STEPPING  UP

PART SIX:

A large crowd was already milling about the parlor of the funeral home when

Holli and Steve arrived.

"Holli! Over here!" a female voice called softly.

"It's Mom," Holli told Steve, taking his hand and leading him through the

mass of standing people.

After giving her mother a hug, she said, "Mom, this is Steve Moran, the guest

at the B&B."

Steve took the proffered hand. "Glad to meet you Mrs. Tittswell."

"Do call me Maria," Holli's mother replied, trying not to stare at the red marks

almost covering the exposed parts of the young man. She did turn her gaze on

Holli, opening her eyes wide as though asking a silent question.

Holli rolled her eyes and mouthed, "Later."

Maria turned her attention back to Steve, who was standing a bit tipped to the

right as he favored his left leg. "I hear you are in from New York to photograph

our paper streets."

"Yes," he nodded. "Got off to a rather rocky start yesterday, I'm afraid."

Holli's Dad came up behind them, giving Steve a hearty slap on the back in

greeting. Steve's eyes bugged out and he clamped his lips on a forming scream

as his knees buckled slightly.  Holli quickly grabbed his elbow, then worried

that might be hurting him, too.

"Dad!" she cried. "Don't do that!"

Norman moved around so he could see Steve from the front. "Good gravy, Son,

what attacked you?"

"Raspberries," Steve gasped.

"Raspberries?"

"And gravel."

"Raspberries and gravel?"

"That's what he said, Dad!" Holli almost snapped. Steve had gone quite pale

and she guided him to a nearby chair, Marie, Norman, and Holli all hovering

over him.

"Ok, Holli," Norman said as she squatted in front of Steve, looking anxiously

up into his face. He was blowing out little puffs of breath and had his eyes closed.

"What's he mean raspberries and gravel?"

None of them noticed the tall man watching the little scene over Norman's shoulder.

"His photographic equipment shifted on the bike he was riding and in trying to

protect that, he hurt himself on the gravel road."

"And the scratches?"

"That was from one of the paper streets, Dad. An old wooden railing gave way and

he fell into a huge raspberry bramble."

At the sound of a hearty male laugh behind her father, Holli's eyes whipped around.

"Martin?"

"Yeah, Baby, it's me."

Steve raised his head, looking up through his lashes at the man who stepped up next

to the half-risen Holli. "Here, Baby, let me help you up." The man took hold of her

upper arm.

"I'm perfectly capable of standing up myself," she muttered, jerking her arm away.

So this was Holli's ex, eh? He was a good 6'5" tall but bore no resemblance to Steve's

Aston Martin fantasy. He had wavy, almost curly dark brown hair and a profile

straight off a Roman coin. His lips were a bit thin and curved into a smirk as he

indicated Steve with a slight jerk of his head.

"This your new bed warmer, Hols?"

Her fingers itched with the desire to smack him, but this was Tara's funeral and she'd

not let him get the best of her. "Why are you even here, Martin?" she asked icily,

ignoring his question.

"Came to pay my respects to your Auntie, of course."

"You never even liked her, Martin. You know that. I know that. Tara knew that."

"Tsk, tsk, Hols. Such ill-concealed aggression. I'm...shocked. And after I sent all these

flowers, too."  His arm took in the better part of the room where one enormous

arrangement loomed after another.

"I'd say too little too late, Martin, but it's obviously too much too late. You and your

need for display."

"What if I said I just wanted to see you?"

She almost snorted. "Fat chance of your meaning that."

"But, Hols, I did want to see you."

"Why, Martin? Do you think I lifted a Ming vase or something when I left?"

"Oh, Hols, be a sport, will you? I just wanted to look at you again." He reached

out a large hand, brushing her curls.

With great effort, Steve stood, his lips pressed into a white line. "I'll thank you

not to touch her hair," he said, his voice quiet, very low.

"Not touch...? Who do you think you are?"

"I think I'm the man who's going to marry her."

Both Marie and Norman turned startled eyes on their daughter.

"Marry her? Good Lord, man, then you have my condolences," Martin

said, making a dramatic face.

Holli's eyes blazed. "Go away, Martin."

Steve was trying desperately not to wobble as he balanced on his one good leg.

"You heard the lady."

Martin tipped his head back and laughed. "You gonna make me? Looks like

you just lost a fight with a baby porcupine." He looked down at Holli. "What

the hell are you doing, Hols, with a piece of shit like this?"

Holli wrapped her fingers around Steve's arm, wounds or no wounds, and

could feel his muscles cording. "No, Steve," she hissed. "Not here. Not at

my aunt's funeral."

The muscles relaxed. She was right. He smiled slightly, his lips tight, at the

much taller man. "I believe you were asked to leave the premises."

Martin grinned then swept into a perfect, courtly bow. "As my lady commands,"

he said. "But not you, wimp." And with that he gave Steve a spread-fingered

push in the middle of his chest that sent him staggering back against the chair.

Almost in slow motion the chair went over backwards with him, the back of his

head smacking sharply against the floor. He lay still, stunned by the blow. Martin

smiled, turned on his heel and left.

