Page 58 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
Lily
It was a week until Lily was ready to emerge from the plague house, and by then she was dying for social interaction.
She’d had to turn away her usual cake-seeking visitors, and she’d been strictly camera off during her client calls (and even with Mom, who could go on for hours about cold sore remedies if you gave her the chance).
At least she’d been able to chitchat with Mort through the grille, which was crucial, given that the two of them had big plans together.
Big plans for Gramps’s place, at least. After extensive discussions with all involved (and some mood boarding on Lily’s part), the Gramps housing situation had been sorted. The solution? Roommates.
‘The Grief Guys,’ Lily had exclaimed triumphantly, waggling her chair back and forth in front of the grille. ‘They’d be the perfect roommates.’
There’d been a pause as Mort had considered this. ‘There are three spare bedrooms,’ he’d mused. ‘And plenty of room for Sausage.’
‘And Gramps would have a plumber and a quasi-electrician under one roof. Plus whatever Duggo does.’
‘Cooks a mean spaghetti, apparently,’ came Mort’s voice.
‘And they all want the company, right? It’s perfect.’
It was perfect. Lily was more proud of the idea than she’d been of any of the highly elaborate weddings she’d cooked up over the past year.
While Lily had been cooped up, Mort had set the ball rolling.
When not hosting a wake or a graveside vigil, he’d spent the week helping transport the Grief Guys’ furniture up to Gramps’s in the hearse.
(Apparently a hearse with roof racks and a couch on top was a sight to behold, and had caused quite the chatter on the Nextdoor group.)
‘Lily, are you decent?’ asked Mort. ‘If so, can I get your help?’
Lily looked up from the endless stack of apology cards she’d been writing to Venus’s guests (and which she’d been pairing with the various gifts that had to be returned).
She touched gently at her lip, which finally felt human again, then glanced down at her outfit: pink linen trousers and a sheer chiffon top with daisies embroidered on it.
She was more than decent – she looked fabulous.
‘Do I need to wear sensible shoes?’ she called.
‘I would never ask that of you,’ promised Mort.
‘Well then, let’s do it.’
‘I’ll meet you at the hearse in five.’
Wearing her favourite heeled sneakers (yellow, with a rainbow decal), Lily trotted down the laneway that led to the parking lot.
It was a perfect evening, the way it always was in Mirage-by-the-Sea: luminous where the waning sun met the twinkling fairy lights, fragrant with flower baskets and baking, the air gently nudged by a mischievous ocean breeze.
Lily couldn’t help but grin. She loved it here, the way she’d never loved living anywhere before.
The quaint shops, the warmly eccentric people, the sheer beauty of the place.
And Mort. Of course, Mort.
Just this morning she’d received a text from Angela about her lease, and for the first time she hadn’t felt that weird itchy flight response that told her that it was time to move on for the next thing.
I’d love to stay, if you’ll have me , she’d texted back. But what about the next business?
Leave it to me , Angela had responded cryptically.
Speaking of Mort … There he was, leaning against the hearse in a way so sexy that it seemed improper. The Funeral Board could have his head for that, surely.
As she approached, Mort broke into a grin of his own – that slightly shy grin that set his whole face alight. He produced a bouquet of wildflowers tied with a twine bow.
‘For you,’ he said gently.
‘You needed some help carrying these, huh?’ Lily took them and buried her face in them, admiring their heady mix of colours and textures and aromas. ‘I guess you’ve been slacking on the gym.’
‘Wrong. Flower picking works the small muscles you never knew you had.’ Mort opened her door for her. ‘Anyway, I needed your help as my date tonight.’
Lily smacked him with the flowers. ‘Your date?’
Mort raised an eyebrow. ‘That was before I knew you were abusive.’
Chuckling, Lily climbed into her seat and – before Mort could say anything about car accident statistics – buckled up. ‘Sorry, I was just surprised. I would love to be your date. Depending on the destination. And what kind of food is involved.’
Checking that the fuel gauge showed a full tank and that the oil level was more than acceptable, Mort pulled the hearse out of its spot at his usual excruciatingly slow pace. ‘A picnic under the stars. All the way up there.’
He pointed to the topmost point of the rolling hills that surrounded the picturesque town centre.
‘Solid views,’ said Lily with a whistle.
The hearse cruised around the windy roads, pulling over at the occasional turnout to let the traffic gathering behind them pass. Lily kept count of the sheep and cows they spotted, being sure to make the appropriate animal sound with each sighting.
