Afterlife : A Santa Barbara story
By Kevin Hardy						Accueil   Home

C.C. Capwell’s commanding eyes opened slowly, his vision blurred. He was seated alone in an immense room of sorts, the predominant colour a deep orangey-red. He rubbed at the strangely smooth skin around his eyes, the movements unusually fluid for a man of his advanced age.

C.C.’s milky vision soon cleared, and he was now able to make out his surroundings in more detail, as impossible as they were to comprehend. He was seated on a wicker chair in the expanse of the old Capwell atrium, a space he had not seen like this in over 30 years. He looked around in nervous awe, as waves of nostalgia coursed through him. Was he dreaming? He struggled to remember his previous moments, where had he been? He could hear Michael Feinstein in his head and felt Sophia’s trembling hand resting on top of his own clammy palm.

“Hello, C.C.,” sounded the most pleasingly melodic voice, although it did not belong to Sophia as he would have expected. Shock overtook his features, as he looked up to witness a radiant Mary Duvall walking towards him. His first instinct was to clutch his chest, despite the fact he had never felt so healthy.

“I’m dead,” the powerful man blurted out, “my God!”

C.C. ‘s face immediately reddened, it approximating the shade of his walls. “Oops, sorry,” the man mumbled bashfully, this an uncommon inflection in his naturally booming voice.

“It’s okay,” a smiling Mary assured him, the angelic vision clad beautifully in flowing white. “Truth be told, he loves the attention.”

“I’m actually sort of surprised I made it up here,” a slightly stunned C.C. noted, his mind still trying to assess his reality.

Mary grinned sweetly and clasped the hands of her one-time father figure. “Your heart was always pure, even when your actions weren’t,” she expressed. “I once told Mason that unless you and he made amends, the gates to Heaven would never open to either of you. But your final moments together at Adriana’s wedding were a wonder to watch.”

“You were there?” C.C. asked, remembering the long elusive intimate moment he and his eldest child had shared at Cruz’s hacienda in Mexico.

“Someone has to keep an eye on your wayward son,” Mary declared whimsically.

A contented C.C. looked down at his hands, which Mary was still holding. While they appeared to be far younger in appearance than at the end of his life, they seemed older than they had just a few minutes prior.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Mary advised, as if she could read his mind, “in Heaven you take on the appearance of how you were remembered by the person you are with and this is how I knew you.”

C.C. gazed upon Mary with great warmth. “You were always like a daughter to me,” he shared. “I am so sorry for not stopping you from going to the roof with Mark.”

Mary shook her head in gentle protest, her chestnut hair cascading over a laced Sabrina neckline. “It was my time,” she pronounced, “the absolute right thing.”

C.C. seemed confused by this revelation. “Is everything pre-ordained?” he sought, as he tried to reconcile what he was seeing with his own belief system.

“Yes and no,” Mary answered cryptically, “it’s rather hard to explain to a newbie.”

“A newbie?” C.C. laughed. “I haven’t been called that in a long time.”

“It does take some getting used to,” Mary agreed, “for all of us. How long have I been gone from Earth?”

C.C. thought for a second, the internal gears of his rejuvenated mind whirring. “36 years, I think.”

“Well, to many of the residents, that might as well be five seconds. Time is more free-form here.”

C.C. pondered this, his neurons lighting up like the bulbs on a Christmas tree. “So, what now?” he soon prompted.

“It is time to visit with some people from your past,” Mary explained, “call it a welcoming party.”

C.C. smiled broadly, revelling in the possibilities. “Should I change?” he asked, as he pushed his chair back into the stone fountain, which was now running again, the water smelling faintly of honey, and stood up.

Mary laughed as she pointed at C.C. “Heaven has a pretty strict dress code,” she remarked, “at least for those who aren’t guardian angels. And Joan Crawford gets some special treatment as well.”

C.C. looked down and saw that his clothes had changed without his even noticing. He was now dressed simply in white slacks, a white knitted sweater and white tennis shoes. Thankfully, Mary remembered him with a little bit of black in his hair, which provided some much-needed contrast.

