Page 34 of Mourner for Hire

TWENTY-EIGHT

VADA

Days pass, and Dominic seems to evaporate into thin air.

Good.

If he isn’t going to help, then I need to focus on the tasks at hand if I want to complete this renovation and have it ready for the big party Annabelle wants to celebrate her life.

I spend my days pulling staples out of the wood floor, sanding cabinets, painting walls, and fielding calls from Connor.

Each time he texts, or we speak on the phone, I don’t get the impression that he’s hitting on me; he’s just more or less the welcome committee in this small town, which is adorable but unnecessary.

I came to work, and that’s all I want to do.

I haven’t had a funeral to attend in weeks, so being able to fill my time with the renovation is a relief, not to mention Annabelle’s credit card to pay for my expenses.

Each day. I remind myself that I don’t care to make friends.

I don’t want to get used to my homemade pumpkin spice latte and banana muffin from Something Sweet.

I don’t want to learn the backroads like the back of my hand.

I don’t want to grow accustomed to the endless deer traipsing near the cottage.

I don’t want to, but due to longevity and my unforeseen tenderness for this town, it would appear I am .

I’ve diligently ordered from the Hungry Hermit every Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday, rotating through the menu with ease.

Fish and chips remain my favorite, but the clam chowder in a bread bowl is absolutely divine as the weather turns and the fall nights grow chillier.

I enjoy my chats with Lucy before she hops on her bike and trudges down the sandy walkway.

Based on what she tells me, I think her mother and I would be friends under different circumstances, but they’re staying behind whatever line Dominic drew in the sand.

So I just get to support their business from afar. And as much as I’d love to live off of eating only from the Hungry Hermit menu, I must also replenish my cupboards with some staples, so I head to the supermarket to stock up.

I mindlessly wander the aisles, still getting to know the lay of the land and deciphering my grocery route.

I fill my cart with some fresh berries and a tub of spring mix and another of spinach, along with bagels from the bakery, cream cheese, smoked salmon, and capers.

After grabbing granola, yogurt, and popcorn, I turn toward the toiletry aisle, clipping the heels of the person in front of me.

“Oh my gosh. I am so sorry. I didn’t see you crouched down there, and by the time I did, it was too late, and I know how bad that…” I ramble faster than my mind can realize I just about took out the Achilles of my arch-nemesis. I finish my sentence in lowercase, “…hurts.”

He sighs and grits his teeth. “Lovely seeing you here.”

“Always a pleasure.” I mimic his sarcasm.

He glances at the contents of my cart. “Changing of the guard?”

I squint at him. “I’m sorry. What?”

He reaches into the cart and pulls up the two family-sized tubs of spinach. “You won’t be able to finish this before it gets bad.”

“Excuse me.” I snatch the tub from him and place it back in my cart. “One, it’s rude to touch people’s food. Two, you don’t know me and my eating habits?—”

“I happen to know you order a lot of takeout.”

I roll my eyes. “And three, I make a killer berry and spinach breakfast smoothie.”

“Sounds disgusting.”

“It’s delicious. I make it thick and sprinkle a little granola on it for a little extra oomph.” I mime holding a smoothie and sprinkling granola on top. He stares at me, unconvinced. “Anyway, my eating habits are none of your business.”

He clears his throat. “How’s the cottage?”

“It’s great. You should stop by,” I offer.

He practically grimaces.

I roll my eyes. “Or don’t.”

“Oh, is that you, Vada?”

I turn to the sound of the woman’s voice.

“It is. Hi…” My voice trails. I realize I’ve forgotten her name. I just know she owns Something Sweet, yelled at Dominic after I cut my head, and is nothing but kind to me.

“Marylou,” she finishes for me.

“Right. It’s good to see you again.”

“How’s the cottage coming along?”

“Wonderful so far. The bones are good, so my job is easier. It’s going to be beautiful.”

Marylou smiles. “I bet. Well, I can’t wait to see it when it’s done. I hear we’re having a party to celebrate Annabelle.”

I nod. “That’s the plan… I might even have it ready by the eclipse.”

I glance at Dominic, who is still standing at the foot of my cart. However, he seems to be fidgeting, and I wonder if he hasn’t been going through my groceries and passing endless judgment about me.

“Well, I’ll see you around, yes?” Marylou asks Dominic.

“You sure will. Good to see you, Marylou.”

“Bye, dear. Bye, Dominic. ”

I turn to Dominic and clear my throat loudly as Marylou walks away. “Excuse me, Dominic.”

“What happened to apologizing to me?”

“For what?”

His square chin jerks forward. “How is it you don’t remember running me down with your cart just two minutes ago? I thought you said we were going to play nice.”

I shrug. “I thought you wouldn’t be such a wimp about everything.”

I swerve around him, but I hear him cackle behind me as I grab my tampons from the shelf. “If you make a joke about me being ornery because I’m on my period, I will report you to the National Board of Feminists.”

When I turn around, Dominic seems to have vanished and is replaced by an older woman in a floral caftan and wicker hat, staring at me like a sinner in church.

I hate to admit that I’m vaguely disappointed.

“Sorry,” I mutter, moving past her and making my way to the checkout stand.

An elderly man in a burgundy apron with wiry white hair and a hunch in his back is working the checkout.

“Good day, dear. You must be new in town,” he says, scanning my groceries with shaking hands covered in age spots.

“I am. Just in town for a few months,” I answer.

“These berries are delicious this week. You lucked out. Normally, the crops go downhill after mid-September,” he remarks, scanning the plastic containers of strawberries and raspberries. “Did you see the boysenberries? They’re good this time of year.”

“Oh, I’ll have to get those next time.” I smile politely.

“My wife makes a delicious cobbler with them and serves it up with vanilla ice cream from the local creamery. Milton’s Creamery. Have you been there yet?”

I realize he is going to comment on every item I’m buying, and I quickly miss the self-checkout stands from the city .

“I have not been there yet,” I answer kindly.

“It is delicious.” He scans my tampons and grabs a chocolate bar from the stand then winks. “On the house.”

“Thanks.” I chuckle, pulling out the notebook from my bag and setting it on the checkout stand so I can reach my wallet and slip my credit card into the card reader.

“Oh!” It’s the stereotypical sound of a startled old person.

I glance back. He’s scanning a box I don’t remember putting my cart. It’s a value-sized box of ribbed condoms. My cheeks burn, and he forces a laugh that comes out like a cough.

“Well, good for you, honey,” he says finally, grabbing the purple box next in line.

It’s a vibrator. With both clitoral and G-spot stimulation.

“Really… good for you , I guess.” He double-bags the items and tells me the total without making eye contact.

The card reader beeps to remove my card, and I slip it into my purse without putting it in the appropriate slot in my wallet because I would like to sprint out of there as fast as possible. I tell him thank you and plaster a smile on my face.

Bless that poor old man’s heart. I have no issue with vibrators, condoms, or my sexuality, of course. However, I tend to purchase those items with more discretion, not from the eighty-year-old port local who calls me ‘dear.’

“Fucking Dominic,” I say, tossing my bags in the back of my bug.

This was his vengeance—his checkmate of sorts. I called him out on the hike, and he retaliated with middle school pranks.

Predictable, yet I’m pissed I didn’t keep better composure.

I shift the car into drive as quickly as I can.