Page 42 of Mourner for Hire

THIRTY-FOUR

VADA

October arrives with a cool breeze and a new color palette against the coast.

I’m convinced the people who say the beach is best in the summer haven’t experienced it in the glory of Fall.

The foliage and trees along the coast shift to bright shades of orange and red, burning bright against the pine trees.

The tall blades of grass in the dunes turn golden, and the sunsets burn brighter, illuminating the tapestry of the season.

Warm and cool. Bright and dark. Alive and dead.

I spend my time working on the cottage. The dumpster is half-full, proving its worth with every shag rug or warped board I toss into it.

The interior is completely painted, and I’ve replaced all the fixtures.

I decided to pull the top cabinets off the kitchen and have them be the base of the bookshelf I’m going to line the walls of the loft with.

I sanded and prepped all the cabinets for refinishing and plan to paint them a soft shade of sage green.

I still need to finish the kitchen, bathroom, bookshelves, and back deck, but I’m happy with the progress so far.

While this type of work brings me back to life, I’m finding my position as a mourner drags me to death.

I’m always exhausted after funerals. It’s like a big presentation after months or years of preparation, and the one from earlier today was no exception.

A twenty-six year-old named Jared from Tigard.

He was twenty-three when he called me, and his only request was that I attend.

When I asked him why, he said it was because he thought no one would.

I’m pleased to report that at least two hundred people were in attendance.

But I’m also devastated. He was so lonely while he was alive and didn’t feel loved by anyone who came.

And maybe they tried. Maybe they reached out, and he didn’t know how to accept the love, but I wish I could fly back to that moment in the coffee shop on Second Avenue and tell him many people love him.

So many, in fact, that there was standing room only at his funeral.

I wish I could tell him to look both ways before he crossed the street and that no, even though the red hand was only blinking, it wasn’t enough time to get across. I wish I could tell him to slow down. Don’t rush. Life will pass in a flash whether or not he makes the light.

I don’t get to tell him those things because, unfortunately, I can’t time-travel, and the only ghost I see is Annabelle.

The funeral was three hours long, and many people in attendance shared story after story, highlighting how much this young man was there for them. I wonder if they realized he didn’t realize anyone was there for him in return.

And I also wonder if this funeral is affecting my mental state so much because I, too, have felt the same.

When I arrive back at Shellport, I order my usual from the Hungry Hermit and slip into the shower.

By the time I’m clean, freshly shaved, and have barely slathered myself in lotion, the doorbell rings, and I head over, wrapped in a towel, to a jubilant Lucy eager to earn her tip for the day.

“Sorry, I just got out of the shower,” I admit, though it’s obvious.

“Not a problem.” She hands me a bag of savory goodness.

“Extra special sauce?” I ask, taking the bag from her .

“Of course. Thanks for the tip!” She takes two steps back with a wave and hops on her bike, trudging down the path.

In the process, she disrupts some sand, making a pot of flowers tip over, but she’s too far gone to notice. I set the food on the table just inside the cottage and step back outside to fix the pot, but the towel snags on that damn protruding nail in the doorway.

The momentum of my steps makes the towel yank hard against the rusty metal and tear, but not enough to rip all the way through, making me stumble forward and out of the towel. When I turn to hurry back to the sanctuary of my towel and the great indoors, the door slams shut, with the towel inside.

I twist the knob, but it’s locked.

“Oh, no. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.” I yank on the corner of the towel that didn’t make it inside. It doesn’t budge. “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, panic rising to the surface of my very naked body. I check the front windows. Closed and locked. “Oh, no, no, no…” I cry to myself.

I glance out at the empty beach.

Thank God.

I also say a silent blessing to Annabelle for picking such a secluded location for her cottage—excellent positioning for both murders and naked humiliation.

I start around the back side of the cottage to check for open windows.

I usually have the bedroom one open, but I was hoping I accidentally left one of the lower-sitting ones open, like the dining room or the sunroom…

if only I would be so lucky. I pass by the cedar hot tub and wiggle the handle to the sunroom.