“So how do we do this?” he questioned. “Do we fly, teleport?”

“How about we walk?” Mary responded with a slight smirk.

C.C. shrugged and held up his hand for Mary to lead the way. Once they exited through the atrium’s heavy oak door, the scene shifted from that of C.C.’s sprawling California estate. His mind was not able to process the sights around him, his environment a vortex of swirling sounds and textures, as well as a thousand shades of sun dappled whites. “Don’t worry,” Mary comforted him in her naturally soothing tone, her words seeming to come more from within his head than through his ears, “it will all be clear in time. Sometimes, I am told, it can take a thousand years.”

“Can you see it all?” C.C. wondered.

“Well, I’m a special case,” Mary imparted. “I had a bit of an in with the big guy from when I was still back on Earth,” she joked.

The pair soon arrived at what looked to C.C. to be a playground, this filled with swings, see-saws and teeter-totters. Children also permeated the expanse, their innocent faces filled with life and light.

“A park?” C.C. inquired in surprise, as he felt the rough feathers of a peacock, the bird casually rubbing against his leg as it passed.

Mary witnessed the space through C.C.’s eyes, thinking back to her own arrival, which seemed like both a thousand minutes and a thousand years ago. “That is how your mind is able to process it,” she reasoned.

“They look so happy,” C.C. spoke contentedly, as the scores of children climbed, swung, and slid. “It’s so sad they’re here already.”

Mary gently squeezed C.C.’s shoulders. “There is no sadness in Heaven, no regret. And some of them have been here for longer than you can fathom.”

“Papa!” the kids cried, as they crowded around C.C., the man feeling utter confusion by this.

“Meet some of your grandchildren,” Mary presented.

A worried C.C. examined the various grinning faces, but none were recognizable to him.

“No,” Mary cautioned, sensing C.C.’s growing distress, “not to worry. These are the ones you did not get to meet. Over there are Eden’s children, right here are Kelly’s.” Mary placed her hands on the shoulder of one fellow chestnut-haired beauty. “This one is mine and Mason’s,” she added, her intonation approximating as much pride as was possible in Heaven.

C.C.'s face grew into a large grin, as he looked from the child back to Mary. “She’s gorgeous,” he gushed.

Mary smiled. That sweet ethereal smile had not changed one iota since her passing.

“Play with us, Papa!” the kids shouted.

“Not now, children,” Mary chided without a trace of rudeness, “your grandfather has his welcome party to go to. But you will see him really soon.”

“Where is the party?” C.C. asked, he having already forgotten where they were going to.

“Well that depends on you, C.C.,” Mary responded ambiguously.

“On me?” C.C. questioned. While on Earth this would have irritated the man greatly, somehow here that irritation was turning into wonder.

Mary smiled. “You’ll see,” she countered.

As Mary and C.C. stepped away, a richly layered voice emanated from the loudspeakers attached to the top of the play structures.

“Children, this afternoon’s frozen yogurt party will begin momentarily, there will be extra sprinkles and Boba for everyone. The topic of discussion will be how to remain a perfect child in paradise. The Game of Afterlife will immediately follow.”

C.C. and Mary walked for what seemed a lifetime, yet C.C. felt no stiffness in his joints or lack of breath. In contrast to the final years of his life, here with each step he grew more invigorated. Although they seemed to walk a great distance, no destination grew closer. Instead, it was like their destination slowly crept into being around them as they moved.

“Do you recognize it?” Mary soon solicited.

C.C. looked around him, the patterns coalescing into a coherent image. They were on a moving train, which was soaring through the clouds, white puffs of smoke melding with their cumulus cousins. Although every colour was a dazzling white, this appeared to be the train from the New Year’s Eve party in 1988, back when everything had been so right, and his family were all around him. “A magical place,” C.C. indicated in a downcast voice, “but none of the people I love are here this time.”

“Are you sure about that?” Mary challenged.

C.C. examined the empty scene, not understanding what Mary was asking of him.

Mary shook her head lovingly. “Not with your eyes,” she cautioned.

