Steel gray with plush upholstery, parked right out there in the driveway.īut I did, laying him to rest in a properly ordered Presbyterian ceremony as he would’ve expected. But a proud widow, too, and justly so, because I’d made such a fine and fortunate choice of husbands.īut I tell you, I thought I’d never get over the shock of finding Wesley Lloyd dead as a doornail, slumped over the steering wheel of his new Buick Park Avenue. Lord, there was more money than I ever knew Wesley Lloyd had, and it all belonged to me, his grieving widow. Sam Murdoch had agreed, and he ought’ve known since he was the executor of the will that had put me in my present more-than-comfortable position. Making a list of the items I intended to call in for and having a good time doing it, since Binkie Enloe’d said I needed to spend some money. So I was sitting in my living room trying to get my mind off the heat by looking through a stack of mail-order catalogs. But I don’t believe in speaking ill of the dead, even when it’s the truth. He felt that way only at home, though, because his office at the bank was kept cool enough for the three-piece suits he wore day in and day out. Wesley Lloyd said it was a waste of money and, besides, fresh air was good for us. Lord, it was hot that morning, and I recalled again how Wesley Lloyd had always put his foot down about air-conditioning the house, even when the Conovers had theirs done.
The deceased never knows what you have to go through to get his affairs in order, and Wesley Lloyd’s were in as much order as they could get.
I declare, this business of dying has more legal aspects to it than you would think. We’d buried Wesley Lloyd Springer some few months before that hot, still morning in August, and I hoped I was through signing forms and meeting with lawyers and shuffling through various and sundry legal papers.
I’D JUST CAUGHT my breath after the shock of my husband’s sudden passing when his last legacy showed up on my front porch.
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