Page 10 of Mourner for Hire

SIX

VADA

TWO MONTHS LATER

The early September sun is bright as it rises for the day of Annabelle’s funeral.

She was right. She died nine months after our meeting, and the funeral was scheduled for six weeks after that. I’ve met with people closer to death than she seemed to be, and I believed when they predicted their death, but for some reason, when Annabelle told me, I had my doubts.

Even still, I received a call from her lawyer, Sully, before the Google Alert even pinged my phone.

Annabelle died peacefully in her home with her son by her side.

She is being laid to rest at the Shellport Seaside Cemetery, and I am expected to be in attendance.

My best friend, Morgan, will be keeping an eye on my apartment while I’m away, watering my beloved fiddle-leaf fig tree.

I packed a small suitcase of my belongings for while I stay at Annabelle’s cottage, but I’ll be honest, the idea of staying there fills me with nerves.

I’ve never had a client ask for such a prolonged request.

A part of me is prepared to be run out of town with pitchforks and holy water.

Another part of me is excited to stay at a random beach cottage and renovate it.

This is what I always wanted for my life—to paint and design and decorate—but apparently, playing a part at a funeral pays more lucratively, and Annabelle is paying very lucratively.

Most of the time, I think of myself as a good person who stands on a moral high ground of some sort, stabilizing the career path I’ve stumbled upon.

I only accept clients whose goals for their funeral I agree with, no matter if they’re petty, personal, or devastating.

But this one is just… invasive, to say the least.

How will I attend the funeral and stay at the cottage without anyone looking upon my presence with moral skepticism? Perhaps it won’t matter. Time will tell.

One step at a time, I tell myself as I sit in the back row as I test the waters and catch my bearings.

Four men carry her casket to the front, and my throat tightens.

I can’t pretend to have known her, and what I learned of her that day were just glimpses of her life, but she was so vibrant.

So full of energy and hope and humor. She didn’t fear death, because she truly seemed to love life.

I swallow my tears momentarily. No one is looking at me now—I should save those emotions for when I actually need to put on an act. The casket moves to the front of the aisle, and as they set it down, I catch a glimpse of him.

Dunner. It’s what my friends call me.

The memory of him vaporizes all of my composure as I put the two very obvious dots together.

Annabelle Dunne.

Dunner.

He doesn’t have a dog’s name. It’s his last name turned into a dog’s name.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter.

The couple in front of me scowls over their shoulder. I bury my face in the beige cardstock of the program. I need to get out of here. I need to slink right out of this seat and abandon my promises and the money.

A part of me is hopeful he’s a distant relative. Or maybe he just volunteers at the funeral home after he’s volunteered at the shelter because he is just that precious.

But as the slideshow of Annabelle’s life starts playing, I realize her son is Dunner. Dunner is Dominic. The son of Annabelle. My client. The man I’m supposed to watch out for because his deceased mother asked me to…

The man who, after I consumed one beer, one shot, and two mojitos, held me as I cried myself to sleep in his apartment. I feel like a weasel. I have wormed myself into his life in two very separate and distinct ways.

I meditate through the remainder of the funeral, willing myself not to have a full-blown panic attack.

There are prayers said and memories exchanged.

The next hour is excruciatingly long. I’d rather have all of the hairs on my head individually tweezed from my scalp than crash a funeral and know someone here.

Bloody hell.

Then, as Dominic—Dunner—or whatever the hell I’m supposed to call him walks back down the aisle, I turn away, ensuring he can’t see me. Even still, I sneak a glance at him over the teased blond hair sitting to my right.

His hair is a little longer, and while the lines of his suit jacket are in extreme contrast to the soft T-shirt I gripped in my hands just ten months ago, the memory of the skin underneath makes me feel intrinsically attached to him.

I recite my duties assigned to the funeral.

Attend funeral—you won’t need to introduce yourself. But if the need arises, just say you’re an old family friend.

See? It’s fine. I can do this. I’ll hang in the back as they move the coffin out to her burial spot.

I’ll have to find a way to make the fact that I’m staying at his mother’s beach cottage make sense, but that is tomorrow’s problem, and I refuse to worry about that right now when they’re lowering sweet Annabelle into her final resting place and her son just made eye contact with me.

Fuck.