Without consciously knowing how, C.C. felt out with his mind, and with his heart. The chattering came first, and then the world exploded into place. There must have been hundreds of souls there, all somehow fitting so comfortably in the modest place. There were his parents, his grandparents, Hayley, Ruben, Victoria, Andrea, John, Joe, Amy, Carmen, Rafael, Caroline, the Rykers and so many others who had filled both large and small roles in his storied life.

“Well it’s about time you made it, Uncle C.C.,” sounded an elegant, yet somehow harsh voice from beside the man. “It may be Heaven, but there are still schedules to keep.”

A shocked C.C. contemplated his niece, Madeline. The aristocratic blonde-haired lady had passed in 1986, the same year as Mary.

“Now Madeline, give your Uncle a break,” Grant Capwell admonished his daughter, in the same baritone voice he shared with his older sibling, “he is a newbie.”

C.C. stared at his deceased brother. One only had to look at the men’s twin curly grey hair to know they were kin. “Excuse my shock,” C.C. apologized, while looking back to Madeline, “I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

“There are some advantages to being murdered, I suppose,” Madeline tiredly conceded. “But Uncle C.C., it is just so dreadfully boring up here. And the fashion,” she added, while fluttering her hands over their matching outfits, “it is appalling.”

C.C. patted Madeline on the head, as a raven-haired beauty walked into view, one C.C. had been intimately acquainted with in his earthly life. “Grant, we will talk soon,” he promised. Strangely enough he truly meant this, there being not a trace of resentment in his soul.

As C.C. approached Megan Richardson, Mary seemed to vanish, her essence joining with a spiraling wisp of cloud. Despite having the same white outfit as C.C., and everyone else, the deceased lady looked stunning, her golden skin luminous. C.C. wore an expression of pure delight.

“Hi, C.C.,” Megan warmly addressed, her modulations flowing through C.C. in perfect waves.

C.C. embraced Megan, his feelings for her pure and strong. “I have missed you so much,” he stated, as the environment shifted to one resembling the Capwell guest house.

“I’ve missed you too,” his one-time lover shared.

“I am so sorry for what happened to you.”

“It was my time,” Megan offered without malice, “just like it is now yours.”

“Was it painful?” C.C. asked carefully, alluding to her leukemia, “at the end?”

“From what I can remember of pain it was excruciating,” Megan disclosed nonchalantly, “but compared to the happiness I feel now, it was nothing more than a paper cut.”

“It took me a long time to get over you,” C.C. declared, “perhaps I never did.”

Megan smiled, while shaking her head from side to side. “Trust me that you did,” she replied honestly, as she wagged a slender finger, “otherwise we would never be allowed to touch like this; there is none of that in Heaven. No, you belonged with Sophia, I always knew that even when I wanted something else.”

C.C. nodded, feeling no need to deny his feelings. “You must be wondering about Greg,” he surmised.

“Greg is good,” Megan spoke on C.C.’s behalf, “you don’t need to update me. I am there for every minute, or most of them anyway. I’m sure I know more about him than you do.”

“He and I had hit a rough patch after the television show premiered,” C.C. confessed. “I fear I never made peace with him, that he hated me.”

“Here,” Megan said, as she placed a finger over C.C.’s heart. “This is how your son feels about you at this very moment.”

C.C. felt a crest of love surge through him like none he had never known. It was such a beautiful, pure, paternal love. There was a smile on C.C.’s face that seemed almost unnatural, one so warm and wide.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” the shaken man requested.

“The time for us to talk is over now, C.C.,” Megan observed, “as is the time for this form.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” a confused C.C. uttered.

Without a further word, Megan disappeared in a plume of white mist, as Mary reappeared before C.C.

“What is happening?” the rattled Capwell patriarch questioned.

“These forms are temporary, C.C.,” Mary informed him, “as are the words you are speaking. Cloud 9 is a transitional cloud, a place where you get to see your loved ones as they were, where you can take a moment to examine your life. This is only meant to last for a brief time as your soul expands beyond the physical.”

“Then what are we?” C.C. pondered, “what will I become?”

