Yesterday had been sunny - discordantly so, it seemed at the time. For a day so full of heaviness and burdensome tasks, it had seemed better suited for rain. But no, Alabama had treated them to an unreasonably warm, muggy, sunny day to send her father into the great hereafter. Until nighttime, anyway, when the skies had opened up and dumped fierce buckets of rain over the earth. He'd lain next to Charlotte, crammed into the full size bed that was hers as a girl. She'd let him spoon her, let him press kisses to the back of her neck, her shoulder. Nothing meant to rile her up, just enough to soothe. She'd taken measured, steady breaths, and Cooper had listened for any trace of a hitch, any indication of the misery he knew she was mired in. She'd never broken.
Today, the skies are cloudy, a weak stream of sun trying valiantly to fight its way through. Fitting weather for a funeral, he thinks, although he hopes it doesn't rain again until after the burial. Charlotte had been worried about muddy grass at the gravesite.
And it's no surprise, considering her shoes are thin heels. Not quite stiletto-thin, but enough that softening the ground with water could make graceful walking a challenge. She's sitting on the edge of the bed now, slipping her feet into them and quietly reciting Psalm 23 to herself. Her mother had asked her to read it at the service.
Charlotte is dressed already, and Cooper is only halfway there. She'd muttered something about needing to get a move on a few minutes ago, but now she seems to have gotten sucked into her own little world. She might as well be the only one in the room. He pauses for a minute to watch her.
"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He leads me to lie down in," the low murmur stops for a second, shakes her head slightly, and corrects, "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside the still waters, He restoreth my soul. His rod and his staff they comfort me. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil for thou art with me. His rod and his staff-" She's said that part already, he thinks, and the thought's barely crossed his mind before she realizes it, too, and cuts herself off again with another shake of her head, and a quiet, annoyed, "Damnit."
She takes a deep breath, and starts again, as Cooper reaches for his tie, loops and knots it slowly. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters, he restoreth my soul. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." She pauses, then says slowly, "Surely goodness and mercy..." A disgusted exhale, and she mutters, "No, that's not it. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. You prepare a table for me in the presence of mine enemy..." She closes her eyes, focuses.
Cooper can't look away from her. He's seen Charlotte naked before. Without a stitch of clothing, or a drop of makeup. He's seen her down to the skin, but there's something about this, about the quiet recitation of her prayers in her childhood bedroom, the day she lays her father to rest... She's stripped bare in a way he's never seen her before, perched there in her funeral clothes, trying to wrestle her brain into submission for something as simple as a prayer.
"You anointeth my head with oil... Ugh."
And failing.
She blows out a breath, opens her eyes, stares at her shoes, and starts over. Slow and even this time, right from the beginning, each word spoken with careful intent. "The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He restoreth my soul." She missed a line. He knows this one, too - it's Old Testament, after all, and Baptists aren't the only ones who use it to mark someone's passing. She skipped the still waters, but he doesn't stop her. The end seems to be the part that keeps tripping her up, and he doesn't want to throw her focus. For a moment he thinks she's realized her mistake - her frown deepens noticeably, and she pauses just a second longer than usual. But then she forges ahead with, "...He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake." He'd forgotten about that verse altogether. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. For thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest for me a table in the presence of mine enemies..." Another pause, and he says the next line in his head, pulls for her get it herself, and smiles when she does. "My cup runneth over. Thou anoinest my head with oil. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." She takes a deep, relieved breath, and finishes with, "Amen."
She looks up at him then, acknowledging his presence for the first time in minutes when she asks, still frowning, "Did that sound right to you?"
He wants to take pity and tell her yes, but he knows better: she'd want the truth. So he says, "You skipped a line. Still waters."
She makes a noise of frustration and reaches over, stretching along the bed until she can reach the Bible on the nightstand, then sitting back up and flipping it to the bookmarked page. Cooper slips his feet into his socks, and then his shoes.
Charlotte reads the Psalm again correctly, quickly, softly. Twice.
Then, she closes her eyes and breathes it to herself from memory as he sits next to her on the bed, so close their thighs touch. She does it right this time, and seems more satisfied with herself, so Cooper dares to ask the question he's been wondering since she started this whole exercise, "Aren't you going to have it with you?"
"Yes."
"Then why do you need it memorized?"
She shifts uncomfortably, presses her lips together slightly in that way she does before she says something even she doesn't like, and then admits, "In case I can't see the words."
His heart breaks for her, for the millionth time since he set foot in this house, and it shatters into even tinier pieces when her chin quivers ever so slightly. She sucks in a breath, lifts her head up further, and smoothes her expression into something perfectly controlled. Polite. Safe for public consumption, he thinks. She's determined not to cry, but just in case she does... she doesn't want the added shame of losing her place in a verse everyone knows.
Cooper slides his hand over, grips hers tightly - or tries to, anyway. She pulls her fingers from his grasp almost immediately. "If you can't see the words, just find me," he urges. "I'll remind you."
She looks at him then, a look of cautious gratitude on her face. She nods ever so slightly, smiles kindly, but her whole demeanor, everything down to the soft tone of her voice, seems incongruent with the words she gives him in reply: "Thanks, but I think I have it now." And then she tells him, "If you're ready, we should go," and stands. His thigh feels cold in her absence. "I don't want to be late."
"Right." He pushes to his feet, reaches for his suit jacket on the other side of the bed, and she's already out the door.