Page 24 of Mourner for Hire

TWENTY

VADA

After a fitful night of sleep, I wake to the sounds of seagulls.

They’re loud and angry, and as I drag myself out of bed and peer through the back window, I see at least thirteen of them swarming around a dead seal on the beach.

“Oh, no…” I whisper. With my cell phone in hand, I run outside, down the deck stairs until my feet hit the cold sand, flailing my arms and screaming, “Hey! Go away ! No one likes you! Be gone, sea pigeons!”

The seagulls scatter, cawing at me with contempt as they go. But as I get closer, I realize it’s not a seal. It’s Annabelle.

I halt my steps, just ten feet from her. “Are you okay?”

Annabelle stands, dressed the same as always, with sand in her hair and relief in her expression. “Oh, thank heavens! I don’t know what I would have done without you. Apparently, sea pigeons hate ghosts. Who knew?”

My jaw drops. “They can see you?”

“Yes. All animals can see spirits.”

“Right.” I draw out the R.

“Plus, Bernie spilled his beer on me last night, and the smell of rancid beer mimics the smell of death. ”

“It does?”

“No, death smells like shit and hospital.”

My jaw drops, and my stomach roils. “Are you being serious?”

She shrugs and brushes sand off her elbow. “I don’t know. This is my first time as a ghost.”

A quick laugh escapes my throat. “What are you doing out here?”

“You locked the door.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” I cross my arms and stare at her as she brushes sand off her dress.

“Well, I’m trying to respect your boundaries.” The last word is drenched in sarcasm.

“Thank you,” I say seriously.

She sighs and halfway rolls her ice blue eyes toward the ocean water. “What are you doing today?”

“Farmers market, then I need to shop vac the kitchen and living room,” I answer.

Her smile grows like she just tasted something sweet. “Oh, really?”

I ignore her excitement. “Yes. Do you happen to have a wallpaper remover?”

She grins even wider. “Jack has them at the hardware store.”

I nod once.

“Busy day, then?”

Reluctantly, I answer. “It’s going to be really pretty, Annabelle.”

Her chin shakes a little. “Thank you.”

Again, I ignore her emotion. “Anyway, I need to get ready if I’m going to get everything done.”

“Well, I’ll try to meet you there if I can get this smell out.”

She turns to walk out into the ocean, the waves lapping at her shins. I watch her frolic in the waves, laughing, screaming, and wringing out the hem of her dress. She really is a lovely woman.

It’s too bad she’s dead .

Forty-five minutes later, I stroll into the farmers market in my yellow sundress, wicker bag swinging at my side. I'm on a mission: fresh flowers, a warm baguette, and a shell necklace from Martha. I look like a Saturday morning cliché—and honestly, I’m here for it.

It’s rather comforting to see how the festivities of last night, which included apple presses, kegs, tacos, and dancing, turned so effortlessly into the sweetest farmers market.

The only things that remain the same are the surreys with their red and white striped tents, ready for rental.

Booths line Beach Street until the cobbled street meets the sand.

Toward the end of the road, there’s an open park area with cement picnic tables and dense beach grass.

Vendors are still setting up their tchotchkes and displaying their macarons in white boxes and aqua-colored bows.

It smells like coffee, pastries, and salt air.

“Martha’s booth is in the corner with the yellow tablecloth and white sign.”

I jump at the sound of Annabelle’s voice behind me and then immediately shake off the trill of fear.

“I thought you were going to keep your distance when I’m with other people,” I grit out through my teeth.

I glance at Mr. Thomas—whom I met last night—to make sure he’s still displaying his jars of homemade pickles and not listening to me talk to a ghost. He’s examining a jar of spicy pickles, scratching at the label. Clearly, I’m not even on his radar.

“Oh, I will, but the farmers market has always beenmy favorite. Every Saturday morning, I’d grab a paper cup of coffee and wander around to every booth and look at how creative my friends are.

” She laughs, rocking back on her heels.

“I can bake, but I wasn’t ever very creative. Dominic didn’t get it from me.”

I cock an eyebrow. The only thing creative about her son is how he chooses to insult me. “Right,” I say instead so as not to break a poor dead woman’s heart.

“Oh, there’s Jan!” she exclaims with a quick hop.

“She sells homemade olive oil. She makes different flavors. Garlic and Herb is her best seller, but her brown sugar sriracha olive oil is hands down her best one. You’d think it wouldn’t work because it’s sugar and olive oil, but it tastes like magic.

She also brings homemade sourdough for tastings. ”

I blink at her. She talks so fast.