Mary gently brushed C.C.’s cheek with the back of her hand. “You will understand in turn,” she affirmed, “and soon you will be able to commune with all who you love in a new way, on a different plane. Come, it is time to move through the train, there are still many to see.”

Mary disappeared once again as C.C. strode through the train cars. He stopped in his tracks as he came to what must have been a casino car, this eerily resembling the gaming space in the offshore casino he had once owned. Sitting at a card table, with five cards placed on the white felt in front of him, which C.C.’s mind interpreted as green, was Lionel Lockridge. Lionel was chatting exuberantly with the waitress, his body still moving with the same infectious energy as it had on Earth.

“I didn’t even know you had died,” C.C. spoke in greeting.

“C.C. Capwell,” Lionel beamed, “have a seat. Care for a game?”

“Haven’t we done this once before?” C.C. queried, as he sat in the seat facing his earthly nemesis.

Lionel laughed, as only he could, the sound and motion seeming to spill out from every part of his body. “I suppose we did,” he acknowledged jovially.

“The stakes seemed so high at the time,” C.C. commented.

“This place does give one perspective, doesn’t it?” Lionel questioned knowingly.

C.C. stared at the silver-haired Lionel, who still seemed to possess a devil-may-care attitude, even here. “I’m trying to remember now why I hated you so much,” he stated.

“Careful with the hate word,” Lionel cautioned playfully, “not good for your ratings up here. The big man is obsessed with the Nielsen ratings. We tell him they’re an antiquated system, but he can be a little stuck in his ways. His favourite comedian is still Jack Benny. Before him it was Aristotle.”

“I am sorry for everything, Lionel,” C.C. pledged.

Lionel patted C.C.’s right hand, which was resting on top of two exposed kings. “No need to apologize for anything that happened down there,” he intoned. “We were all misguided, all living outlandish fantasy lives often with little consequence. Just moving from plot to plot, albeit some of us more eloquently than others.”

“How long have you been here?” C.C. inquired.

“In your concept of time, about 10 years now,” Lionel revealed.

“Are you happy?” C.C. probed.

“Strangely enough I wasn’t sure at first,” Lionel divulged. “The first face I saw at my welcome party was a disapproving Minx,” he added, causing C.C. to erupt in laughter. “Even in Heaven, huh? It is hard to differentiate emotions here, C.C., so many differing degrees of love.”

“Does that get boring?” C.C. asked.

Lionel smiled at this query. “Never,” he promised.

Just then, a train whistle sounded, and a small piece of paper appeared in C.C.’s hand.

“I think that’s your cue,” Lionel highlighted, as he stood and crossed the room to join his celestial beauty, Caroline, she having appeared moments before. The Southern Belle shared her dazzling smile with C.C., and then stood next to her earthly husband, his presence filling her with a sense of spiritual warmth. Together, the couple walked down the train corridor, they soon merging into a ball of pure white. Although white was the absence of colour, here it seemed to be anything but.

C.C. looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. If he had been on Earth the words would have chilled him, but here the feelings inspired were anything but. It read:

In haste, C.C. moved through the train, soon coming to a car which looked remarkably like the study in his cherished ancestral home. He walked towards his desk, the back of the tall, leather chair facing him. A miniscule part of him said to be worried, although he could not say for certain what that emotion felt like anymore.

The chair turned slowly, and a puff of white smoke shot out from the cigar that was nestled in the lips of a young man who had never realized his 20th birthday. C.C. stepped back slightly, his equilibrium challenged.

“Channing?” he murmured, his voice unusually slight.

Channing Capwell, Jr. stood, his face beaming and his golden blonde hair shining. “Hi, Dad,” the young man greeted as he walked around the desk to face C.C. He was so impossibly like C.C. in every physical sense, save for the colour of their hair. “It is so great to see you.”

“My beautiful son,” C.C. touted warmly, the strength in his voice rising, “it has been so long.”

“I forget how time moves for you down on Earth,” Channing remarked as he regarded his earthly father, whose face appeared to him now as it did in the early morning hours of July 30, 1979.

