Excerpt from A Kiss From A Rose by Andrea Geist

At the head of the casket, a compelling man stood two steps behind the preacher. A group of young women huddled under umbrellas, protecting themselves from the drizzle or grief. The remaining mourners sheltered beneath a canvas canopy.

Fenn heard the drone of light rain, a white-noise background to hitched sobs and the deep tenor of the preacher’s graveside eulogy. Alone and gray as the day, she remained apart from the others. Her fingers worried a piece of lint in her coat pocket. Sorrow blanketed the cemetery. Emptiness fed on her heart.

She gulped the cold moisture-laden air. Everything appeared hazy and remote as if she viewed the service through a thick lead colored window screen. Lonely. Her friends did not beckon to her. They had not pulled her into their embrace. Here, in this place of regret and remembrance, she stood apart.

Her eyes drifted back to the man standing behind the minister. She didn’t know him but she recognized him. But she had never seen him before. Fenn would’ve recalled such a memorable visage. His clean-shaven face of hard angles reflected a stark anguish. He wore a black suit coat, white shirt, starched jeans and shiny black cowboy boots.

His eyes moved to her and remained. He had green eyes, the color of the churning gulf sea. The tight compressed line of his lips relaxed as he returned her gaze. He nodded to her.

Fenn’s gaze darted away. She focused on the pointed toes of her oxblood boots to the short trampled grass. The shuffle of feet caught her attention. She raised her eyes to the casket. A slender manicured hand dropped a long stem yellow rose.

Clusters of people walked away from the service. A body clad in a brown wool coat moved through her line of sight. Another hand with yet another rose followed. Compelled, Fenn counted each offering. The sixteenth rose tumbled off the wet casket to the ground. The bud of the nineteenth drooped.

Twenty-three. Twenty-four. There that should be all. Every woman had left a token of fellowship. She turned to leave but caught a blur of movement.

A twenty-fifth rose. A white rose, heavy like clotted cream was placed atop the dark stained veneer of the casket. The bud so astonishingly perfect Fenn recognized the promise and purity of love.

She jerked her gaze to the cowboy. His hand lingered over the deceased before closing into a loose fist.