Page 18 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Lily

When Mort knocked at Lily’s door later that night, Lily was in quite the tizzy.

But all that personal life planning can only go so far when you’re a wedding planner and you have clients texting you all day about emergencies such as a bridesmaid who is not au fait with the mandatory sleeve length the wedding party simply must adhere to, or the mechanical bull called Rosa who is being shipped across the country and needs to be tracked in person, or a best man who has stated his intention to get a facial tattoo at the Portland Tattoo Expo a week prior to the wedding.

Not to mention the seating chart issues. There were always seating chart issues.

In between texts from Mom about Mom’s life love (which was going disastrously, as always), Lily had been dealing with seating chart issues for the past two hours, and as such was not in a state for public consumption.

Her cheek had a huge red blotch where she’d had it propped on her palm, and her comfortable trousers were covered in cookie crumbs.

And cupcake crumbs. And also full-sized cake crumbs.

‘Down in a sec!’ she shouted, brushing herself off.

Donning an orange floral dress whose wrinkles she hid beneath her favourite pink jacket, she gave her hair a quick comb with her fingers, then swiped some lipstick over her lips.

Oops, she’d gone a bit over the vermilion there, but the overlined look was in.

She hoped. Wait, deodorant, just in case Gramps still had a sense of smell.

Shoes in hand and feeling acceptably presentable given the low-lighting situation of their graveyard destination, Lily clattered down the stairs, wondering when the stair runner had turned black, and the banister adorned with bat decorations – she’d have to do something about that tomorrow.

She opened the door to Mort, who looked like he was, well, on his way to a funeral.

The only concession to colour was the band on his watch, which was dark brown.

And also Esmeralda, who padded into the shop behind Mort, then proceeded to sharpen her claws on the fluffy mohair cushion on Lily’s desk chair.

‘The safety orange look suits you,’ said Mort. ‘It brings out your …’

‘Fake tan?’ guessed Lily, laughing. Oh, but he was bad at compliments. But she loved that he was trying. ‘Meanwhile, you’re begging to be run over by a boomer with poor night vision.’

‘They’d never,’ said Mort. ‘Not if they want a discount on their funeral plot. Ready?’

‘I’m ready, I’m ready.’ Giving Esmeralda a stroke on the head, Lily squeezed into her heels and followed after him.

Mort held up a hand, stopping her before she could step over the threshold. ‘Those shoes.’

‘They’re amazing. I know.’

‘But are they … apt for a cemetery stroll?’

‘Graveyard. And oh yeah. Watch.’ Lily bent and snapped off one of her heels, converting her shoes into flats.

Mort blinked. ‘Wow.’

‘They roll up, too. Girls have to be ready for anything.’

‘Anything, hmm.’

His dark eyes regarded her thoughtfully. Lily’s heart was doing something odd in her chest. Was Mort … flirting? Was Mort capable of flirting? Or did he mean death? Because everything always seemed to come back to death with him.

‘I can use the heel as a blade, too,’ she added hastily, trying to fill the very noticeable gap in their conversation. ‘In case you’re thinking of trying something.’

‘Do I look like the kind of guy who would try something?’

Lily gave him an assessing look.

Mort leaned against the doorframe. ‘Are you … funeral director profiling me?’

‘Always. It’s the wedding planner in me. So are we done judging my footwear?’

‘If we’re done judging my overall aesthetic.’

But it was so fun! ‘Never.’

Mort chuckled. ‘Fair.’

He led her down the vine-smothered laneway that ran to the left of Eternal Elegance (Wedding Edition), all quaint archways and mossy flagstones.

Lily loved browsing its teeny-tiny shops in her off hours: the cramped gallery behind a curved wooden door and a deeply rusted hanging hurricane lantern; the jewellery shop with its breathtaking custom rings (and equally breath-taking prices); the fancy wine shop that she was too terrified to enter lest she bump into a bottle and have to mortgage her future firstborn.

Above them, on curved wooden arbours, wisteria and string lights bobbed in the gentlest breeze.

‘This place is magical,’ Lily breathed. ‘I feel like every time I say something I’m casting a spell.’

Mort smiled. ‘It has its charms. Even if …’

‘Please don’t say something about death.’

Mort groaned. ‘But there’s so much death. It must be the ocean air. And all the rollerblading. The car’s over there.’

