The first thing Claire Dodd noticed was that the photograph beside her coffin made her look kinder than she had ever felt. It had been taken many summers earlier, before the sleepless nights, before her husband started checking the windows as if someone was watching them. Now her picture stood on an easel beside flowers, candles, and a neat oak coffin meant to contain the end of her story, arranged as if her absence had already been approved.
Claire stood at the back of St. Agnes in a plain black coat, rain sliding from her hair onto the stone floor. For three seconds, nobody moved. Then her sister dropped the pamphlet of hymns. Her mother made a sound that was not quite a cry. At the pulpit, Colin Dodd gripped both sides of the lectern and stared as if the dead woman in the frame had stepped down.
Claire walked up the aisle slowly. Every face turned. The priest forgot the next line. Colin’s mouth opened, but no words came out. “Please,” Claire said, stopping beside the coffin. “Don’t stop on my account.”