As the soloist was finishing off the last of the horrid song, I looked around the church at those who chose to pay their final respects to Carol Jean. Some of the men had wet eyes and sorrowful expressions, but none of the women did. They sat tight-lipped and dry-eyed, their arms securely and possessively linked to their husbands', as if trying to prove to Carol Jean that in the end, they had "won."
One couple, in particular, caught my eye. It was Darren and Sandra Hammock, the village grocer and his wife. He had tears freely flowing down his cheeks and blew his nose noisily in his pocket handkerchief. Mrs. Hammock sat next to him, her eyes never leaving the front of the room, but she looked like she was barely suppressing a volcanic eruption of her own eulogy for the deceased.
Mr. Hammock ran a respectable business, selling everything from local produce to bottles of Tylenol. He also had a vast collection of high-end bottles of wine, which were quite popular among the elite for their fancy parties. It was commonly known that Carol Jean would flirt with any male creature with two legs, but some were under the mistaken delusion that her attentions were reserved exclusively for them. Poor Mr. Hammock was one of those caught in her snares. Every time she was in his shop, she would amp up the charms, receiving a scandalous deal on her order of wine, and setting Mrs. Hammock's teeth on edge. By the time Carol Jean left the shop, Mrs. Hammock's face would be as crimson as the wine her husband had just squandered away for half its value. He would argue that Carol Jean's valuable business was worth the loss in profit, that it was more of an investment. But Mrs. Hammock made sure she was always close at hand when Carol Jean's sweeping frame came through her front door.
One couple, in particular, caught my eye. It was Darren and Sandra Hammock, the village grocer and his wife. He had tears freely flowing down his cheeks and blew his nose noisily in his pocket handkerchief. Mrs. Hammock sat next to him, her eyes never leaving the front of the room, but she looked like she was barely suppressing a volcanic eruption of her own eulogy for the deceased.
Mr. Hammock ran a respectable business, selling everything from local produce to bottles of Tylenol. He also had a vast collection of high-end bottles of wine, which were quite popular among the elite for their fancy parties. It was commonly known that Carol Jean would flirt with any male creature with two legs, but some were under the mistaken delusion that her attentions were reserved exclusively for them. Poor Mr. Hammock was one of those caught in her snares. Every time she was in his shop, she would amp up the charms, receiving a scandalous deal on her order of wine, and setting Mrs. Hammock's teeth on edge. By the time Carol Jean left the shop, Mrs. Hammock's face would be as crimson as the wine her husband had just squandered away for half its value. He would argue that Carol Jean's valuable business was worth the loss in profit, that it was more of an investment. But Mrs. Hammock made sure she was always close at hand when Carol Jean's sweeping frame came through her front door.
