each pew packed shoulder-to-shoulder this Saturday, two weeks and a day after the fire. A somber soloist high in the rear choir balcony sang Ave Maria. Lit candles flickered beneath floods highlighting the altar. Boulder Isle notables all there.
Advancing up the center aisle, Aleck Malone’s oak and brass coffin passed two pews a minute en route to its position of honor in front of the altar communion rail. Melissa’s black pique knit Garner dress, fashionably hemmed below the knee with its bodice top tightly laced and adorned by a single strand of white-cultured pearls. Blond hair curls cascaded to shoulders. Carol lent a black veil Melissa periodically struggled to keep aligned on her head’s crown as the hat twisted on its bobby pins.
Mercifully, the hearse led procession to the church offered a moment of peace. Melissa in the funeral home parlor couldn’t force herself to shake another hand nor dab moist eyes with scented tissue. The fresh-cut flower fragrance overwhelming. The community must have purchased every petal and stem available from the city’s Flowers Plus florist. The funeral director activated an extra viewing room to display the stately, massive bouquets with several arrangements trucked to the church to adorn the gilded altar.
Asked to do a scripture reading, Melissa declined.
Father Roger Merth, officiating at the funeral mass, began with, for him, a characteristically straightforward commentary recognizing Father’s civic contributions, his infectious spirit of volunteerism, and generous church tithing. The Pious XII pastor made no eulogy mention of The Abbey lest those in attendance attach negative thoughts to the Malone family patriarch although Father never tarred with the priestly indiscretions under The Abbey roof. He’d only wanted to protect the former nunnery’s architectural history and grandeur, especially the chapel. Several smaller convent residence buildings razed until only the main building remained. And, for forty years he’d organized fund-raisers to pay for maintenance and upkeep the diocese, despite his pleas, wouldn’t provide. He couldn’t be faulted or chastised for what went on within its walls when he hadn’t been there. Father kept the walls tuck-pointed, the utilities paid, and the ballroom functioning to provide wholesome plays for children and a large adequate venue for community and family get-togethers.
Despite the persistent rumors of the fire’s cause, Father couldn’t be blamed for a city grandfathering interior propane storage behind the kitchen that should have been restricted to an outside stand-alone propane tank no less than thirty feet from an inhabited building. He’d raised questions and been told the double safety values and barriers around the interior tanks provided adequate precaution to prevent a calamity. She hadn’t seen reports, but the blast intensity she’d experienced could’ve solely emanated and rolled from those interior kitchen propane tanks.
The congregation stood, in unison reciting the Our Father. Soon the funeral mass would be history, Father interned into his final resting place and the world would await rebuilding The Abbey. Father told a gathering of all four kids years ago after his second marriage he’d purchased a cemetery lot separate from and didn’t need to be placed in the family crypt under The Abbey. He explained he wasn’t saving The Abbey exclusively for his family or to glorify any family tradition or legacy. The crypt itself within city limits because Boulder Isle expanded to plat housing subdivisions and retail strip malls adjacent to the plot of ground great-great-grandfather Cyrus Malone dedicated as a family burial mound on a bluff overlooking a mighty river. He hadn’t envisioned The Abbey would later be built over the family crypt as part of an agreement for the diocesan purchase of several adjoining land parcels.
Melissa rose to follow the coffin. The hearse led the funeral possession past The Abbey ruins. Soot-covered stone ghoulishly streaked from the prior week’s rain. What she witnessed could have been nature’s mimicking of the tear-streaked faces of her, Carol, and assembled mourners.
* * *
Monday morning a Boulder Isle city truck dropped off Rob on the sidewalk adjacent to The Abbey. He desired a second look for the object Carol Malone fixated eyes on when the two met at The Abbey. Du ja vue when a car parked across the street. This time the woman wore a pants suit.
“Good morning, Melissa.” His formal enunciation reflected respect.
Melissa’s soft tone asked, “Why are you here? Carol didn’t tell me she submitted rebuilding plans to the city.”
“No Abbey plans filed.” He clipped a tape measure to his belt and absorbed the tension radiating from Melissa’s glum facial expression and rigid shoulders. He didn’t remember anything he’d done recent to upset her, although he smarted from her zoning commission appearance two years previous where his recommendation had been ignored. “Mayor Johnson requested an updated report.”
“He can’t drive by?”
Rob didn’t want to speak snarky or answer any questions about the mayor’s abilities or intentions. His mind totally mesmerized at the moment by her zoning board appearance. “Do you remember two years ago when you appeared before the zoning commission to argue for a porch variance?”
“Yes, why? You changing the historical requirements.”
“It just came to mind.” His sole scraped concrete.
“Better not. My home in the historic district featured a Victorian façade similar to neighboring homes, except the rear porch, a key architectural element, torn off.” She pushed three or four hair strands off forehead.
“If I recall you bought that house from Emil Gunderson, Alice’s father.”
“That’s public record.”
What wasn’t public record had been the way Melissa played the committee member emotions as he expected she could try on him. But two years of dealing with persons seeking variances strengthened him in the undercurrents of zoning appeals. “Then and now the existing rules for building setback are unambiguous. Your application for a variance deserved to be denied as I recommended.”
“Why you still obsessing about something two years old?”
“Zoning has to be consistent as well as according to the agreed rules. What you got the commission to do was an aberration from sound principles.”
“As I recall you sat at that meeting with the city’s code regulations on the table in front of you.” He noticed she’d crossed arms across her chest. “I might not have read the entire book but I think it opens with a statement that strong communities are preserved by encouraging a connection to historic traditions and maintaining past structures.” Rob shook head one time and then kept it still. “My architect didn’t deviate from the original porch in either dimensions or materials. You know that. You had to have read my application.”
Escalating warmth grew at the nape of his neck and he breathed a sign of relief he’d left tie in the office. “I did and your application factually admitted that the porch would fail to meet the code’s ten-foot setback requirement. If you recall, I also pointed out to the commission that they’d voted down a neighbor’s application for the same type variance.”
“That house had a significant difference. They were erecting a new porch. I was restoring an old porch to recreate the home’s historical past.”
“No difference. The setback consistency is what’s key. Your neighbors were two elderly spinsters. They didn’t wear high heels that clicked on the hearing room wood floor nor did they wear a fashionable, purple-and-white, frilly dress—the exact school colors of Boulder Isle High School. Nor a waist-length white cotton jacket to add a touch of business conservatism.”
“You know, I’m impressed in a way. Seldom does a man remember what a woman wore two days ago unless it’s a sluttish leather mini.”
Her jabs struck like dagger pricks. He tapped a foot. Objectively he had to admire her for belittling him after condemnation of her employing blatant sex appeal and community pride to win a personal victory. Rob recalled how, at her commission appearance, his pulse quickened; when all attention in the room, especially his, devoured her wholesome, well-proportioned beauty. His fingers tapped the table in time to swaying hips. She affected his emotions more than he’d