It was as if the crowds parted at the most imperfect time. When I was trying to sneak a glance of him and he had just looked up from the six-foot hole in the ground.

At first, his expression is soft—tender gratitude swelling in his honey-colored irises.

I attempt a small smile, acknowledging his thankfulness, but as soon as I do, his expression snaps, and his jaw tightens.

And I’m certain his light brown eyes turned to midnight like a hungry vampire who smells blood.

My cheeks burn, and breathing ceases in my lungs. Fear of his retaliation makes me feel extra self-conscious about every movement I make.

The burial only lasts forty-five minutes, but I’ve already pitted out in this black pencil dress four times over.

I’ve had to use the complimentary tissues to dab at my face to collect the sweat from nerves.

The gentleman next to me thinks I’m crying because he’s hummed and hawed and patted my shoulder in two instances.

To be honest, I do want to cry… just of humiliation and not grief.

Don’t get me wrong. Annabelle was lovely. I am not heartless by any means. I’m just unattached. That is how I successfully do this job.

As soon as the pastor says amen, I stand from my white folding chair and slink farther and farther back until I’m halfway behind a giant oak tree, the leaves just beginning to turn amber for fall.

“Lovely service, wasn’t it?” the gentleman who sat next to me says. He looks to be about seventy years old with scrawny limbs on a six-foot frame. He is a walking scarecrow if I ever saw one.

I nod politely, not wanting to draw attention either way.

“It was,” I agree, ducking my head and praying I dissolve into this tree trunk.

The woman with him says something about needing to meet up with Marylou and Bernie because they need help getting the centerpieces back to Annabelle’s for Dominic to deal with.

As they walk away chatting, I take the opportunity to step back, and as I do, my heel sinks into the soft earth, making me fall backwards into the tree.

I brace myself and catch the trunk with my hands as the small of my back grates against the tree bark.

I close my eyes, grip the bark, and pray no one saw.

I peek one eye open. It would seem the only person that is even remotely aware of my presence is Dunner or Dominic or… whoever the hell he is… storming toward me with rage burning in his eyes.

“Why the hell are you at my mom’s funeral? Tell me the truth,” he hisses, his face inches from mine as he towers over me.

I adjust my footing and stand, brushing the bark from my dress.

“I-I-I—” I stammer.

“You-you-you-you—” he mocks me, not at all tactfully. “This is so inappropriate, Vada. You have no right coming here and crashing my mom’s funeral! ”

“I was invited,” I answer, my voice small.

“That’s what you want to call this?” he accuses, inching closer.

“Your mom. She…” My voice trails as I attempt to explain.

Out of all the years I’ve done this, I haven’t had to explain why I came to relatives.

I’ve never even known anyone in attendance.

I know what I do is questionable at best and desperate at worst in the eyes of many if they knew who I was and why I went to so many funerals.

I’ve always believed it’s okay to be the worst person in the room if no one knows.

But here, right now, with my heels sinking in the grass covering the gravesites of many, many loved ones while staring at the man I almost had a wild night with, makes me feel like I’m strapped to a lie detector as all my secrets are read aloud.

I keep my gaze fixed on his. This man, who let me cry into his T-shirt and sleep on his naked chest and called me Hot Pocket.

This man who takes his coffee just like me, with a hard jaw and eyes that remind me of the warmth of sunshine.

I lick my lips as I prepare to explain, but I watch his mind connect the dots. He leans over me, bracing the tree behind me.

“Why did she hire you?”

I hesitate because my policy won’t give him the answer he wants. “I don’t ask why. I just agree to the terms and execute the directive.”

He lets out a wild groan of frustration.

“Dominic, I’m sorry—” I begin, but the way his eyes slice through me makes me realize I shouldn’t have called him that.

“I never told you my name.”

I swallow, the saliva like glue down my throat as I stay silent.

He shakes his head, taking a step back and wrapping his hands around his head, the disbelief getting the better part of his brain.

“I’m sorry, Dunner,” I emphasize, and he whips around.

As if every glare and scowl he’s sent my way hasn’t been bad enough, this one takes the cake, sets it on fire, and throws it in the dumpster.

I make a mental note to never speak again in his presence.

“You don’t get to call me that. We aren’t friends, Vada.

And this is fucking insane! My mom was the best woman I have ever known.

She was loved by me and literally everyone in this fucking town.

