Hidden Riches by Felicia Mason Read Free Book Online Page A

can do for your family, please don’t hesitate to contact me,” he said, handing a small, cream-colored card to Delcine, one to Clayton, and another to JoJo. “You have my deepest condolences.”
    One of the nurses, anticipating that he might fall out from grief, stood nearby and walked at his side as David Bell made his way up the center aisle and back to his seat in the rear of the church. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed his path.
    Then, as yet another preacher launched into yet another long-winded prayer, the three Futrell siblings and their spouses studied the business cards they’d been given.

    D AVID Z. B ELL
C HAIRMAN A ND CEO
T HE Z ORIN C ORPORATION

    The company’s Columbus, Ohio, address and telephone numbers were embossed in the same rich coffee-colored ink as his name.

    As the man of the Futrell house, Clayton had been designated as the family spokesman today, a job Delcine thought was rightfully hers as the oldest. So when his name was finally called to give reflections on the life of his older sister, Clayton rose.
    The pulpit overflowed with preachers and holy women, so many that folding metal chairs from the funeral parlor had been brought in to accommodate all of them. More flowers in sprays and bouquets and memorial tributes filled every other spot.
    The flowers alone astonished every single one of the Futrells. Who knew people cared that much about Ana Mae? Since Delcine spoke at the wake and Clayton would now speak at the funeral, JoJo had been the designated family member who would collect the cards. They’d go through them later. Not that any of them actually knew the people who had sent them.
    Forcing his mind back to what he was supposed to be thinking about, Clayton unconsciously straightened his tie, then put the first foot on the three steps leading to the pulpit and microphone.
    Reverend le Baptiste cleared his throat. Loudly.
    Clayton put his right foot on the next step.
    Coughing broke out on the dais.
    He glanced up. The pastor of Ana Mae’s church and about a dozen other clergy members were giving him what could best be described as the evil eye. Definitely a thou shalt not look.
    Unsure, Clayton paused on the step.
    â€œBrother Futrell,” someone said behind him. “There’s a microphone for you right here.”
    Suddenly furious and feeling tenfold the slights he’d endured his entire life in Drapersville and Ahoskie, Clayton refused to let them intimidate him.
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said, stepping up to the pulpit. “I’ll just stand here.”
    Gasps erupted from both the mourners and the preachers, mostly Baptists, with a few Pentecostals and Evangelicals also in the mix.
    Three on the dais rose, as if to block the sacrilegious from their holy ground.
    â€œIt’s all right,” Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste said. “Let the boy go on.”
    Clayton, not knowing that he’d broken a cardinal rule of the black church—thou shalt not step into the pulpit unless ordained—nodded his thanks to the minister and patiently waited for the sputtering from the three and the murmuring from the assembly to quiet down. He glanced at Archer, who smiled at him.
    Clayton’s mouth dropped open.
    It was the first true smile he’d seen from his partner in a long time. A long, long time.
    They’d been going through a rough patch lately. Well, he conceded, it was more than a patch. They were just about splitsville. This trip to the East Coast, to bury the sister Clayton never took time to get to know, was probably their last as a couple. So to see Archer smile, to get that silent encouragement from him meant more than words could ever say.
    Tears welled in his eyes. He tried to blink them back, but to no avail.
    â€œThat’s all right, brother. We understand,” someone called from the audience.
    Clayton wiped his eyes, wondering for a moment what the person was talking about and when in the