The Swan House by Elizabeth Musser Page B

Raven Dare. Only this seemed so much better. I’d discovered a whole new world.

Chapter 5
    I t was on July fourteenth that we buried Mama. Daddy chose that day because Mama, being half French, loved France, and that was France’s Independence Day. The funeral services for the victims of the crash stretched over the whole summer, and I went to probably fifteen of them, along with Daddy and Trixie and about everyone else in Buckhead. Mama’s service at St. Philip’s was filled with the same sad people wearing their black suits and dresses, dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs as they quietly cried.
    Daddy’s family had several plots in Oakland Cemetery. It was an historic place because it was the first cemetery in Atlanta, established in 1850. The first twenty-five of Atlanta’s mayors were buried there, along with the great golfer Bobby Jones; the author of Gone With the Wind , Margaret Mitchell; a lot of Confederate soldiers; and a large portion of Atlanta’s elite families, white, black, and Jewish. But as I’d seen with Carl, Oakland was located in the section of Atlanta that was fast becoming known as the bad part of town. As we drove to the cemetery, I thought of my peek through the bars the Saturday before. For a split second I forgot I was at Mama’s funeral and remembered the afternoon with Carl and his family. It was a pleasure to lose myself for a moment, because I felt as though I was suffocating inside. We’d cried and grieved and hurt for over a month, and now we had to do it all over again. Would Atlanta never finish grieving for her dead?
    A bunch of my friends were there and some of Jimmy’s. After the graveside service, Jimmy wandered over to stand with his friend Andy Bartholomew. Andy’s older brother, Robbie, was my age, and I’d met him several times before. Now he came up to me. He reminded me of a cross between a football jock and a Boy Scout—and actually, he was involved in both of those activities. He was as tall as Daddy, maybe six feet, with reddish brown hair that was cropped short and a tanned face and warm golden eyes. He had an athletic build, strong and svelte, but when he smiled, his face filled with dimples and he lost any suave look. He seemed, I don’t know. . . he seemed nice, kind. Boy Scoutish.
    â€œI just wanted you to know again how sorry I am, Mary Swan,” he said, clearing his throat. He managed a half smile, and one dimple appeared. “You know my family’s here if there’s anything we can do.”
    â€œThanks, Robbie.” I felt suddenly awkward in my new black linen suit from J.P. Allen’s. I nibbled on my lip. “You know, Andy’s been great about inviting Jimmy over. It’s no fun being alone with your thoughts in our big house.”
    â€œAndy’s glad to have him over.” He reached for my hand and held it briefly. “I am so sorry, Mary Swan.” He started to leave, then added, “And if you need anything, if you ever want to get a burger or something, there’s a bunch of us who meet at the Varsity on Sunday evenings.” He smiled briefly again and met my eyes.
    I could feel the heat running up my cheeks. “Thanks. Thanks, Robbie. I’ll think about it. I will.”
    As soon as Robbie walked away, Rachel Abrams was by my side, poking me in the ribs. “Talking to Robbie Bartholomew, are you?” she teased.
    â€œRachel! Don’t you have any respect for etiquette!” I scolded. “It’s Mama’s funeral.”
    Rachel gave me a quick hug and then took me by the shoulders. “I loved your mom, and I love you. And you know as well as I do that life has got to keep going. It can crawl by unnoticed while you suffocate at home, or it can be discovered.” Then those magnificent blue-gray eyes of hers gleamed at me as she whispered mischievously, “And who are you to talk to me about etiquette anyway?”
    I wiped the