Page 36 of Mourner for Hire

THIRTY

VADA

“Let me take you horseback riding.”

“Why?” My messy bun is sliding down the side of my head, and my hands are still covered in paint, despite my relentless scrubbing.

I’ve been buried in renovations for days, avoiding all port locals since the vibrator debacle at the supermarket.

Connor snaps his chin back. “Because it’d be… fun?”

I eye him curiously, his gaze landing on the latte and pastry bag in my hand. Something Sweet has quickly become a daily stop for me. I’m covered in grime, sawdust, and pent-up frustrations. Horseback riding might be good for me.

“Did you get the pumpkin bread or the apple cider donut?”

I can’t tell if he’s moving past the question to avoid rejection or if his mind wants to ask me a million questions and he doesn’t know what order to let them come out in.

“Donut,” I answer quickly. “When is horseback riding?”

“When do you want to go?”

I remember the buzzing Google Alert while I put a final coat of paint on the cabinets.

“Well, I have to work out of town tomorrow so how about this afternoon?” I could use a break from all the renovations, and the dumpster won’t be here until later this week anyway.

His blue eyes go wide with excitement, a slow smile spreading over his face, reaching the sun-kissed crinkles of his eyes.

For a flash, I can picture exactly how he looks when his favorite team wins the Super Bowl or how he must have looked when he was young, opening exactly what he wanted from Santa on Christmas morning.

Or even better, how he’ll look when he sees his bride walking down the aisle.

Star-kissed eyes with a love-drunk smile.

Connor is adorable—and I hate to admit it, but he’s really growing on me.

“We can do that,” he said. “Meet me at Stanwood Stables? It’s just past Beach Street, near the water. We can ride along the beach while the tide is out.”

“That’ll be great. I’ll meet you there.” I take a long swig from my chai latte. Too long. Too thirsty. I glance down, realizing I drank eight of my sixteen ounces.

“Thirsty?” Connor asks.

“Removed all the wallpaper last night and then sanded the floors this morning,” I explain.

“Oof, you might be sore tomorrow,” he ventures.

“Not to worry, I’m in better shape than I look. And if I’m sore, all my wincing will be mistaken for mourning at work tomorrow.” I breathe out a laugh.

Connor does not laugh. His eyes go wide, and concern etches his tanned forehead.

Oops, I forgot not everyone uses humor as a coping mechanism. I don’t know what to say, so I just stand there like a statue made of lime and deceit.

“Well, all right then. It’s a date.”

“Sure.” I agree with his label so I can escape the quaint bakery with the door chime and bite into my donut.

It’s delicious. Fresh. Sweet. With hints of apple cider and spice .

But Annabelle was right. They are not as good as hers.

My step bounces a bit too much for my liking, and a surge of panic rushes over me. I pause my steps and pull out my phone to text Morgan.

Me

When was the last time I had sex?

Morgan

I don’t know. I wasn’t there.

I giggle at her response.

Me

I’m going on a date… sort of… with a guy that is so not my type. But I’m… excited?

Morgan

That doesn’t sound like you.

Me

I know.

Morgan

You’re probably just ovulating.

I exhale. Right. That’s it. I can enjoy the night and remember why my hormones are desperate.

The door creaks as I enter the cottage, and I immediately strip out of my sweaty, dirty clothes.

A quick rap on the window makes me jump and grab a throw blanket off the couch.

“Hello?”

The tapping returns, only this time on the other side of the house.

“Who’s there?” I call out.

Another tap on the window. I walk slowly to the single-pane window, clutching the throw blanket to my body, heart pounding.

Annabelle doesn’t do this. She makes herself known—loud and proud of her ghostly tendencies.

She’s all about the jump scare, not the intense, suspenseful moments that build heartbeat after heartbeat until I peer out the window.

Nothing is outside except for beach grass blowing in the wind and a broken red wagon.

My mind holds onto the wagon as I stare at it. I remember it. Or at least I think I do. It’s a bead of a memory, like a drop in a bucket of water creating residual rings in my mind as I remember.

“These two are getting too big for this wagon!” my mother says, walking backwards in the sand.

My chubby fingers grip the shiny red metal, and I laugh. I can smell the ocean. I can taste the salt water taffy sticking to my teeth. Banana-flavored. I can hear the seagulls in the distance. A transportation of a memory—alive in my mind.

“What do you think? Should we kick them out?”

“Never!” I shout—a squeal, really. But there’s another voice behind me. Small and slight. I turn to see who it is…

But I can’t. Because in the memory, I don’t turn to look behind me.

