She hated it.
Everyone enjoyed it.
Afterward, she pulled Naomi aside.
“You could have skipped the funeral story.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because people think you were born wise.”
Vivian stared.
“Who?”
“Nobody.”
Naomi laughed.
Vivian did too.
Ruby died first.
Eighty years old.
Stroke.
Not immediate.
Enough time for family to gather.
Vivian visited the hospital.
Ruby looked at her.
“You still cook macaroni wrong.”
Vivian laughed.
“Dying and still ignorant.”
Ruby smiled.
Then became serious.
“Take care of Naomi.”
Vivian stared.
“She is fifty-seven.”
“I know.”
“She takes care of everybody.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
Ruby closed her eyes.
“Nothing.”
She opened them again.
“Old habits.”
Vivian took her hand.
“Okay.”
Ruby died two days later.
Carter & Sons handled the funeral.
Naomi hesitated about using the family business.
Then realized avoiding it for symbolism was still symbolism.
Vivian did not direct arrangements.
She attended as family.
That distinction mattered.
During visitation, Naomi found her mother’s old sewing box.
Inside was the pale yellow dress.
Folded carefully.
The satin had faded.
Naomi sat down.
For a moment she was eight again.
Church steps.
Sunlight.
Vivian crouching.
Immediate family.
Then Lillian’s hand.
Running across the parking lot.
James Holloway with the briefcase.
Naomi cried.
Lillian found her.
She was fifty-eight now, gray appearing at her temples.
“What?”
Naomi held up the dress.
Lillian stared.
“Mine is in Mom’s attic.”
“Of course.”
“They plotted this.”
“They were sentimental criminals.”
They laughed.
Lillian sat beside her.
“Do you remember running?”
“Yes.”
Naomi smiled.
“You dragged me.”
“You were slow.”
“I was crying.”
“Excuses.”
Naomi touched the fabric.
“Do you remember why you went to Mr. Holloway?”
Lillian thought.
“I knew Grandpa told him something.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
Naomi stared.
“You ran across a funeral parking lot with no plan?”
“I was nine.”