The Lesson

By Joyce Ward

When Pamela Tripp’s favorite uncle dies, she attends the viewing with her stoned-artist boyfriend, Kevin. After an altercation with her disapproving mother, Pamela can’t leave the funeral home soon enough. Before she heads home, however, she needs to use the restroom. En route to the ladies room, she plucks a bloom from an expensive floral display, resulting in a harsh reprimand from one of the morticians.

 

He sends her to use the restroom in the basement, which is being remodeled, and issues a warning to be careful and not wander around. But a ‘Caution’ sign on a locked door catches Kevin’s eye and captures his attention. In spite of Pamela’s protests, Kevin breaks in the door, grabs her hand, and takes her on a frightening journey she will never forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Apr 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781771551328

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Champagne Books 

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2015 by Joyce Ward

ISBN 978-1-77155-132-8

February 2015

Cover Art by Trisha FitzGerald

Produced in Canada

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Champagne Book Group

19-3 Avenue SE

High River, AB T1V 1G3

Canada 

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Champagnebooks.com (or a retailer of your choice) and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To my family and friends who always encouraged me to follow my dreams.

One

Pamela Tripp stifled a sob and stared at her uncle’s body inside the coffin. His head rested on a pale, yellow pillow. He didn’t look dead; he looked asleep. She kissed her fingertips and pressed them against the smooth, dark wood of the casket.

Goodbye, Uncle Mack.

The last time she saw her uncle alive was a little over a week ago—at the family’s Memorial Day picnic where he spent most of the day in front of a grill, flipping burgers and steaks while downing bottle after bottle of ice-cold Bud. Pam left the picnic early, not even taking the time to say goodbye. At forty-eight years old, he was much too young to die. Family get-togethers would never be the same.

Kevin, her boyfriend of two years, drew her to his side. Leaning into him, she welcomed the comfort he offered.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a tall, redheaded woman in a stylish, black pantsuit standing in the doorway of the slumber room. As if holding court, she greeted the mourners who filed inside. Mother.

Pam pulled away from Kevin’s embrace and grabbed his hand. Let’s get out of here before she notices me.

Pamela.

Too late.

Her mother stormed over. She yanked Pam’s arm and hustled her away from the coffin and into the carpeted hallway. Good Lord! Look at what you’re wearing. I raised you better than this. Don’t you have any respect for your uncle? Or this place? she whispered through clenched teeth, her dark eyes flashing.

Of course I do, Mother. I just don’t have any respect for you.

A slight, elderly man in a gray, pinstriped suit doddered toward them, his wrinkled brow etched with worry. I’m Edgar Mason, the director of this fine establishment. Is there a problem?

Mother showed the old man her toothy grin. Not at all. We’re fine.

If I can be of any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask. He nodded at Pam and her mother and shuffled off to welcome mourners arriving at Mason and Sons Mortuary.

Her mother locked arms with Pam and led her farther away and out of earshot of Edgar Mason, who kept glancing over his shoulder at them.

For God’s sakes, Pamela, she said in a hoarse whisper. "I can’t believe you showed up with him. Her upper lip curled, and she jerked her head at Kevin who stood off to the side. He’s higher than a kite."

Hello, Mrs. Tripp, Kevin said, slurring his words.

Mother’s left eyebrow shot up. Hel-lo. Kevin. Her voice dropped an octave and skidded to a crawl as she regarded him. Scrutinized him. When her focus drifted back to Pam, her narrow-eyed gaze traveled up and down the length of Pam’s body.

Frustrated, she blew out a deep breath and waited for the fashion critique that would surely follow.

I’m utterly stunned. Mother shuddered. Couldn’t you find anything more appropriate to wear than jeans and a T-shirt? She eyed Pam’s Louis Vuitton knockoff handbag and cringed. Mother didn’t disappoint.

"I wore black. So did Kevin. Isn’t black appropriate for a funeral?" When are you going to mention my hair? Pam waited for derogatory comments about her spiked, burgundy hair, but none came. She must be slipping. And Kevin has black hair. That should count for something, she added, hoping to get a rise out of her mother.

Mother’s jaw went slack. She leaned forward and stared in Pam’s eyes. My God, you’re high too, aren’t you?

You’re a fine one to talk, Pam shot back.

Both used substances to ease their pain. Mother swigged vodka. Pam smoked marijuana. What was the big deal?

Didn’t she realize Uncle Mack had been Pam’s favorite relative? The only one who never judged or harassed her? She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She would miss him terribly. Today, in the mortuary parking lot, she’d taken a couple of hits from the joint she shared with Kevin to numb the sting of her uncle’s passing. Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill.

Perhaps it would be a good idea if you took your starving-artist boyfriend someplace to sober up.

His name is Kevin, Pam said in a quiet voice. And he’s very talented.

That’s a matter of opinion, her mother snarled.

Silence crash-landed in the crowded hallway, and every head turned in their direction.

Now look what you’ve done. Her crimson lips eased into a stiff smile. Everybody’s staring at you. Why do you always have to make such a spectacle of yourself? Couldn’t you refrain from getting high today of all days? Goodbye, Pamela. She spun around on her expensive black,