Page 7 of Mourner for Hire

FOUR

VADA

Ah, yes. Bathrooms. What I needed ever so badly yesterday afternoon, causing me to stumble into this bar, get drunk, and cuddle with a complete stranger while I wept on his shoulder.

I make my way through the ensuite with low expectations—I used the bar bathroom yesterday—but I’m pleasantly surprised.

The double vanity has a waterfall concrete countertop and brass fixtures.

The floor is a dark shade of gray concrete, warmed by a plush, cream rug next to the claw foot tub and glass shower in the corner.

The backdrop to the tub is a large, black, hexagon-shaped paneled window that frames the view of the valley, identical to the bar deck below.

A vision of a bubble bath with warm vanilla-scented candles dances through my mind before I turn to face myself and the consequences of my actions in the mirror.

I clean up the remnants of mascara from under my eyes and wash up, running my fingers through my hair and fixing my backward dress.

When I emerge from the bathroom and bedroom, I’m met with Dunner in the small kitchen holding out a to-go cup of coffee and an everything bagel smothered in cream cheese and wrapped in a paper towel .

“I don’t know how you take your coffee so I just made it how I like it.”

When he looks at me like this—all tender and thoughtful—his eyes almost glow, and the sharp lines of his face soften. He is ridiculously handsome.

I hate him for it.

“You didn’t have to,” I admit, and he waves me off.

“Don’t want you to make a bad impression with the soon-to-be deceased,” he teases, then turns to the stovetop and cranks the gas flame. “If you can spare ten minutes, I can add bacon to that bagel.”

I glance at my watch. “I really don’t have time. I really need to go.”

He nods, busying himself in the kitchen, pulling eggs and bacon out of the refrigerator and slapping it on the counter. “How long is your meeting?”

“It depends,” I admit. Some clients are quick; others like to chat. It really depends on what they want for their funeral and how lonely they are.

“If you aren’t busy, you can swing through on your way out,” he suggests with pitifully hopeful eyes.

It’s wild how he does it. One second, he’s looking at me with a frown, reeking big-tough-guy and toxic masculinity, and then he’s just… soft.

I sigh.

“Oh, that’s sweet,” I say with a slight shake of my head. “I don’t know. But we’ll see, yeah?”

“Fair,” he reasons as he strides around the counter, and I turn into his outstretched arms. “Later, Hot Pocket. Thanks for the snuggles.”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “Goodbye, Dunner.”

He groans, and it’s playful and as endearing as his perfect smile.

The longer I’m in his presence, the more I realize how wrong all this is.

I’ve known the man for twelve hours, and I am catching feelings.

Well, maybe not catching feelings per se, but they are floating in my stomach waiting for me to grab hold of them and admit what they are.

“Let me walk you to your car,” he says.

I follow him down the narrow staircase surrounded by brick walls, leading to the green outside door to where my car is waiting for me. Fuzzy remnants of last night twirl through my mind as we make our way through the bar.

I balance the bagel on top of the coffee mug so I can grab my keys from my purse. He steadies the coffee and bagel while I unlock the car. I’m unsure if I’m supposed to hug him again or not, so I just kind of hesitate and say, “Oh! Do you need your cup back?”

He opens the car door for me. “No, keep it. Consider it a souvenir.”

“Okay.” I swallow and nod, ready to bolt. I hold his stare a moment, trying not to remember the details of last night that are growing less and less fuzzy. The way he held me and talked to me about my mom. I don’t remember the words he said, just that he was so, so kind.

I sneak a glance of the mortgage lender arriving to his office attached to the bar. He’s looking at us with a smile on his face that reads that-son-of-a-bitch.

I smile, returning to Dunner’s gaze.

“Go inside,” I say, then feign a whisper with a hand cupped around my mouth. “Your neighbors are watching.”

He smiles wider. “Hey, Chuck!” he yells across the parking lot. “This is my friend, Vada.”

My mouth drops open. Mortified.

Chuck’s smile widens, and he leans back on his heels while his bushy eyebrows make assumptions.

“You’re the worst,” I mutter and slip into my car.

I don’t look back as I drive away, letting the memory of that bar melt into the pavement.

I take a reluctant sip of the coffee, knowing I won’t like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and tell him I only like my coffee one way.