She didn’t need you and your antics to storm through her funeral, cause a scene, and act a fucking fool for the sake of a few hundred dollars. ”

I don’t dare mention how much she’s paying me. I remain still and silent.

“I’m so fucking pissed!”

The anger clawing through each word he screams at me in an empty cemetery doesn’t sound scary or angry at all. It sounds devastated.

My bottom lip trembles as I begin to speak. “I’ll go. But for what it’s worth, I really liked your mom. ”

I turn to leave, practically aerating the cemetery as I go. But before I make it ten steps, he bellows back.

“You’re in her fucking will, Vada.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you actually showed up.”

I pause and pivot slowly, an apology covering my expression. When I open my mouth to explain or say I know or apologize yet again, he waves a hand in the air.

“None of this feels like a coincidence. You, stuck on the highway. You, in my bar. You, kissed—” His voice breaks over what he was about to say. He doesn’t finish the sentence. “You, staying the night. You, ending up here.”

I rub my lips together, allowing the friction to keep me calm. My heart pounds as I realize I’ve become the villain in his story.

“You acted like this funeral crashing shit you do is a service. Now it feels like a scam.”

The heat of his anger burns off his shoulders as he walks away. I let him. Because I know exactly how this looks. I have no way to make reparations. I will simply abandon my part of the bargain and not fulfill anything else on the list Annabelle gave me. It will be fine—she’ll never know anyway.

I watch Dominic walk away until he disappears beyond view, then turn to the gravesite. The groundskeepers are still filling the hole with dirt, and the hum of the tractor drowns out the words I whisper into the warm September air.

“I’m sorry, Annabelle. I can’t do it,” I whisper, staring at the mound of fresh soil on top of her coffin.

“Like hell you can’t,” I hear behind me and scream as I whip around.

“Jesus!”

“Nope! Just Annabelle. Remember me? Finally kicked the bucket, been waiting for you to show up.”

“Annabelle?” I shake my head and rub my eyes to no avail. She’s still here. The same ruby lips and pale blue eyes. The midnight hair and the crinkles around her eyes. She’s wearing a purple sweater and a floral skirt. She looks exactly how I remember her.

“Yes, I’m here. Yes, it’s me,” she answers quickly, reading my thoughts.

I cock my head to the side. “Are you sure you aren’t a twin of the deceased?”

She lets out a loud cackle, and I look around. Surely, someone else hears her, but it would seem she’s drawn zero attention from anyone else.

“You know my son.”

I practically jump out of my skin. “I didn’t know I knew your son.”

She smiles. “This will either make it a million times easier… or harder. You pick.”

“ I pick?” I ask, pointing at my chest. “That is the biggest load of shit I’ve heard. I can’t do this, Annabelle.”

“Why not?” She crosses her arms.

“Because I have a connection to the deceased.”

“Like what?”

I inhale sharply, ready with my reply then panic. “I would rather not concern you with it. But he’s so mad, Annabelle. He wants nothing to do with me. I’m in the will, and he is ready to bury me with you.”

She glares at me.

“It feels inappropriate.”

“I’m still paying you,” she accuses, stepping closer. “I may be dead, but you have to hold up your end of the bargain, or you won’t see a dime.”

“I don’t need your money.”

“Like hell you don’t.” Her eyes snap from my shoes to my face.

My jaw drops, aghast. “That’s rude.’

“Vada, you are going to do this,” she says, then softens. “Come on! It will be good for you! ”

“No!” I slice my hand through the air, then immediately slap my hands on my forehead.

I am talking to a hallucination.

And it took me an entire conversation to realize it. “I’m leaving. I’m going back to Portland.”

I storm away, and she grabs my arm but doesn’t take hold of it. A coldness drifts through my arm like ice in my veins. It gives me pause, and I stare at the contact… or lack of.

“Oh. I guess I can’t grab you.”

My brow twists. This is unreal. I start walking again, letting her haunt me from behind.

“Oh, come on! It’ll be fun!” she hollers.

But the way the sound waves vibrate around me, I can’t tell if she’s in front of me, next to me, or behind. She is everywhere, all around me at once, and I immediately start swatting at the air. “Go away!”

“I’m not sure I can,” she says as I practically sprint to my car, hearing faint whispers of the ghost of Annabelle saying, “I’m coming with!”