and her knees weakened. She placed one hand on the desk and lowered herself into her chair. “It’s Grandpa.”
Glory stiffened, her eyes instantly alert. Quickly, she crossed to Joy. She put her hands on Joy’s shoulders.
Joy felt her support and covered one of Glory’s hands with her own.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is he sick?”
“He passed away. Last night, dear. Massive heart attack.”
“But…” Joy tried to make sense of what she was hearing. Frank could not be dead. He was her touchstone. “He was fine last year at Thanksgiving. I mean, I know he took a couple naps. And when I last talked to him, he said he had to cut the call short because his poinsettia supplier was on the other line.” Joy’s eyes were full of tears, but she didn’t feel them. Her face had turned cold. Her hands shook.
“Frank’s attorney tried to call you last night. He said he left a message…”
“My phone was off. Then this morning, my fia—my boss called right when I woke up. He’s relentless and he talked to me on the entire subway ride and up until I walked into my office.”
“I understand, dear. Now, you have to come back here immediately and tend to the funeral details. The attorney wants to go over the will with you. His name is Kyle Evans. I’ll text you his number. Joy, I’ll do all I can to help you with anything you need.”
“That’s sweet of you. Thank you.”
“We all loved Frank, dear. This is a shock to all your friends back home. Call me when you arrive.”
“I will.” Joy hung up.
Friends? What friends did she have in Indian Lake? None that she knew. There was only her grandpa, and now he was gone and she was alone. She put her phone down and dropped her head into her hands. “I feel sick.”
Glory rubbed Joy’s shoulders. “I’m so, so sorry, Joy. What can I do?” Glory asked.
“Nothing. There’s nothing anyone can do. My grandpa is gone. My only family. I…I have no one.”
“Not true. You have me. And—and Chuck…” Glory’s voice trailed off.
Joy looked down at the incoming text from Mrs. Beabots with Kyle’s phone number. “I have to go back to Indian Lake. ASAP.”
“Sure you do, sweetie. But…” Glory glanced out the door.
“What?”
“That’ll make your new father-in-law-to-be not so overjoyed.”
“The firm can live without me. Chuck is very capable. Even though he puts a lot on my shoulders, he’ll be fine,” Joy replied firmly. “Grandpa was all I had. Plus, I need to take care of the funeral arrangements.”
“How long will all this take?”
“A week, tops. Besides, I have over a month of accrued vacation. Honestly, I can video chat with our clients, and with text and email, no one will know I’m gone.”
“Tell me what I can do,” Glory said.
“Would you mind going to the apartment and packing a bag for me? Casual stuff. And a dress for the funeral? I’ll book my flight now.”
“Done.” Glory rushed to the door and stopped. “Joy. You know I love you, girl.”
“Love you, too. And thanks.”
As Glory whisked out the door, Joy dialed the attorney’s number.
The call was picked up on the second ring. “Evans and Evans Law. How may I help you?”
“Hello. This is Joy Boston. I need to speak with Kyle Evans. I just received his message that…my grandfather, Frank Boston…” Joy’s voice was chopped off by the biting burn of sorrow in her throat. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she dropped her forehead to her palm. “…died…”
THE AUDITORIUM SEATS at Saint Mark’s Elementary School were filled to capacity with parents, grandparents and students who applauded as the final curtain fell on the traditional Thanksgiving pageant. Adam Masterson bolted to his feet and proudly yelled “Bravo!” as his son, Titus, took another bow.
Adam felt his heart swell and his sight blur watching Titus’s smile radiate across the expanse. Titus. The light of his life, the motivation that forced him to get out of bed in the morning despite the shroud of grief he wore since his wife, Amie, had died three years ago. “Well done!” Adam shouted, smiling at Titus, who stood next to Timmy Bosworth, dressed in a Pilgrim costume.
Timmy took Titus’s hand in his and raised it over their heads. “Thank you and happy Thanksgiving!” Timmy announced to the crowd.
The audience erupted in more applause as the curtain fell for the last time.
“Adam,” Sarah Bosworth said, as she hoisted three-year-old Charlotte into her arms, “Titus was wonderful. He recited his lines like a professional actor. I felt like I was right there on Plymouth Plantation with those kids.”
Adam couldn’t help the rush of pride that shot straight up his spine. “He was good, wasn’t he?”
“He was. Timmy told me that he and Titus only practiced three times.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Adam said, bending closer, his hair falling over his forehead. “I think Titus has an eidetic memory. The first time I took him through his lines, he’d memorized everything.”
“No kidding?” Sarah’s eyes widened. “Wish I had that ability.”
Adam glanced toward the stage and saw some of the kids running down the aisle. “He’s been reading since he was three. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at anything he does.”
“Trust me,” Sarah said. “Gifted children aren’t easy. I know. Both Timmy and Annie are exceptional, and just last week, I caught Charlotte here sitting at the piano playing with Annie.”
Adam chucked Charlotte under the chin. “A prodigy, huh?”
Charlotte tossed her blond curls and laid her head on Sarah’s shoulder. “I like piano.” Charlotte smiled up at Adam.
“Dad! Dad!” Titus shouted exuberantly, as he worked his way through the throng of parents leaving their seats. Titus’s rented Pilgrim costume was faded but fit well. He did struggle with the black hat, which tended to interfere with his ever-present sport band that held his thick glasses in place. Titus’s mom had been myopic, too. But unlike Amie, Titus tended to be quite clumsy, always impatient to race to the next room, the next day and the next adventure.
“Dad! Did you see me?” Titus hurried up to Adam and flung his arms around his waist.
Adam smoothed Titus’s thick black hair away from his forehead and looked down into his eager crystal-blue eyes. His son looked exactly like Adam had when he was “nearly six”—minus the glasses. “I did! And you were the best. You did great.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Titus hugged him again.
Timmy Bosworth rushed up to Sarah, along with his eleven-year-old sister, Annie.
“Mom,” Annie said. “Can I take Charlotte backstage to see Mrs. Cook?”
Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Why does Mrs. Cook want to see your baby sister?”
Annie glanced sheepishly at Titus, who had a conspiratorial expression. “Um. I told her Charlotte could play piano.”
Charlotte squirmed out of Sarah’s arms. “I can play!”
Annie reached for Charlotte’s