“It’s my fault you’re here,” C.C. lamented, the smooth, cold texture of the bullets that killed Channing so tangibly felt on his fingertips.

“Yes,” Channing yielded without rancor, “but not in the way you think. I know how much you and Mom loved me, but it is not your fault I passed over. It was inevitable with how I was.”

C.C. sized up his son, who was just the slightest bit shorter than he. “You were a perfect son,” C.C. insisted, “a true champion.”

“Also a blackmailer and a thief,” Channing added, “not exactly the usual prerequisites for entry into Heaven. But I am here because of you,” he marvelled, “because of your love. You see, it is only from the love felt for us by others that we are granted access to Heaven. I was a very confused young man, yet you saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself.”

“I pushed you too much,” C.C. bemoaned.

“No, you loved me too much,” Channing protested, “and how can that ever be a bad thing?”

C.C. gazed upon his namesake, whose eyes shone so bright. As their eyes locked, spasms of pure joy coursed through his body. It was a feeling of purity those on Earth did not generally feel beyond childhood, and it was as intoxicating as any earthly drug.

“And you know what really did it?” Channing continued, “what really brought me here? Even when you found out I was not a blood relation, your love for me did not die even a fraction. If anything it grew.”

“I raised you,” C.C. reminisced. “You were so much like me.”

Channing chuckled. “Your love even gave me the strength to help that rascal of a brother of mine one Christmas so long ago.”

Before C.C. could respond to this mysterious statement, Joe Perkins approached. The strapping young man, seeming so vital, was carrying the incongruous pair of a football and polo mallet.

“Channing, it’s time for our match,” Joe announced, before turning to a shocked C.C. “Hi, Mr. Capwell,” he welcomed as he held a hand out to the father of his greatest love back on Earth. “It’s really great to see you again, sir.”

“You’re friends?” C.C. asked, with the slightest hint of incredulity in his voice.

“Sure,” Channing replied, “Joe and I are besties. Forgive me if the term is out-of-date, it is hard to keep track of all the current lingo. Bulltwinkie is out of style, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” C.C. answered absently, as Channing rested his impossibly smooth hand on C.C.’s shoulder.

“Can you excuse me, Dad, it’s so rare we get a chance to play. We only manifest together in these forms when someone we both know passes through. We’re still trying to work out the kinks in our new football/polo mashup. In my opinion it’s a non-starter, but Joey has high hopes.”

“Sure,” C.C. agreed, “you go ahead. And Joe, it is a pleasure to see you again, son. I was wrong about you to the very end of your life, and I do so regret standing in yours and Kelly’s way.”

“Mr. Capwell, don’t worry about it,” Joe smiled, as he brushed away a stray lock of hair from in front of his thoughtful blue eyes, “it was a helluva ride.”

At Joe’s expletive there was a sudden thunderclap and the young soul shrunk back. “Sorry!” he called out. “I keep forgetting it’s a G-rated cloud,” he then whispered.

A smirking Channing pulled C.C.’s face close to his. “And Dad, don’t worry,” he began, “this is not the end for us. It’s impossible to explain, but we will have a lot of time to be with each other.”

C.C. too smiled. “I look forward to it, my boy. And Channing?”

“Yes?”

“I have another child who passed.”

Channing’s face tightened. “Yes, my sister of sorts, that is indeed something that must be attended to. Mary will help you with that.”

His words hanging in the ether, Channing raced after Joe who passed the football to him, Channing hitting it back with the polo mallet. As the young men receded into the ghostly distance, C.C. heard Channing ask Joe if Lady Cynthia would be watching them.

Even before she visibly appeared, C.C. could sense Mary’s presence. “What did Channing mean, Mary?” he pursued. “Is Elena here?”

Mary’s expression was bleak, one C.C. would not have thought possible in this dimension. “No, C.C.,” she replied, “she is not.”

C.C. grimaced. “Is she down…”

Mary shook her head vigorously. “Elena is caught between two worlds,” she elucidated. “As with Channing your love kept her from going elsewhere, but her sins were far graver than his. Indeed now that you have asked about her, there is a choice you must make.”

