Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm. The tension was palpable. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. “In the end,” it seemed to be thinking, “they embalmed me with the utmost respect—sound spices chosen to endure—the best! I took my world as I found it. Death belongs to God, young man. Not then. You are always doing something for nothing, and that is why I love you.
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