“I wonder if I’ll be able to taste her flavored olive oil…”

Her voice wanders with her ghost down the aisle of booths, and I turn, setting my sights on the white sign that says Martha’s Treasures.

Shells and rocks litter her tables like breadcrumbs in Hansel and Gretel , and quite honestly, this woman’s stature is exactly how I pictured the witch with the candy house in the fable, except she’s dressed in a colorful, oversized dress.

“Hello,” I say softly, and Martha whirls around, bracelets jingling.

“Oh, hello! Aren’t you just here bright and early, ready for some seashells?” Her high-pitched voice borders singing, and something eerily familiar hits me.

“I-I-I am,” I stammer, collecting myself. “I actually am looking for something in particular. A seashell necklace. Do you have any of those?” My gaze drifts over the table.

“Oh, yes, dear. Several.” Her weathered hands touch the display in the corner. There are several necklaces with a small conch shell in the center. I choose the one with the mixture of white and gold beads.

“You always did love gold,” she says.

My head snaps in her direction, the ground suddenly unsteady under my feet.

Concern and confusion race through the wiring of my brain.

I study her features and clench the necklace in my hand.

The soft lines of her face. Her thin lips covered in red lipstick.

Her bright blue eyes, rimmed in thick black glasses.

She reminds me of no one I know, and yet, her gray, wiry hair has hints of strawberry, making me realize her hair was probably once red .

“Mrs. Nettles?” I ask cautiously. “It’s me. Vada Daughtry. I had you in second grade a very long time ago.”

“Hi, honey.” Her smile tells me she was waiting for me to recognize her.

She takes me in her arms, and I’m immediately transported to when I was just eight years old, practicing subtraction facts and wishing I would grow up to be a marine biologist.

My second-grade teacher.

“You look the same,” I say, my voice muffled in her hair.

A laugh escapes her. “And you are still too polite for your own good.”

“I remember you,” I say, though it feels partially untrue. “Well, I never forgot you, I guess.”

Her expression morphs into one of concern, cluing me in on the fact she must have seen my departure from this town in a different light. “How has life been treating you?”

“Good. I’m in town, remodeling Annabelle’s cottage.”

She raises a knowing brow and nods—her smile confirming unspoken secrets. Sometimes, it feels like everyone knows something about me. She squeezes my hands between her soft fingers. “Make sure you make that place feel like home.”

I smile. “I will.”

She nods once and wraps the necklace I’ve chosen in blue tissue paper and places it in a white paper bag. She stops me as I reach for my wallet.

“I wouldn’t dare,” she says.

I hesitate for only a second because I know when women like Mrs. Martha Nettles want to give something away for free, there is no stopping them. “Thank you, Mrs. Nettles. It was really nice to see you.”

I take my bag and make my way through the rest of the market, letting the rush of nostalgia consume me before stopping at the fresh flowers.

I contemplate a bouquet of dahlias. They’re gorgeous.

Blush burgundy, yellow, and orange. My fingers drift over the petals.

Dahlias are my favorite flowers. It’s unfortunate all of the dahlias are paired with white roses, ruining the whole bouquet, and practically bringing me to tears.

“Would you like me to wrap those up for you?” A blonde woman pops up from behind the trimming table.

I panic and say, “Sure,” even though I don’t want them.

She smiles, and when she walks by me, the smell of her shampoo sends a flutter of a memory in my gut, and a vision of my mother dances in my mind, front and center.

An alarming flip of grief rotates in my gut, making my chest feel weighted—like a dam is about to burst inside me.

A dam that I had no idea was holding back so much water.

“These are my favorite,” the blonde says, wrapping and rubber-banding the bottom of the stems in plastic and then wrapping them in brown paper and tying with twine.

“I got a little too happy planting them this year. I have so many; I can’t even harvest them fast enough.

But apparently, everybody wants roses, zinnias, and sunflowers.

Not these beauties.” She fluffs and adjusts the flowers in the bouquet, then hands it to me. “That’s a whole lot of eternal love.”

I shoot her a questioning look.

“Dahlias. They represent eternal love,” she clarifies.

“Oh. Lovely.”

“You’re new around here, huh? Living in Miss Annabelle’s cottage, right? Gosh, I love that place. It’s so beautiful. And quaint. She used to plant petunias and lavender along the walkway. Absolutely gorgeous.”

I hum in amusement.

“It really is a shame you’re embezzling all that money from Miss Annabelle.”

Her tone is so sugary sweet that I almost don’t register her accusation.

I swallow, my throat coated in disbelief. “I’m sorry?”