, one shoulder braced against the wall like it’s holding him upright.
Younger than I expected, but with a shock of silver hair that gives away his age.
His suit fits like it’s borrowed, but his posture is unyielding.
He watches the service with a surgeon’s detachment, eyes fixed and unblinking.
I know him instantly. Not from any prior meeting, but from the photograph Sara kept in her library.
Jack. The Jack. The one who lived in Tennessee, who taught her how to fish, how to love, and how to rise from the ashes of a broken heart.
I glance at Nathan, then Cassie, but they are singing, too, eyes straight ahead and hearts somewhere near their shoes. Nobody notices my distraction.
Jack doesn’t sit, doesn’t fidget, just stands with his hands folded and waits for the service to end. When the final prayer is said and the crowd rises, Jack moves down the aisle with the slow, careful precision of someone recovering from a wound. He doesn’t look at anyone. He doesn’t need to.
The receiving line forms at the front. They press in, offering condolences, then trailing off into the reception room for coffee and Ladyfingers and the ceremonial sharing of stories.
I don’t move. I can’t. My legs have turned to seawater, or maybe I’m just afraid that if I stand, the fragile equilibrium I’ve found will disappear. Cassie slips her hand from mine and stands, brushing crumbs from her dress. “Do you want to go up?” she asks, so matter-of-fact that I almost laugh.
“I’m not sure I can,” I say.
Nathan rises, stretching the stiffness from his back. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
But I do. I have to. The feeling grows in my chest, insistent and hot. I need to see the casket, to touch it, to pay tribute the way Sara would have wanted. I nod, and Nathan takes my elbow, not guiding, just supporting as I pick my way down the aisle.
The lilies are so close now I can taste them.
The casket is even smaller than I thought.
I rest my fingers on the lid, tracing the grain of the wood, and think of Sara’s hands.
My eyes sting, but I force the tears down, unwilling to lose my composure in front of a hundred strangers.
I lean in, just close enough that no one else can hear.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.”
I step back, nearly colliding with Jack.
He stands a respectful distance away, head bowed, lips moving in what might be prayer or just private thought.
There’s something about the tilt of his shoulders, the careful way he holds himself, that reminds me so much of Sara I almost say her name out loud.
Instead, I just watch as he presses one palm to the casket—brief, reverent, final—and then retreats before the next mourner can move in.
The sanctuary is emptying now, the crowd herding toward coffee urns and folding tables in the fellowship hall.
I follow, trailing Nathan and Cassie, but my mind keeps circling back to Jack.
He stands alone at the coffee station, swirling cream into a Styrofoam cup.
I want to talk to him, to ask about Sara as a girl, to fill in the blanks she always kept private, even when I was writing her memoir.
But I don’t know where to start, or if he’d even welcome it.
Cassie is surrounded by a gaggle of teenagers, all bearing the raw, unfiltered curiosity of the young.
They talk about school and video games and the upcoming homecoming dance, as if nothing at all has changed.
Nathan hovers nearby, fielding grown-up condolences and steering the conversation away from anything too direct.
I watch them, grateful and a little ashamed for how normal it all seems.
Judy finds me by the cookies. Her makeup is a disaster, but her expression is steady.
“She would’ve hated this,” she says, popping a piece of crust into her mouth. “Too many people, not enough wine.”
“She’d probably fake her own death to get out of it,” I say, and it feels good to laugh, even if it’s hollow.
Judy leans in, lowering her voice. “Did you see him?”
“Yes. I recognized him from the photo.”
Judy looks over her shoulder. Jack is talking to the pastor now, hands clenched around the coffee cup like it might float away. “He drove all night,” she says. “Didn’t even stop in Raleigh. Said he just got in the car and kept going.”
“Do you think she wanted him here?” I ask.
Judy shrugs. “I think she wanted closure. For both of them.”
We stand, picking at the cookies, watching the sea of mourners ebb and flow. Cassie weaves through the crowd, snagging another cup of juice. She moves with a kind of purpose, as if she’s decided the best way to honor her mother is simply to keep moving.
I keep one eye on Jack. He finishes his coffee, then slips out the side door, unnoticed by most. I watch the door swing shut behind him, and with it a wave of panic rises in me. If I don’t go after him now, I never will.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Judy, abandoning my plate.
The air outside is cooler, rinsed clean by the wind.
I spot Jack at the edge of the churchyard, back turned, staring down the length of Lillian Avenue.
For a long time I just watch him, memorizing the slope of his shoulders, the way his hands disappear into his coat pockets.
He stands there for what feels like hours, unmoving, until I finally gather the nerve to cross the grass.
“Jack?” I say, not too loud. “Jack Bennett?”
He turns, and for a split second I see the same blue eyes as Sara’s—sharp, observant, not missing a thing. He takes me in, gaze flicking from my face to my shoes and back again, before a small, surprised smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“You must be…” He hesitates, as if afraid to get it wrong.
“Diane. I was with Sara. Until the end.”
“She was my best friend growing up,” he says. “Even when we were older, we—well…I just—”
“I know,” I say, cutting him off gently, folding my arms against the wind. “She told me all about you. About your…friendship.”
“Did she… Did she suffer?”
I want to cry, but I can’t. Not here, not yet. “No,” I tell him. “She didn’t.” It’s the truth, or close enough. He doesn’t need to know about the pain she hid or the times she was too weak to move.
Relief, or something like it, seems to wash over him. “Good,” he says softly. “That’s good.” He doesn’t say anything else. He just stands there, hands deep in his pockets.
“She missed you,” I say.
Jack shakes his head, the motion loose and wounded. “I doubt that.”
“She did. She told me about you, about how you two would fish and camp, about the life you two had together. She never forgot.”
He looks away as if unable to bear the reflection of his own past in my eyes. “I should have come sooner. I didn’t know it was… I thought there was more time.” He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture so human it makes me ache.
“None of us did. She was… She was so strong. So—”
“Stubborn?” Jack nods, a tight, almost imperceptible movement. “She always was. All her life. Even as a kid, she’d never take no for an answer. Drove her mama crazy.” He huffs a short laugh, shaking his head.
“She never liked being told what to do,” I say, and the relief in my voice is embarrassingly obvious.
We share a smile, the kind that’s half apology, half gratitude. The awkwardness drops away, replaced by a warmth I didn’t expect.
“I’m glad you came,” I tell him. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I wasn’t sure, either. But Ellie said I needed to be here. That I’d regret it if I wasn't.”
“I’m glad you listened to her. She’s right, you know.”
“Ellie usually is,” Jack admits. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
He picks at a splinter on the bench, the skin at his knuckles gone white.
“You know, not a day goes by that I don’t think about her.
About the times we spent together. The good.
The bad. And the ugly. They’re all with me, every day. ”
The wind rustles the leaves overhead, scattering acorns on the mossy ground. I think of Sara at sixteen, perched on a similar bench, legs too long for her frame, eyes already set on the horizon.
“She forgave you,” I say, hoping it’s true.
Jack blinks, startled. “How do you know?”
“Because she forgave everyone.”
We sit there, strangers joined by the ghost of a woman neither of us can let go of.
The wind sharpens, lifting the scent of lilies from the sanctuary and scattering it across the lawn.
We stay like that for a long time, two silhouettes tangled in the roots of an old oak, neither of us needing to say goodbye just yet.
When I finally stand to leave, Jack looks up with the tired dignity of someone who’s survived his own worst day.
“Thank you,” he says. The words are simple, almost weightless. But in them I hear all the things we’ll never get to say.
“No, thank you,” I echo, and we share a final nod before I step back inside.