Mr. Imperfect

CHRISTIAN KELLY CRIED at funerals. For a man who never wept it had been an appalling discovery. He figured the combination of somber hymns, gentle sobbing and church rituals struck some sentimental Irish chord and caused him to blubber like a baby.He solved the problem by never attending funerals, which solidified his reputation as a hardened sinner. So it was a testament to his affection for Muriel Medina Rose that he came back to the New Zealand hometown he loathed, wearing the darkest pair of shades he could find, and stole into the last pew midway through a stirring rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In."Kezia Rose appreciated the irony. Knew her grandmother would have, too. Still, it started a fit of giggles she fought to control--hysteria wasn't far away. It didn't help that she stood in full view of the congregation, shaky hands clasped, waiting to do her reading.She dug one spiky heel into the top of her other foot until tears came to her eyes. Then looked at the coffin and had to force them back. Not yet. Not until she'd done her grandmother proud.Why hadn't she expected him?When she felt herself under control, Kezia looked again, coolly now, to where Christian sat, a big-city cat among country pigeons. Maturity had chiseled his features back to strong bone, his thick black hair finally tamed by an expensive cut. Beneath a pair of reflective sunglasses he held his full mouth tight, almost disdainful. In thrall to a newer, stronger grief, she looked--and was not burned. A small sigh of relief escaped her.The music faltered to a stop in that ragtag way of amateurs and the minister gave her the signal. Three steps to the podium, deep breath. She found her place in the Bible's tissue-thin pages.Her voice cracked on the first line; she stopped. Began again, one word at a time, found a rhythm, shut out emotion. The mantle of responsibility soothed her, reminded her who she was. A pillar of the community--teacher, chair of numerous country guilds, churchgoer. New owner of a hundred-year-old ramshackle hotel in Waterview.The bone-dry Hauraki Plains town had sprung up around the Waterview pub, both named by Kezia's Irish forbears in a fit of whimsy and not--as Christian had once joked--to provoke a powerful thirst in the locals.Not thinking about him right now.The words on the page ran out; the last full stop looked like a bullet hole signaling the end of one of the happiest times of her life. Dazed, she looked up to see Christian, in classic Armani, disappear through the arched church doors. And she was glad. Glad he'd made the effort to come, gladder he'd left without making contact. She had enough to cope with today without saying goodbye to someone else she had loved.And lost.CHRISTIAN STUMBLED TOWARD the car park, barely able to see through his fogged sunglasses. Damn it! Temples pounding, he groped through the open window of his car for a box of tissues, yanked off the shades and mopped up the damage. Kezia's fault. The first break in her voice had brought a lump to his throat, then her words--thin, brave and clear--had sliced at his self-control like stiletto knives until he had to get out of there.He swung around to face the gabled church and glared at its white clapboards and gray iron roof, mottled with lichen. An old-fashioned church, gravestone companions rising to the left, rose beds to the right in a riotous clash of pinks, reds and yellows. Whoever had planted the damn things had been color blind. Funny he'd never noticed that when he was growing up.But he remembered the scent. Sweet. Lush with summer heat. He'd always been attracted to women wearing floral scents--now he knew why.Kezia.In a prudish black suit at odds with her body. Christian was annoyed at his relief that she still wore her dark hair long. Of course he'd expected her to still be beautiful in that remote, untouchable way that had once driven him mad--but that no longer attracted him. He prefBliss, Karina is the author of 'Mr. Imperfect', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373781188 and ISBN 0373781180.