No luck.

I contemplate breaking the glass.

“Oh, man, where is a ghost that can walk through walls when you need her?” I cry to myself.

Just as I walk toward the bedroom window, I hear the distinct rumble of an engine pulling down the drive, followed by very distinct footsteps .

“Fuck,” I whisper-shout. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I frantically search the storage bin for anything to cover myself, but all I find are a shovel, two rakes, and garden gloves.

“No!” I silent-scream as I hear Dominic holler, “Vada! You home? Is that you?”

Yeah, maybe my silent-scream wasn’t so silent.

“Vada?” he calls, rounding the corner.

I slap the garden gloves over my lady bits and cover my boobs with my arm.

He raises his eyebrows and rubs his eyes under his glasses, trying his damnedest not to laugh at the sight of me. “Gardening?”

“Yep,” I answer, stupidly prideful. “What do you want?” I ask, pretending I’m not naked, standing in front of my nemesis.

His cheek twitches to smile as he steps closer, making my skin flame. He looks like Clark Kent in his glasses. The 2013 version.

Damn.

“You shouldn’t just stop by, Dominic. You should call first. It’s rude. You never know what I could be doing. I could have company or be having a single sob-fest or… or… gardening.”

“Naked?” he asks, right next to me now, slipping his shirt off.

For a moment, I forget I’m butt-ass naked in front of him because his chest is… oh . And his abs. His shoulders. His tattoos. Even his thumbs… Oh my God.

Like a blanket over my thoughts, he slips his shirt over my head and pulls it down. I drop the gloves and diligently slip my arms through the holes. The soft black fabric slips down to the middle of my thighs.

“Thank you,” I mutter desperately.

His hands fall off my sides, and he crosses his arms. “Want to tell me what happened? No, wait. Let me guess. You went skinny dipping and locked yourself out.”

I tilt my head and shrug. “That sounds more fun, but no.”

“Really? You strike me as a skinny dipper.”

“I do?” Genuine shock floods my mind.

“No.” He laughs.

I push my wet hair out of my face. “Lucy dropped off food, and I had just gotten out of the shower, and when she was leaving, she knocked over a flower pot, and when I went to go fix it, the towel got stuck on this nail on the inside of the doorway, and the door slammed shut, taking the towel with it. Then the door was locked, and apparently, I hate fresh air because none of the windows are open.” I shrug.

He glances up at the bedroom window. It’s just barely cracked, but the height of it would have made it almost impossible for me to jump up and open it enough for me to get through it alone.

“Want me to lift you up?” he asks.

“Why? So you can have a full view of my ass. No, thanks.”

He stares down at me, and his jaw pulses. The expression in his eyes—the one that normally looks like he wants to skin me alive—is nonexistent. There’s almost a tenderness there—the hard edges of his amber-colored eyes feel more like warm honey. The way I remember them the night he?—

“Give me a boost,” he says, interrupting my train of thought.

“What? Are you serious? I can’t lift you up.”

“I’m joking.” He smirks, reaching the lip of the window and sliding it open all the way.

He grips the sill and hoists his body up easily, but managing to get his six-foot-three body through the regular human-sized window is far less graceful.

He tips forward with a shriek and a groan, his legs and feet hanging out of the window until it’s just his feet, and then finally, those disappear, too.

I don’t know if we’ve exactly been playing nice, but this will suffice for me, considering I’m keeled over with laughter. “Are you okay?”

He pokes his head out. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyebrows are smug, but he almost smiles. “I just did you a favor.”

“Right, and I am so grateful. Can you unlock the door, please? ”

“I could.” He turns his mouth down, considering. “Or I could go through your shit and find all the paraphernalia.”

“Have fun searching,” I answer, not at all letting him bait me.

He cocks a smug eyebrow. “Dare me?”

“Open the door, dipshit. I need to put on some underwear.”