"Steve!" Holli cried, flinging herself to her knees beside him. His arms were

spread wide, his legs still over the back of the chair. "Oh, God...Steve!"

He moaned but didn't open his eyes. "Just give me a sec, Holli. I think I broke

my head this time."

Mr. Pottsworth, the funeral director asked if he should call 911. Both Norman

and Marie told him to but Steve insisted he'd be all right if they just let him

lie there a moment. Holli took his right hand, holding on. She was shaking

from too much emotion: Tara's funeral, Martin's cruelty, Steve's being injured

yet again.

Norman gently pulled the chair out from under Steve's legs and squatted on

the far side of him from Holli. "Sorry about all this, young man," he said.

"Damn stupid of me to slap you on the back like that, then that VanFrussen

jerk had to go and shove you over a chair." He looked at Holli. "You are

damn well rid of that son-of-a-bitch."

Steve was lying very still. "You sure he's all right?" Norman asked, his brow

deeply furrowed.

"No, I'm not sure, not at all," Holli muttered, blinking back tears. "Maybe

Mr. Pottsworth should go ahead with that call."

Steve squeezed her hand. "I'm not going anywhere in any ambulance, Holli.

I'm just letting my brains unscramble, that's all."

"You could have a concussion," she pointed out. "Probably do. You need to

see a doctor."

"Maybe later. Not going to interrupt Tara's funeral with men in white coats."

He lay still for about five more minutes then announced he was ready to sit up.

"You sure?" she asked.

"Yeah," he sighed, not looking forward to it.

Norman moved to take his left arm. "Be careful, Dad! Watch where you touch him."

"Where, Sweetie? Where on him's not hurt?"

"My lips seem pretty ok at the moment," Steve replied, attempting a grin.

"You want we should pull you up by your lips?" Norman chuckled, liking Steve's

spunk.

"I think you're just going to have to hoist me as best you can," Steve said. "I

promise not to scream too loud."

"Well, ok, then," Norman smiled, beginning to understand why Holli liked the

guy so much. Getting behind Steve, he reached under his shoulders and lifted

until the young man was sitting upright.

"Oh, God," Steve gasped, clamping a hand over his eyes.

"Dizzy?" Holli asked.

"Yeah."

"Ok, Mister. I'm taking you to the ER as soon as the funeral's over."

"No," he said. "No big city ER. I hate those."

Holli looked helplessly over Steve's head toward her father. "St. Clair," he

suggested. "Small, suburban. Try that."

"Good idea, Dad. Thanks!"

Steve fixed her with a bleary gaze. "What's St. Clair?"

"Small hospital just a bit south of Mount Washington. I'm taking you there.

No argument."

"Bossy."

"Get used to it, Buster," she smiled. Then something on a sideboard just beyond

Steve caught her eye. "Let him sit there a minute," she said, getting to her feet.

"I'll be right back."

The majority of the long sideboard was taken up with Martin's showy arrangements,

huge sprays of gladiolas and birds-of-paradise mixed with giant football mums...that

sort of thing. But nestled between two of the large vases, tucked back almost out of

sight, was a tiny plant potted in clay, with a small lavender ribbon tied around it.

Carefully she fished it out, turning it in her hand. It was a violet, a living, growing

violet. A little card attached to the ribbon read, "Tara, I'm so sorry I missed the

pleasure of your company. Know that I will treasure your Holli always. Steve."

It was the smallest flower there, but the most perfect of them all. She lifted the

little plant, rubbing a velvet leaf against her cheek, leaving a tear sitting on

its soft green surface. "Oh, Tara," she whispered. "How I wish the two of you

had gotten to meet."

Then with firm steps she carried the plant into the adjoining room where the

funeral would be held.  Tara's coffin lay open in front of a small altar. Walking

up to it, she looked down at the quiet form of her great aunt, resting there in

the deeply-quilted white satin in her favorite blue dress. "I'm going to miss

you terribly," she breathed, touching Tara's white hair. Then she tucked the

little pot in the crook of Tara's arm. "But I want you to take this with you.

Watch over it, all right, and watch over Steve and me."

Then she turned back to the room where Steve was waiting, lifting her chin

and blinking away her tears.

Mr. Pottsworth was beginning to usher people into the larger room for the

funeral. She and her father helped Steve to his feet where he stood, swaying

slightly for a moment, then seemed to work up enough steam to make it

into the other room. She and Norman stayed close to him on either side

and guided him toward a chair on the front row.

"Wait," he said suddenly as they tried to seat him. "I want to see Tara first.

I need to see her at least once."  He went up to the coffin and looked down

at her, her face serene and quite lovely. Holli stood at his side. "Oh, Holli,

he murmured, "she's beautiful. I wish...."

"I know," she said. "I really know."

Then he saw the little pot of violets. "You did that?"

"Just now," she explained. "I wanted her to have them with her."

"Do you have any idea how much I love you, Miss Tittswell?"

"I'm beginning to," she answered softly.

ON TO PART 7

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