“That’s great. Colleagues.”
“So you going out tonight to celebrate your big promotion?”
“I don’t know if I feel like celebrating. Michael’s funeral is the day after tomorrow.”
“I heard.”
The elevator pinged and we stepped on. I pushed the button for Eighteen. “It feels so weird and surreal, you know?”
“Tell me about it. The place isn’t the same without him. I feel really bad for his wife. Losing a spouse, that’s tough,” Hardy said. “Right after my Junie died, those were some of the roughest days of my life.” Hardy’s voice was soft, distant. I decided against interrupting him. I had absolutely nothing to offer in the way of empathetic words. I’d never shared anything about my personal life with anyone here at work and I wasn’t going to start with this conversation. Everybody else at Houghton considered themselves family. But they weren’t my family.
We stepped off the elevator and headed toward my office. Hardy continued, “Nobody loved me like that woman. Nobody. Not even my own mother . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry. What happened?” I said.
“Cancer. Ovarian. In the end, it spread everywhere.” He went silent for a moment. “I’ll tell ya one thing,” he said, his voice now booming again. “I would have lost my mind if it hadn’t been for Nate. He might be the CEO, but he was right there with me through it all. He said I was family and he treated me like it, too. At the end, he was right beside me at the hospital. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that guy.”
“I’m sorry about your wife.”
“Thanks. Anyway, I really think you’re gonna like working for Nate. He’s the best.”
We arrived at my office. “Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime.” Hardy sat the sample books in one of my guest chairs and surveyed my tight office. “Looks like that new office is gonna be an upgrade.”
“Just tell me the HVAC system works better up there than down here and we’re good.” We laughed.
“Listen, you need anything, you just holler.” Hardy ambled off.
I dropped the remaining clunky books in the guest chair, plopped into my chair, and clicked on the heater under my desk. Moving up to the executive suite would be more than I’d ever taken on before and my doubts were larger than my confidence. Could I pull off the task of running an entire department? Did I really want to replace Michael and sit in the very same office where he died? Vera would have called this my “God sense” trying to warn me. I dismissed it all as nervous jitters. I would be the first Black executive vice president at Houghton.
To hell with nervous jitters.
Chapter 7
I hate funerals.
Three days after Michael’s death, I trembled as I climbed the front steps of the First Presbyterian Church of Buckhead, a small frame structure rapidly filling to capacity. News trucks were perched along the street, almost as many as the first day after his death. Grizzled and fresh-faced reporters alike stood in front of bulky video cameras and the cameramen shouldering them, speaking into microphones and pointing at the mourners. Why the sudden media interest again?
Everyone filed into the church, heads bowed, stiff-lipped and solemn. Most people headed to the front row to offer a hug and personal condolences to Anna, Michael’s wife. I couldn’t face her. I quietly slinked along the side wall before taking a seat several rows behind Michael’s family. I spotted Hardy across the aisle from me, along with the attorneys and staff from the Legal Department sprinkled in among the mourners. Despite the large crowd, only an occasional sniffle or cough broke the somber silence.
If would-be gawkers thought they’d attend, looking for the vicious evidence of Michael’s demise, Anna had other plans. No open casket with Michael’s body pumped full of formaldehyde, slathered in camouflage crème and lip tint. Thank God. At the front of the church, an oversize picture of Michael was propped on an easel. He was tanned, windswept, and smiling as he steered a sailboat. An easy and carefree shot that bumped up against the uncomfortable solitude of the sanctuary.
And the respectful solemnity of a Presbyterian service was not lost on me either. Every funeral I’d attended before this was a full-out Southern Baptist “homegoing” service, replete with wailing women screaming, Why, Jesus?, a hard-charging raspy-voiced preacher whose eulogy lasted well over an hour, and open caskets that weren’t closed until the choir’s final verse of “I’ll Fly Away.”