“Why do I get the sense I am not going to like this?” C.C. inquired nervously.

“Are you willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to give your daughter a second chance?” Mary queried ominously. “Are you willing to give up Heaven for your lost child?”

“What will happen to her if I say no?” C.C. questioned.

Mary placed her hands over C.C.’s heart and in an instant, waves of intense pain ripped through the man’s soul. It was a pain like he had never known and prayed he would never know again. Horrible images assaulted his trembling brain and being. In his mind he could see Zack Kelton standing over an impossibly large meat grinder, the man grinning wickedly as he ground Kirk Cranston’s body into bloodied bits, as if on an endless loop. He felt the agony of Dylan Hartley as Peter Flint stuck hot needles into his glazed eyes over and over again. He witnessed f Mark McCormick's torment as he was sodomized by the heinous Steve Bassett in every unimaginably horrific way, with every unimaginably horrific device. There would be no relief for the sick rapist C.C. only knew as Ken. He watched in disgust as Sonny Sprocket flayed the skin from the screaming man’s bones to the scratchy beat of the same country and western tune for all eternity.

C.C. clenched what he thought of as his eyes. “Is that where I would go?” he pressed Mary, his voice atypically small.

“Oh, C.C., no,” Mary disclosed warmly, “but you too would be caught between two worlds, trapped in a limbo of sorts.”

C.C. nodded. “Can I see her?” he requested.

C.C. suddenly found himself back in the Laser Palace, colour having returned to his world in its full garish force. The neon lights were blinking wildly in random patterns and the vintage 1980s music was blaring. Elena lay almost lifelessly on the floor in a back room, blood dribbling down her mouth. The young lady looked to be in so much pain, this both emotional and physical.

“Daddy,” Elena stammered, as C.C. rushed to her side.

C.C. smiled delicately. In just a few moments he forgot about the journey he had been on and was now invested in this moment with his entire being. He cradled his daughter’s head and softly caressed her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Elena sobbed, words the broken young lady truly meant.

“Shhh, you don’t need to speak my darling daughter,” C.C. reassured her. “I am so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“I love you, Daddy,” Elena professed, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” C.C. vowed, the feelings running desperately deep.

In a subtle flash, C.C. was back on the train, alone with Mary, the scene now resembling the roof of the Capwell Hotel, a strong wind shaking the giant neon C. “She has been there all this time?” the emotionally battered father asked.

“Time moves differently in the afterlife, C.C.,” Mary spoke, “I explained that.”

C.C. ran his hand down from his hair to his chin. “Whether she stayed as she was or went to Hell, that is something I cannot and will not abide,” he asserted.

“You would give up your place in Heaven for Elena? Not only giving up everyone you have seen here, but everyone still to come throughout eternity? Mason, Eden, Kelly, Ted, Greg, Channing III, Sophia?”

C.C. nodded gravely. “For my daughter, yes I would.”

Mary too nodded. “So be it,” she acknowledged.

“Before it happens, may I ask one favour?” C.C. petitioned.

“If it is something I can grant.”

“I would like to see my family again. Not the ones here, I mean, but the ones on Earth.”

Mary smiled. “That I can accommodate,” she granted. “And,” she added fancifully, “for that request we can teleport.”

C.C. soon found himself hovering over a large garden, this on the Capwell Estate. The palatial grounds were set up for what appeared to be a wedding ceremony. “When is this?” he speculated.

“June 15, 2023,” Mary answered. “It is Adriana's and Eden's double wedding day.”

C.C. examined the scene with great pride and joy, as he spotted everyone he loved scattered across the lush site. “That is a lot of Capwells,” he bragged.

“It is a wonderful family, C.C.,” Mary concurred.

“I know they have their faults, that I had my faults, but damn they look beautiful in this light.”

Kelly stood in the garden in which she was once married, the 61-year-old having the aura of a schoolgirl. She was dipping her hand in the giant stone fountain, designed by the great Paul Thiene, that was bedecked in golden poppies.

