Hidden Riches Read Online Free PDF Page B

himself a glass of chilled Riesling, then mixed a martini for Archer. “Don’t be ridiculous. If there’s one thing I know about this town, they do not tolerate homosexuals very well. And definitely not homosexual ministers.”
    Archer accepted the drink, sipped from it, then muttered, “Well, if he ain’t now, he used to be.”

    In her bedroom, in her house around the corner and down the street from Ana Mae’s, Rosalee stared at the ceiling, trying to somehow come to grips with the fact that Ana Mae was gone. Really, truly gone. Tomorrow they would put Ana Mae in a grave.
    â€œThey may as well do the same thing with me,” she thought.
    Ana Mae Futrell was her best friend in all the world. Rosalee didn’t know how she was supposed to go on without the routine they’d established. Without coffee over cinnamon rolls. Or dissecting the preacher’s sermon while flouring up chicken for frying.
    Rosalee closed her eyes. Rocked back and forth in her bed. Trying to hold back the tears. Trying, and failing, to dam all the emotions.
    â€œThink about after,” she said. “Just think about after.”
    She’d been stunned, then flattered when Everett Rollings told her she needed to be at the reading of Ana Mae’s will. Rosalee couldn’t imagine what her friend had left for her. Even though Ana Mae had hit the lottery, there wasn’t never no evidence of it in her house or in the way she lived. She still cleaned houses and ironed clothes for her regulars. Just like her mama did.
    Thoughts of Sister Georgette, long gone on to glory, made Rosalee smile. Now there was a true Southern lady. Despite Delcine’s airs—imagine wanting people to call her by that fancy name Marguerite? Who ever heard of such—and despite JoJo’s over-the-top clothes and makeup, the fact was neither of them could hold a candle to their mama.
    Georgette Howard Futrell—Sister Georgette to everyone who knew her—raised ’em all. But only Ana Mae got any common sense and decency. Maybe that was because she always remembered where she came from and gave people the love they needed.
    Ana Mae was a friend’s friend, and Rosalee’s grief, which she kept bottled inside during the daylight hours, came pouring out at night when she realized that Ana Mae was well and truly gone.
    â€œLordy, Lord,” she whispered as the tears started up again. “I’m sure gonna miss you, Ana Mae.”

    â€œTrust me,” Clayton said. “No preacher of Ana Mae’s is gay.”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    â€œWhat do you think will happen tomorrow?”
    â€œWe’ll bury your sister,” Archer said.
    â€œI mean with the undertaker, or rather the lawyer,” he said, sampling his wine. “And that’s a perfect example of why I escaped this place. Only in small-town North Carolina would you have an undertaker who is also the lawyer.”
    Archer smiled, amused. “Actually . . .”
    â€œDon’t tell me. You know someone at home who is a mortician-attorney.”
    â€œNo. What I was going to say is I think the town is kind of charming. Nostalgic even.”
    The curl of Clayton’s lip and the jut of his chin spoke volumes. Clayton despised his hometown. Archer had heard plenty of the horror stories. Returning for the funeral had apparently opened wounds that had yet to heal, even after all these years and miles away.
    â€œNostalgic,” Clayton practically spit. “Let me tell you about nostalgia around here.”
    He yanked up the sleeve on his shirt. “You see that!” He jabbed his finger at a zigzag scar on his arm. “That’s what’s it’s like to be a fag in a small town. I got sliced there. And there,” he said, yanking his undershirt up to reveal the six-inch scar along his side.
    â€œI know, Clay.” Archer’s words were low, soothing. “It was a long time ago. Things