Low murmurs could be heard as people's heads leaned together. Angela could hear soft words of praise for her parents, so recently killed in a car accident. Her feet ached in the black pumps that she longed to shed, even for a few minutes. She knew from experience, however, that it would only hurt worse once she had to put them on again.
At 35, Angela had been handed her ass repeatedly in the last year. Her marriage of 8 years had ended abruptly when her worthless excuse for a husband got his secretary pregnant. Angela had waited at Steve's request, watching her prime childbearing years slip right by the wayside. There was always "next year," Steve said repeatedly. "Well," Angela thought, "next year might never come now."
Then, just as life was settling back into something that looked like normal, came the knock at the door. Two highway patrol men stood at her door, shifting their feet uncomfortably. They had been kind, she supposed, as they broke the news that her parents, not yet 60, had been killed instantly after being struck head-on by an oncoming semi-truck whose driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. "Ma'am, we doubt they ever knew what hit them, they never suffered," the patrolman had said earnestly.
Angela tried to take comfort in it, but comfort was in short supply at funerals. She reached up, unconsciously, to feel her honey blonde hair was still trapped in the chignon she had wrapped it into this morning. A quick check in the mirror showed that her hazel eyes, while red-rimmed, were clear. Her mascara had held up well. Her lipstick had come off, but she couldn't be bothered to reapply it. At 5'7" tall, slender and no children to mar her figure, everything was holding up just fine. "So long as the wine keeps coming," she grimaced, reaching for another glass.
Strong arms encircled her. "Had enough yet?" A deep, warm voice murmured in her ear. Angela whirled and threw her arms around her startled brother. "Jeff, when did you get in?" Angela's big brother had arrived and she was able to let go of the iron control she had maintained for so long as she sobbed into his shoulder.
Jeff Kramer was 37 years old. At 6'2" tall, he towered over his baby sister and he never let her forget it. She had always sworn she would catch up to him when they were little, but she never had. He shared her coloring they had both inherited from their mother. Their dad had fire engine red hair and was freckled. They had both thanked their lucky stars they had avoided that fate. The children of two school teachers, they had enjoyed a wonderful childhood in a stable home. Their parents always had summers off and they had spent them wandering with their kids. There wasn't a lot of money for extras growing up, but there had been no shortage of love.
Jeff let Angela cry a little, then he said, "We'll both cry it out later. Let's see what we can do to convince people to clear out." He pulled his sister's face away from his now-ruined suit coat and looked at her. "What is it with you? You should look like a hot mess after an ugly cry like that, but instead you're gorgeous. I freaking hate you, Angie Bean."
Angela groaned at the nickname. Her brother hated green beans, so to bug her, he had started calling her "Angie Bean" as a child. It was annoying, because nothing she came up with bothered Jeff as much as "Angie Bean" bothered her. Wiping her eyes with a napkin, she downed her wine, then circulated amongst the guests. She agreed all over the room that they had been "lucky" to die together, that they "would have wanted it that way." It never ceased to amaze Angela the dumb things people would say at funerals. "Yes, I'm thrilled my parents died together! Saved me a fortune on the funeral," she wanted to scream. "We got a two-for-one discount from the funeral home."
Sadly, she had been brought up too well to resort to such bitchiness. She would save it until later for Jeff, who would appreciate it.
Finally, the crowd started to thin. She was grateful they hadn't had a reception at the house. This would be someone else's mess to clean up. Angela didn't want to deal with her parent's place today, anyway. She doubted Jeff would, either. They would go back to her place, drink more wine and bawl, just as things should be.
Those thoughts were still in her head when she felt strong fingers take her own, encircle them and squeeze them gently. "Come on, Angie Bean, let's get out of here." They said goodbye to the stragglers, thanked the funeral home staff and walked out to Angela's car. "I hope you don't mind giving me a ride. I can get a hotel ..."
"No way, Jeff! You're staying with me." She popped her trunk so he could stow the small bag he had with him inside. They both got into her car and huddled, shivering, while the engine warmed up. "I can't believe how cold it is already," Angela whined. Only November, yet they had already had a snowstorm, the one in which their parents had been killed.
Jeff groaned. "Tell me about it! I left 75-degree heat to come up here to freeze." He had settled in New Orleans years ago and it seemed to agree with him. She had visited him a couple of times and loved it as a tourist, but she wasn't sure what it would be like to live there all the time. Ohio was home and that's all there was to it, she guessed.
She drove them to her place, a small two-bedroom condo. She had certainly downsized from the large home she had shared with Steve. She let him have it and used the proceeds of her settlement to pay cash for this condo. It suited her and the upkeep was a snap. As she let them inside, the warmth of the place instantly took the chill out of her bones.
She showed Jeff to the guest bedroom and got some towels for him to use during his stay. She hadn't asked him how long he was staying. She was sure he would let her know when he was ready. She was off work for the rest of the week. A teacher like her parents, she had called for a substitute for the first time in her career. She guessed she had earned the grieving time.
Kicking off the hated pumps, Angela changed into sweats and a large sweater. She eschewed underwear and a bra. She slid her aching feet into her beloved Uggs slippers and sighed with appreciation. "Why can't fashion be comfortable?" she wondered for the millionth time. She used the bathroom, washed her face and then wandered back out to the living room.
Jeff had already changed, started a fire in her fireplace and had found a bottle of her wine. Two glasses had been filled and a plate of cheese and olives sat out on her coffee table. "Ah, you helped yourself. You're the perfect house guest." Angela sank onto the couch and laid down, her head in her brother's lap. "You can stay."