“Happy anniversary, Mrs. Hartley,” a contented Nick was saying, as he lightly stroked his wife’s silky hair, this having grown out in the last year. "Or in a few days, anyway."

“Of which, our wedding or my hot flashes?” Kelly joked.

“Of everything,” Nick spoke tenderly, as he nuzzled her neck.

“Mr. Hartley, behave,” Kelly joked, as Nick pulled back, his hands held up.

“Well don’t behave that much,” she laughed.

C.C.’s eyes drifted to a group of five, who stood on majestic stone steps, these framed by row upon row of towering Italian Cypress trees.

“My four favourite Castillos,” Samantha Capwell commented in greeting, as she smoothed out a fold in her burgundy skirt.

“Hey, Sammi,” Chip greeted warmly.

“It’s been too long,” Stella recognized, offering up a smile to her favourite cousin-in-law.

“I suppose I’ve been preoccupied,” Samantha accepted, “can you believe my death row case just finished? I suppose I was being naïve, but I did not conceive how long it would take.”

“Congratulations on the victory,” Stella lauded, “it was well deserved.”

“I just wish I could give Jamal half his life back. If there is a more just man living on this planet, I haven’t come across him yet.”

“You must be fielding a lot of offers,” Chip suggested.

“Yeah, but I really still can't see myself setting up shop in a cushy firm,” Samantha stressed. “Who needs a multi-million-dollar salary if it means I have to give up the satisfaction of telling Dad I didn’t want their money?”

Chip laughed, as he shifted the position of his newly born son.

Samantha walked behind Chip to examine the precious face nuzzled into her cousin’s shoulder. “And this little bundle of joy, he’s gorgeous. What’s his name again?”

“Lane,” Chip answered, as he braced himself for a sardonic bon mot.

Samantha let out as tiny a guffaw as was possible and still be labelled as such. “Victoria and Lane, really?”

“C’mon,” Chip protested, “don’t bust my balls, okay?”

"Leave him be, Sam," Stella counselled, "he just feels left out being the only one in his family not getting married today."

"I don't know, I'm sure I could find someone here," Chip joked.

"Third time at bat's enough, methinks," Stella cautioned her insolent husband.

On the flagstone path across from the altar, C.C. observed a stunning Julia, who stood with a finely aged Michael Donnelly, both outfitted in their formal best, save for Michael's still to be tied neckwear. The two old friends, who made a point to visit each other for coffee every month, despite their geographical distance, were holding hands. “Who would have ever thought we would be part of the same family,” Julia giggled. “My niece and your nephew, what are the odds?”

“I couldn’t begin to calculate, Julia,” Michael responded with no shortage of ironic mirth, "the Lord's writers work in mysterious ways. You look wonderful, by the way. Did I say how wonderful you look today.”

“Yeah, about 58 times," Mason Capwell stated dryly, as he approached the two platonic soulmates. "Get your own woman."

A grinning Michael looked to Mason and held out his hand. “Pleasure to see you, Mason.”

Mason refused Michael’s hand, instead pulling the laicized Priest, one who had been granted the unusual and extraordinary privilege of teaching theology in a Roman Catholic university, into an embrace.

“Careful, Michael,” Julia cautioned, “he’s become a bit emotional post-menopause.”

Approximately 10 metres away, the parents of the younger of the grooms were pulling out of an embrace of their own. “You look wonderful, Heather,” Scott Clark sincerely stated, his words echoing those of Michael’s. “You've clearly never heard of something called the passage of time."

“Thanks, Scott,” Heather said, she sporting a genuine smile.

“Is your practice going well?” Scott queried. “You still in San Diego?”

“Yes, to both,” she validated. “Sadly the COVID crisis brought in a lot of new clients.”

Scott nodded seriously. “Well, they are in great hands. Even back when you were first helping me to remember what happened to my Uncle Hal, I could see that.”

“Mikey was saying there was someone new in your life?”

Scott smiled. “Someone new and someone old,” he revealed. “I actually ran into Celeste, in Boston, where I’m living, and we’ve been seeing each other for a few months now.”

