We're living in a broken home of hopes and dreams
There's a scrap of lace on the dresser in the main bedroom. It looks like a doily, a little out of place in the rugged bedroom with its massive furniture, but a feminine touch to remind anyone who sees it that a woman does still exist, for all that she screams at the world to be forgotten.
He doesn't come in here often. He has his own room at the cabin, big enough to bunk with someone else when all four of them are up here, with the other two in the third room. This one smells like cedar, because Evelyn can't stand the smell of mothballs. She says they remind her of him, decaying in that room.
Only he's not in that room anymore. He's decaying somewhere else. The ceremony was private and quick. A man already dead the past three years couldn't be sent to the funeral home to be embalmed. Monday morning in the cool misty air they'd taken care of it. Caleb had dug the grave, since Gorman's back couldn't handle the strain. It wasn't like they could call the gardeners from the main house.
Caleb pushes it away again, wondering why he's in here, but he doesn't leave. His fingers brush the scrap of lace, picking it up and carrying it with him from the side table where she'd laid it so carefully to the bed in the center of the room. He sits there, holding it, fingers tracing the pattern of roses that were woven through it.
It just looks like doily, but he knows better. She told him once, tears in her eyes from grief and scotch, that it was a piece of her wedding veil. In the pattern of roses are woven all her hopes. Her dreams. Their future. The life they could have had that she's living alone.
He thinks of Sarah and the look in Evelyn's eyes when she came down the stairs. Was it only his imagination that it was pity mingled with the pride? She's so convinced he's just like him. The same promises. The same hopes. The same dreams.
The same power, now, running through him. If his grandfather couldn't resist, if his father couldn't, how can he? He knows she thinks it. For all that it was her doing, he saw the look in her eyes when the last shovelful of dirt fell. She was burying him in there with his father, too broken now to hope for anything else, knowing for certain inside herself that she'd saved him and doomed him in a single act.
Does Sarah think the same thing? He saw the fear in her eyes as the windshield came back together. A flicker, and then gone, and her hands wrapped tight around the hand he'd used to do it. To hold him down? Hold him back? Both of them tight there and clinging and the hand she held, clenching the lace in it now, shakes as he wonders if, like his mother, a scrap of a veil is all she'll be left holding in the end.