And there is absolutely no way on God’s green earth he takes his coffee like me?—

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I say after taking a sip.

Black coffee, with an extra shot—a shot in the dark—and two Splendas.

It’s stupidly specific. And it’s exactly how I take my coffee.

I stare at the orange metal tumbler with a circular logo that is a picture of the oceanside cliffs and the waters on it. Underneath, it says, “Shellport. Shell always love you.”

My souvenir.

I will be keeping this.

The old red door creaks open, revealing a woman in her mid-fifties with bright blue eyes and hair so dark, it’s almost black, and ivory skin.

“Well, it’s you,” she says, opening the door wider and throwing her arms around me. She says you like it’s a term of endearment—something sacred and personal—and her arms are tight around my shoulders.

“Oh. This is nice.” I blink heavily as she rocks me side to side.

“I’m so happy to see you, Vada,” she says, still holding on.

It’s a good hug, if I’m honest—the kind that smells like cinnamon sugar and feels like a fresh, warm load of laundry. Albeit, awkward and entirely overbearing, but a lovely hug, nonetheless.

“Nice to meet you. You must be Annabelle.” My voice is muffled against her rust-colored sweater, and she pulls back with a bright but nervous smile on her face.

“Right. Nice to meet you.” She holds out a hand.

She’s got a firm handshake, and as soon as the thought crosses my mind, a sharp memory surfaces of my teacher teaching me how to shake hands properly when I was in kindergarten.

“Try again. No, don’t squeeze like you’re trying to hurt me.” She laughed .

That laugh.

I know that laugh. I try to pull my eyes from the scratched wood floors of the classroom, but apparently, eye contact was hard for me at that age.

I’m stunned by the memory, and it knocks my normally professional demeanor off-kilter.

Because where was it, and why did it just arrive?

Between the handshake today and the clock yesterday, it’s like this town is tugging at threads I didn’t even know were loose.

The idea that this town could stitch back together every lost memory of my childhood should feel like a gift, but it only makes me want to proceed with caution.

“It’s lovely to meet you. Please, come in,” Annabelle says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Her voice is warm like honey, and her house smells like citrus and cinnamon sugar. We walk through the entryway that is stuck in the late nineties country style, not to be confused with the modern farmhouse of the 2010s.

This kind of country is roosters and distressed furniture and so many knick-knacks, I’m immediately reminded of my best friend Morgan’s mother’s turquoise hutch that she filled with Precious Moments figurines.

She leads me into the family room where two large sofas covered in muted burgundy floral fabric are facing each other, a yellow oak oval coffee table perched in the center with a vase of wild flowers and a stack of housekeeping magazines. She gestures for me to sit down.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks.

I realize I’ve had nothing but coffee and carbs this morning since my drinking binge last night.

“Actually, water would be great.”

She nods and retrieves a mason jar from the cupboard and fills it from the tap. Oregon water always tastes a little funny to me, but I’ve grown accustomed to it, and I’m so thirsty I don’t care.

“Thank you,” I say as she hands me the glass, and I take a long swig .

She plops down on the couch across from me and immediately hops back up. “Oh! I made donuts.”

“Donuts?” I question.

“Yes, it’s my famous apple cider donuts.”

As she walks back to the kitchen, she doesn’t seem at all unwell.

She practically dances when she moves and sings when she speaks.

She seems like someone who’s had a lifelong love affair with the simple things in life.

It’s a pity that one day, she will die. It’s even more of a pity this is why I’m here.

But as I’ve said before… Death is a bitch.

She returns to the living room with a pewter platter of freshly baked donuts with two plates, and napkins. She correctly assumes I want one.

“Marylou over at Something Sweet has been trying to emulate this recipe since 2003, and she still can’t get it right.” The arrogant smile spreading over her lips is more playful than vindictive. “Her bakery is fabulous, though. Have you been yet?”

I chuckle a bit. “I haven’t, but I didn’t realize there was a feud between the resident baker and the…”

I wait for her to fill the silence with her profession.

“The old, crotchety retired teacher.” She huffs out a laugh. This woman is anything but crotchety. “She loses to me every fall bake-off. I still haven’t been able to out-bake her in the lemon bar department so she wins during the summer bake-off.”