Heather looked surprised. “Wow,” she voiced. “Can’t say I would have expected that.”

“Me either,” Scott conceded, “but I owe it all to you, Heather. Before you I was so judgmental, too wrapped up in my own shit; everything was about me. You really helped me to see more clearly.”

“I’m happy for you Scott,” Heather conveyed, as she tugged gently on the greying hair, which adorned his Roman chin. “And I love the goatee.”

Inside the estate, Adriana Castillo adjusted her beaded veil. It was old-fashioned she supposed, but she really wanted to do everything right this time. Her parents stood in the room with her, their hands clasped tightly and both sporting wide-eyed smiles. “I think I finally know,” Adriana observed.

“Know what, sweetheart?” Eden asked, she needing to change into her own gown once Cruz had left the room.

“How you two feel about each other. I had no concept of that with Jackson,” she realized, “never once. But with Mikey, it just feels so…”

“So right,” Eden finished.

“Doesn’t seem like an epic enough word,” Adriana insisted.

Cruz and Eden, each happy the day would not end in a foot and horse chase around the grounds, pulled their precious daughter into a hug, devouring every emotion as only they could.

“I think it’s time,” Adriana soon spoke. “You ready to walk me down the aisle for the second and last time, Pops, and then make an honest woman out of Mom?”

“Wild horses, darlin’,” her proud father exclaimed.

From above, around, and within, C.C. Capwell was lost in joy as the Earth hours passed. Vows were recited, toasts given, and dearly departed family members remembered. Even Mary forgot herself as long-ago emotions flowed through her, she being in such close proximity to a life that once was. But as with all things earthly the moment passed, and the two found themselves back on the train car, this now resembling C.C.’s bedroom at the estate.

C.C. was once again in the nightwear he had died in, realizing his limbo would too be spent on a death bed. But considering Sophia, Eden, and Adriana would be by his side for all of eternity, how bad could that be?

“C.C., are you fully aware of the choice you are making?” Mary examined seriously. “To give up your place here?”

C.C. nodded in earnest. “I am,” he confirmed.

Mary smiled and embraced the man whom she had long ago come to regard as her father. “I love you,” she declared.

“I love you too, Mary.”

Upon these final words, waves of light began to course through C.C. and the environment in which he stood. He watched in tear-stained awe as Elena rose from her limbo, her healed body and soul bathed in the purest of light. C.C.’s face opened in wonder as a winged Mary took the smiling Elena’s hand and together, they flew into what he could only think of as the heavens above.

May 11, 2022

Santa Barbara, California

In a new and an old reality, C.C.’s eyes opened slightly, they feeling moist and crusty at the same time. Sophia held his hand, while Eden and Adriana sat at the base of his bed. His heavenly knowledge fading, C.C. did not stop to think this would be his life to the end of time, for it would not be. Instead of being caught in an endless death rattle, C.C. Capwell sat up, surprising everyone in the room.

“C.C.?” a glistening Sophia whispered.

“Daddy?” Eden murmured, her body straightening. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” C.C. answered casually. “Feeling great.”

June 15, 2023

Santa Barbara, California

96-year-old C.C. Capwell, feeling fantastic, stood without assistance. The man, looking dapper in his slim fit black tuxedo, could have passed for 70. From his position at the head table, this nestled in the gardens of the Capwell Estate, he held up a flute of golden champagne.

“To my granddaughter, Adriana, and my daughter, Eden, on this marvelous, marvelous day,” he boasted. “They're lovely, aren't they?” he added in improvisation, as he scanned the smiling faces in the crowd. “Not an easy path these young women have walked, but they have done so with great grace and with great poise; Sophia and I could not be prouder of them.”

C.C. motioned for Sophia to stand. “To Adriana & Michael, and to Eden & Cruz,” C.C. continued, “may they share a lifetime of happiness.”

A sea of Capwells, young, old, and everything in between, stood, their glasses raised. “To Adriana & Michael, and to Eden & Cruz,” they shouted in common glee.

Based on characters created by Bridget and Jerome Dobson in association with New World Television and the National Broadcasting Company.