Page 124 of Mourner for Hire
I kiss her nose, suppressing a chuckle. “Put the car in park, Hot Pocket. I want to show you something.”
She shifts the brake, and the surrey jerks forward. I hold out my hand to help her out, and she clutches her ripped skirt with her other hand. She’s covered but no doubt disheveled. She laughs as she plants her feet next to mine, and I help her tie the torn fabric around her waist and guide her down the rocky slope of the beach until we’re under the Piccolo Pier.
“This seems like a great place to hide a body.”
A quick laugh escapes my mouth, and I turn to face her, studying her coy expression. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood to hide you.”
For a brief moment, her confidence slips, and it reads all over her face.
“What’s wrong?”
She blinks away. “Nothing.”
“Vada…”
“You're just…” she hesitates. “You’re just the you I met. It’s good to finally see you again.”
I nod slowly, absorbing the guilt of how much of an ass I’ve been to her. I squeeze her hand three times. “Sorry, it took me so long to come back around.”
She grins, pink rising her cheeks as we walk farther under the pier.
“We’re almost there.”
“What is it?” she asks, just as we reach the place I wanted her to see.
Her expression turns curious and then mesmerized as she takes in the sight of the rock.
It’s the size of a sofa and shaped like a bean, smooth and polished by natural elements that have crashed into it for years. Her fingers trace the etchingsall over it.
She chuckles. “This town really loves to declare their love on objects.”
“This one is different. Look closer,” I prompt.
“Love. A baby. Health… Money.” Her smile morphs into a laugh on the last one.
“We call it Hope Rock. It’s been here for as long as I can remember, and everyone would always use it as a bench and take pictures. But before you do…” I crouch down and grab a pebble from the shore and place it in her palm. “You have to carve your biggest hope into it.” I shrug. “A little different than initials and hearts.”
Her grin widens. “That’s sweet.”
“But there’s a rule. You can only carve one thing, one time, or it won’t come true,” I say.
“Oh, come on.”
I throw my hands up. “I don’t make the rules. There was a sailor named Thomas Reinhart who started the tradition. He carved crab—he was a fisherman, and he wanted to ensure his bounty. But then as he got older, he carved safety. He was lost at sea the following week.”
She gasps. “That’s terrible.”
I nod. “Now it’s just an honorary landmark of Shellport.”
“Why haven’t I heard of it before?”
“Locals keep it port local. We don’t want to carry the hopes of every person who passes through.”
She smiles. “So, you’re saying I’m a local?”
“I’m saying you can stay… You know, if you want.”
There’s a deep, heavy pause after I say it, and I can’t quite read her.