The alleyway opened out into the cosy parking lot where the residents of the downtown area stashed their cars – the promenade was strictly for pedestrians and well-mannered bicyclists.

Lily’s Miata sat there primly, covered in bumper stickers and filled with pink stuffies, its pop-up lights (complete with eyelashes) staring happily at her.

She gave the little car a pat on the hood. ‘Hi, Lucille! Don’t be jealous, but we’re taking … what’s the name of your hearse?’

‘The hearse,’ said Mort.

‘How about Hearston Gloomenthal,’ suggested Lily. ‘Like the chef.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Mort.

‘Herbie the Death Bug? The Black Widow?’

‘Please stop.’

Mort unlocked the hearse and opened the passenger-side door for Lily, who climbed in, her gaze flickering over the vehicle’s curved hood, which was topped with a silvery skull ornamentation.

Matching skulls shimmered from the silvery centre of each wheel.

Apparently the hearse hadn’t been switcherooed – perhaps there was some sort of geographical limit on the impact of the spell.

(Maybe Lily could look at working remotely. From the beach, perhaps.)

Inside, the hearse was plush and roomy, with … oh, look, more skulls. But it was pristine, and smelled gently of pine and sage and not of, well, what Lily had worried it would smell of. There was not a single whiff of a corpse.

‘I feel like Wednesday Addams,’ she said, as she buckled up and Mort cautiously pulled out from his spot, checking around him multiple times for possible pedestrians.

They cruised slowly – excruciating slowly – down Jupiter Street, the thoroughfare that connected the various residential streets of the village, with their storybook houses and their tiny pocket parks.

Every street sign was hand-painted and decorated with tiny hanging sculptures and baubles: disco balls, gleaming birds, glimmering windchimes that sang softly in the omnipresent breeze.

‘You know you don’t have to drive this slowly when you’re not part of a funeral procession, right?

’ prodded Lily, although she didn’t mind so much – not really.

The town was so pretty, with its pink cottages and rose gardens and roundabouts decorated with sculptures and string lights.

She wound down the window, drinking in the feel of it all: the gently salted ocean breeze and the fragrant wildflowers exploding from the garden beds, all topped with a dash of cinnamon wafting up from The Cakery, which was the residential part of the town’s answer to The Hot Pot.

(Lily received cake samples from both on a daily basis, and had quite the cake stash going.

Not to mention that her treasure map was looking pretty well filled out.

She’d also had the joy of reciprocating with her own stamp, a pink heart with wings.)

‘I’d rather be late than dead,’ said Mort firmly. His knuckles gripped the steering wheel with the strength of a thousand panic attacks. Lily said nothing, but she added it to the dossier of facts about Mort that she’d been collecting.

‘Would you prefer me to drive?’ she asked gently.

‘Absolutely not.’

They drove in silence for a few minutes, Lily pointing out her favourite houses along the curving road, and then the gorgeous eighteenth-century Spanish basilica that loomed in all its tiled glory over the top of Mission Hill.

‘If only they were looking for consecrated ground,’ said Lily wistfully. ‘What a beautiful spot.’

Mort put on his indicator. ‘Let’s take a look anyway.’

‘But there’s no point,’ said Lily. ‘They specifically said …’

Mort shrugged. ‘Maybe you can get some inspiration for another event. Or who knows, maybe …’

He trailed off, leaving Lily’s imagination to run off in all directions, a bit like the fluffy alpacas flocking around on the other side of the fence that divided the mission from a nearby farm.

Mort pulled the hearse with sloth-like form off the road and beneath a huge fir tree that had carpeted the ground with needles and tiny pinecones. Lily grinned as she stepped out of the car, her heels sinking into the spongy combination of moss and tile.

‘It’s perfect,’ she breathed, turning on the spot as she took in the peaceful courtyard and the tranquil mix of greenery – cycads, olive trees, even a herb garden with a central fountain decorated with patterned tiles.

Lily made a beeline to the fountain, on the way crumbling a lavender flower between her fingers, then rubbing the fuzzy leaves of a lamb’s ear plant.

‘Do you have a coin?’ she said suddenly.

Mort pulled out the thickest wallet Lily had ever seen. She hoped Mort had a permit for carrying a deadly weapon, because you could absolutely kill someone with it.