“Annabelle?” I call out timidly.

Another knock, only this time, it’s coming from the front door.

I rush to the door in hopes of finding Annabelle so I can ask her a million questions.

She’s not there. It’s just her son, standing on the front step and staring at me with a mixture of contempt and concern etched into his forehead.

I clear my throat, clutch the blanket around me tighter, and brush my hair out of my face, ignoring my pounding heart. “What? ”

He holds out my notebook. “You left this at checkout last week. Larry asked me to bring it to you.”

I was so frazzled by the cashier’s comments about the purple vibrator that I must have left it there. I snatch it out of his hands.

“Did you read it?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

“Yep,” he answers, the P popping at the end as he turns down the sand-covered walkway. “Well, some of it. I couldn’t make it past the first page of your house of horrors.”

I grin as he walks away, fanning the pages of my most random thoughts.

Slamming the front door quickly, I opened the rose-covered journal to the first page and read what random thought of mine he had first read.

Ferrets might die if they don’t have sex for a year.

I throw my head back and laugh, remembering the day I learned that fact and had to write it down before I forgot. I grabbed my brand-new journal off the counter and jotted it down, christening the paper with ferret sex facts.

I never said I didn’t have issues.

The next note simply says,

Menthol tear stick.

OR… YAWN!

I was having difficulty crying at one of my funerals, and all my tricks weren’t working. These were the internet solutions.

The next few lines are random grocery items, some crossed off, followed by a quote and note from me.

“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” -Edgar Allan Poe

Good man.

So, yes, Dominic probably thinks I’m absolutely insane, and I’m okay with it. It’s a shame he didn’t get to the list of items for the renovation or the sketch of the bookshelves I’m going to build, but beggars can’t be choosers… or something like that.

A shower and three hours later, I throw on jeans and a white T-shirt and meet Connor at the stables. He’s standing just outside the horse trailer, holding the reins of a white horse and wearing dark denim jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.

“Hi,” I offer, smiling wide.

He smiles back at me with boyish excitement. “Her name is Elsa.”

“Pretty,” I comment, petting the horse’s nose as she bows her snout toward me. “Which one do I get to ride?”

“This one. With me,” he explains as a gentleman emerges from a truck.

“Oh. I didn’t realize we were doubling up.” Or that he thought me incapable of riding my own horse.

“Yeah. I figure it’s easier to talk.”

“Ahh,” I muse aloud.

Connor turns to the taller man with a jean jacket and cowboy hat, holding a clipboard out to me. “Sign your life away, darlin’.”

“With pleasure.”

I sign my name and sneak a glance at Connor. He winces at the gentleman’s comment, probably because it alluded to death, and as this town has come to realize, death surrounds me.

A few minutes later, the gentleman in charge has given us the rundown on safety and where we’re allowed to ride. He’ll be around, never more than fifty yards back, to give us privacy in case we need assistance.

Though with my crotch saddled up against Connor’s ass, I could whisper threats or sweet nothings in his ear and no one would even know.

“Are you liking Shellport?” he asks.

“Sort of. The circumstances are strange,” I admit, shifting on the back of the saddle so it doesn’t bruise my crotch bone. I wince and squeeze the horse with all the strength my inner thighs can muster in hopes I can move with the animal.

“Understandable.” He nods. “Feeling reckless?”

He tosses the question over his shoulder, and I say, “Sure.” Because truthfully, this slow pace is only inadvertently making me grind against his tailbone, and while I know he thinks this is a date, I’m not in the mood to be romantic.

Connor makes a clicking noise in the back of his throat and shakes the reins enough to let Elsa know she can speed up. We immediately start bobbing up and down like a Whack-A-Mole game at the arcade that is malfunctioning.

I withhold a laugh because it is hard to make horseback riding glamourous when I’ve only done it five times in my life… if that.

I’m a novice when it comes to horseback riding, but I do understand physics. And with the way Connor just made Elsa start trotting, coinciding with the fact that my ass does not physically fit comfortably on the saddle with him, I know I’m going to be sore tomorrow.

“Do you like your job?” he all but yells over his shoulder.

“Yeah!”

“A bit unconventional, yeah?”

I ignore the insinuation. I don’t want to defend my job to Beach Ken, so I turn the question on him.

“Do you like your job?”

“Being a vet is far less unconventional.” He laughs, but I let the statement hang in the ocean breeze. “So you’re from here?”

“Yep!” I sort of shout over the beach breeze.

“When did you leave?”

“When I was eight!”

“Eighth grade? ”

“Eight years old!”