But then on a particularly sharp incline, something under the hearse started to rattle. An alert on the dashboard dinged.
‘Is our popcorn ready?’ asked Lily.
‘The check engine light,’ said Mort, frowning. ‘But I just had her serviced. You can even check the log book.’
Lily opened the glove box and pulled out a tidy log book in which Mort had diligently recorded every piece of maintenance that had been done on the hearse in the past …
well, since ever. It was a much more impressive testament to car ownership than Lily’s haphazard set of receipts, which were jammed down the side of the door and had to be dug through every time her mechanic asked her about her car’s chequered past.
More rattling, then another ding. Then another.
‘Is it the switcheroo?’ asked Lily. ‘Is the hearse becoming a pumpkin or something?’
‘I think it’s just … dying,’ said Mort, with a sigh. ‘As all things do.’
Lily couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Well, you’re never not on brand.’
‘Very funny.’ Frowning as the entire dash console glowed red, Mort pulled over.
He popped the hood, then walked a lap around the car. As he got to the doors at the back, he folded his arms.
‘Well, I’ve found the source of the rattling,’ he said, holding up a set of tin cans, the type that newlyweds might hitch to their car. ‘I think one of them got stuck underneath and broke something.’
‘So now what?’ asked Lily. She checked her phone – no signal.
‘It’s just us and an overnight wait for roadside assistance.’
‘We should’ve taken the Miata,’ teased Lily. ‘She’s reliable. Still going strong, 200,000 miles in.’
‘That’s a warning sign in and of itself. A car with that many miles is at the end of its mechanical life.’
Lily huffed. ‘I’m glad poor Lucille isn’t here to hear you say that.’
‘Lucille would still be at the bottom of the hill,’ pointed out Mort.
‘At least we picked a nice place to get murdered by a hitchhiker,’ observed Lily.
Despite the irony in her tone, she spoke the truth: they’d broken down by the side of a wildflower-studded field, high up on a winding road that offered glimpses of the slow-moving ocean and the twinkling lights of the town and the estates that spilled out from it in every direction.
The air was a scarf of scents and sounds: the citrusy scents of yerba buena and wild roses mixed with the hum of crickets and the wind over the hills.
She checked the time on the dash. ‘So, how much longer do we have until someone comes for us?’
‘From my knowledge of the hours that Tow Truck Trent keeps, about eight hours,’ said Mort. ‘He’ll be at bingo, then in bed, then walking his dog. Promise me you’re not going to keep asking.’
‘I promise,’ said Lily. She grabbed his hand. ‘I mean, if you’re saying we have time …’
She pulled him around to the back of the hearse, yanking open the doors and dragging him in after her.
Mort blushed. ‘About the bunk bed mattresses,’ he began.
‘What bunk bed mattresses?’
‘The ones from the switcheroo. I thought it couldn’t hurt to have something comfortable to lie on.’
‘Ah, lie on,’ said Lily knowingly. ‘But there are no mattresses. There’s only one …’
Mort sighed. ‘Coffin. There’s only one coffin.’
The switcheroo had struck again.
‘It’s a double coffin, at least?’ said Lily, poking at it. ‘To be fair, the lining’s really soft. And the padding is quite solid. Ooh, and it has drop-down sides.’ She demonstrated. ‘It’s like a futon coffin. A coff-on. A fut-in.’
‘You know your tombstone is going to list your terrible sense of humour as your cause of death.’
‘I can think of worse ways to go out.’ Lily climbed into the back of the hearse, musing, ‘I like the sunroof up the top. You can see the stars from here. All of them. No wonder Desdemona was all about this thing. Come have a look.’
Mort grumblingly followed after her, crawling across the thick mountain of velvet blankets and pillows. He lay down on his back next to her, taking in the starry night sky.
‘All right, that’s a solid view,’ he said. He turned to face her, his dark eyes boring into hers. ‘We should eat the picnic stuff while the salmonella risk is low …’
‘Oh shut up and kiss me,’ said Lily.
‘But there’s soft cheese,’ protested Mort.
‘Nope. No food poisoning talk. Only kissing.’
Begrudgingly setting aside his safe food storage concerns, Mort leaned in, the faint hint of cedar that always followed him enveloping her.
His lips were gentle against hers, then firm as she pulled him in, knotting her fingers in his dark, messy hair.
Their timing was mismatched at first – it always was when you were learning someone new – but there was something about that slight clumsiness that made Lily’s heart swell.
There was no erasing their respective oddnesses, their imperfections, and frankly she had no desire to.