Page 64 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director

Mort

Mort regarded the interior of the funeral parlour.

It was, to put a fine point on it, in a fucking shambles of a state.

Sure, the carpets were black again, and the drapes had shifted from chiffon to the kind of heavy velvet Dracula would choose for his wedding attire, and the Hello Kitty motif had disappeared from the bestselling coffin line-up, which was going to make the sales part of the job a little less formidable.

(Although he’d probably lose the customers that one viral Buzzfeed article had sent his way.)

But things hadn’t gone back to quite the way they had been.

Obviously there was the water intrusion to deal with – the puddles were deep enough that Mort half expected a posse of three-year-olds wearing yellow raincoats to come in and jump around.

But in the intervening few months since the switcheroo, Mort had been shuffling things around to accommodate the Lilification of everything: rugs had moved, chairs once deemed too bright had been taken out of storage, new paintings had gone up on the walls.

And of course there were the designs that he and Lily had painted here and there to cover the worst of the resulting crossover decor.

But now with things reverted back to their original design, these newer design elements seemed … odd. Higgledy-piggledy.

Mort’s heart gave a pang. He’d come to appreciate the whimsy and colour that the switcheroo had brought into his life.

His clients had as well – his greeting book had been filled with so many joyful notes about getting to send off loved ones in a way that prioritised celebration over grief.

Even though Mort wouldn’t miss some of the switcheroo’s surprises – like people manhandling the corpses or hurling around bouquets – it seemed like a loss for everything to return things to the way they had been.

Esmeralda leapt elegantly up on the pianola, and Mort realised that not everything had changed.

The ancient organ that had claimed pride of place in the viewing room had apparently decided not to return.

Instead, the rickety instrument that Lily and Mort had hauled into the funeral parlour remained, all ornate curls of wood and dramatic candelabra filled with floral candles from Eternal Elegance (Wedding Edition).

Ignoring the pooling water and fizzing lights, Mort ran his fingers over the keys. Ah, that middle C where the plastic veneer had snapped off to reveal the rough wood underneath – the wood that Lily had tagged with her name. The dead high E with its whimpering tone.

He pulled up the bench seat, tinkled out a quiet arpeggio. Then he launched into Lily’s favourite Mendelssohn. Not the ‘Wedding March’. But ‘Fleecy Cloud’, with its gentle melody and the name that made her smile every time.

The tender music had the same effect on Lily as rattling a tin of tuna did on Esmeralda. A mere few notes in, and …

‘Are you playing my song?’

Lily’s voice carried through the transom, the decorative grate that allowed them to eavesdrop on each other’s lives.

And oh, how they eavesdropped. Well, in the beginning.

After that, they’d upgraded to full conversations through the decorative little grille.

Lily always joked that she felt like a prisoner in isolation talking to the inmate in the cell next door.

Not that Lily had ever been isolated from people in her life – except during the Great Cold Sore Scare.

‘Your song? You’re claiming it all to yourself?’

‘I can compromise,’ said Lily. ‘You can have the last few bars.’

‘Seems fair.’

‘Or we could make it our song.’ He could hear the smile in her voice.

He fumbled a note. It rang out in the mess that was his business. Which reminded him, he really had to deal with that. Not that electrocution was a worry – he was the only one on the premises who wasn’t dead. Unless the switcheroo had messed with the bodies he had on ice again …

THUD.

Mort jumped. Were the zombie hordes upon him? Dammit, he shouldn’t have let Lily tempt him into watching that Romero marathon.

Another THUD. It was coming from her side of the wall.

‘Are you okay over there?’ he called, as the chandelier above his head – back to dark Murano glass twisted like serpents – swung wildly back and forth like a spirit guide’s pendulum.

‘Chekhov’s sledgehammer,’ came the panting reply. ‘Stand back.’

Plaster crumbled as the thudding continued. A decorative cornice smashed on the black-painted hardwoods.

Then Mort was staring at Lily’s dust-smudged face. Plaster fragments tumbled down on her like glorious confetti, suspended in the light that poured through the stained-glass windows at the front of her shop. She looked as though she were wearing a bridal veil. Mort’s heart hitched.

‘Thank God that wasn’t a load-bearing wall,’ Lily said, hand propped on the sledgehammer.

‘You didn’t check?’ Of course she hadn’t. It wouldn’t be life with Lily if it were governed by permits and applications and approvals processes.

Blonde curls flicked as Lily cocked her head thoughtfully. ‘I crossed my fingers before I started. That has to count for something.’

‘Pulling permits would count for something.’

But he didn’t mean it, not really. He’d happily let the businesses crumble around him if it meant being close to Lily. Although he might need to invest in some hard hats and goggles.

‘I don’t want you on the other side of the wall,’ she said, as Mort picked a flake of plaster from her hair. She smelled of apples and laundry detergent and the humid tang of sweat from her recent wall-smashing session.

She stared up at him, eyes crinkled at their edges the way she hated, but the way he loved so much. ‘I want you here, with me. Us doing our thing, side by side. No barriers. No walls. Our businesses are two pieces in the same two-piece jigsaw puzzle … and so are we. Let’s join it all up. For good.’

For good.

‘But the lease,’ he said.

Lily pulled out her phone. ‘Angela just texted me. Derrick and Fran have reconciled, and the cult’s done – Derrick’s going back to the bodega biz. Next year’s business is going into the old church instead. I can stay. Right here.’

Mort traced her dusty cheek, then wiped flecks of plaster from her hair. ‘Till death do us part?’

‘Or whatever do us part. Don’t focus on what can come undone. Focus on what’s now , what’s right here. What’s in front of us.’

Mort’s heart thudded.

It felt spontaneous, unplanned, all the things that terrified Mort in the way that going outside without checking the weather did, even though – magical storm clouds aside – the weather was always the same here. But with Lily by his side, the risks felt … worth it.

Mort swept her curls off her shoulders, then gently put his hands to her waist. ‘I have a suggestion.’

‘So do I.’ Lily took a deep breath. ‘So, I’m going to plan my cousin Tessa’s wedding. It’s very traditional, very old-school, all that jazz. No switcheroo stuff. And I’m wondering, Mort?’

Mort knew that whatever she was about to ask, he was going to say yes to.

He was slipping down that slope of pure, unfettered joy, one that meant possibility and delight and entire new photo albums that would collect on Gramps’s shelves until one day they would pass over to Mort’s shelves.

Because that was the way things went. That was the deal.

You loved, and you loved, until you simply couldn’t anymore.

And however it ended, because it always ended, it would be worth it.

Look at Reba and Frank. Look at Angela and Tink.

Look at all the bizarre, starry-eyed couples Lily had helped affirm their commitment to each other.

‘Tell me, what are you wondering?’ he said gently.

‘Will you be my plus-one?’

As Mort kissed her, the funeral parlour doors swung open. It was Pickleball Candice, and in her hand she clutched a slip of paper – an unsave the date .

‘Funeral’s off, fuckers! I’m not going to die after all!’