‘You’re going to get scoliosis walking around with that thing in your back pocket,’ she warned.

‘The things I suffer through to have a readily available collection of coins.’ Mort passed her a quarter. ‘Well, just the one coin. It’s my quarter for the bodega basket.’

‘You really are making sacrifices for me, huh? Such a gentleman.’

Mort folded his arms and harumphed. ‘Make your wish. And make it a good one because I’m going to have to use my bare hands next time I shop for food.’

‘How did you know making a wish was what I was going to do? There might be a pinball machine around the corner.’

‘Ah, yes. Pinball. Very on brand for a Spanish mission.’

‘One of those and a claw machine, and they’ll have new converts lining up.’

Mort snorted.

Closing her eyes, Lily tossed her coin in the fountain. Well, she tried. It clinked off the edge of the fountain and bounced off into the bushes. ‘Noo,’ she moaned. ‘And I had such a good wish, too!’

‘Do tell.’

‘A woman never tells.’

‘It was about the switcheroo, wasn’t it.’

Lily zipped her lips.

Mort stooped, then straightened. He opened his hand, revealing the slightly muddied quarter. ‘Want to try again?’

Lily winced. ‘I don’t trust my aim. Here, let’s do this.

’ She pressed her palm against the back of his hand, trying to ignore the warmth of it, the way he seemed to angle his arm just slightly towards her, so that his bare forearm brushed hers …

But was she trying, really? Was she not thinking about pressing up against him and letting him wrap those arms around her, about kissing the damned grief out of him, showing him that maybe, maybe, there was more to life than death?

Shut up, brain.

Because if she let the impulsive side of her win out, things would be weird. Well, more weird. And there was already plenty of weird to go around.

‘We’ll split the wish,’ she said valiantly, her voice definitely not cracking under the weight of all the unspoken thoughts her brain had been sending its way, only to yank them back at the very last second. ‘On the count of three …’

She counted down, and together they hoisted the coin into the fountain. A few flips, and it plopped into the water with minimal fanfare. A tiny frog blinked up at them, disappointed at their pathetic theatrics.

‘Well, I guess we’ll see if it worked when we get back,’ said Mort.

‘If there’s a freezer full of gelato in my kitchen, you’ll know it did.’

‘Excellent priorities there,’ said Mort. ‘Do you want to explore the grounds, just quickly?’

Lily clapped her hands. ‘Do I ever!’

‘I used to wander around here as a kid,’ said Mort.

‘Ah, so you’ve always been weird.’

‘I used to get ammo from my slingshot off that tree.’ He pointed to a massive, stooping olive tree shaped like a ballet dancer mid arabesque.

‘And there was a nest of wrens that would rebuild every year. They had the prettiest eggs. And Father Bronson would sit on that bench drinking sacramental wine as he watched the sunsets.’

Lily chuckled. ‘Part of his duties, I’m sure.’

‘So much blood of Christ. It was like a transfusion centre.’ He guided her to the huge double doors that led to the chapel, then pulled one open a crack, peering in. ‘Take a peek.’

Lily gasped at the sight of it: all rough-hewn wood and soaring buttresses that came together like the hull of a ship. Crystal chandeliers winked at her. It wasn’t the grandest space she’d seen, but it was majestic in its own way.

‘Impressive, no? But the real tour de force is over here.’ Gently closing the massive wooden door, Mort led Lily down a tiled garden path from which wildflowers sprouted from every crack and divot. It was so beautiful, and in her colourful outfit, Lily felt just right.

Before them, sun was starting to drift down in the sky, setting the evening clouds alight with stripes of pink and purple. All the world had become the most glorious ice-cream sundae.

‘This place really is perfect,’ said Lily.

Mort’s dark eyes twinkled as he led Lily to a wire fence framed with ancient wooden posts.

Behind the fence lay a sprawling field overhung with massive trees and afire with wildflowers: patches of purple and yellow dotted the grass, and California poppies waved their pretty heads in the delicate breeze. ‘And now, for the best bit.’

Lily cocked her head. Was it wise to be heading off into the woods with a man she barely knew? Or worse, climbing a fence wearing an excellent thrifted dress she’d never be able to find again?

‘Do your shoe conversion thing,’ said Mort. ‘I know you have it in you.’

Well, Lily had made her wish. She might as well see it through.