Page 31 of Mourner for Hire
I grit my teeth and force a smile at Marylou as she orders for herself and her husband. She drums her fingers on the bar while she waits, her mascara clumped and her plump cheeks still pink and raw from crying at the funeral. Seeing her dressed in black is odd since she’s known for her brightly colored headbands and pink apron. But alas, her bakery attire isn’t deemed acceptable for attending a funeral, though I don’t think Mom would have minded.
Opening the bar after my mother’s funeral was planned for two reasons: one, business has been epically slow, and it provided a free venue to cap off the burial, and two, I knew manning the bar would keep my hands busy. And if I could keep my hands busy, I could keep my anxiety and emotions in check.
But then there’s that damn drink.
The Billie was my most popular cocktail until I came up with the Vada. I left it up on the menu after that night, and it quickly grew in popularity. Mom commented on it once, telling me she liked the name.
By the time I sat down and saw Vada’s name in her will, she—it—had already become a crowd favorite. I renamed it to theWitch once, but that didn’t go over well and created enough confusion for me to switch it back.
I grit my teeth at Marylou and her husband, offering them a tight smile and muddling the shit out of the mint and brown sugar.
“Don’t kill the mint, Dunner. Damn,” my best friend, Eli, says on the other side of the bar.
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” I finish making the drink, and I’m met with another hug and condolence from Ella, my neighbor growing up.
Connor, a self-proclaimed reformed douchebag, comes up to me next. We played football together in high school, but that was the limit of our friendship. Not for any particular reason—he’s nice enough. But there is some behavior of his that leads me to believe his douchebaggery isn’t entirely reformed. I mean, he wears socks with sandals, and he still gets blond highlights.
Even still, I accept the sympathy and give him a slap of appreciation on his back. Knowing what to say to someone who lost a parent is never easy. Many times, all I need is the acknowledgment that they cared and they loved her, too. I could do without the Hallmark cards and bouquets of lilies that make me sneeze and my throat itch.
I push through the crowd, receiving hugs and broken sentences of sympathy from my mom’s friends, my teachers growing up, even her lawyer and “special friend,” Sully.
“We’re meeting Tuesday,” I declare as he turns to leave.
He hesitates, his expression freezing momentarily because he fully understands what I’m suggesting.
“I’m here for anything you need, Dunner.”
With that, he tips his fedora and escapes the bar.
As the crowd dwindles, I find my eyelids growing heavy with exhausted grief. While I’m thankful for every person in this town coming to honor my mother, I’m ready to just be with my core people. Eli and Joelle and their daughter, Lucy, who’s playing on the pinball machine by herself.
I wipe down the mahogany wood, and Joelle leans closer like she’s conspiring to reveal secrets even though the bar is empty except for us. “That was her, wasn’t it?”
“Who?” I ask.
“The lady you were yelling at before we all left to come here.” Her eyes widen, and her head bobs with enough force to make her blond curls bounce.
She and her husband are opposite in almost every way, and I’m not just speaking about their complexion or her blond curls in contrast to his jet-black hair. Even their demeanors are different. She’s like if bubble gum were a person, and Eli is like a salted pretzel—predictable and salty with a twisted sense of humor.
“I wasn’t yelling at her,” I defend myself.
“Yes, you were. You were towering over her—she was cowering behind that tree. The poor thing,” Joelle argues while Eli leans back in his chair, arms crossed and smirking at me because I know he sees right through me.
“No, she was handling herself just fine. And you should have heard the words she was saying back. She’s just a fraud that was caught.”
“Oh, shut up, Dunner,” Eli chimes in with an eye roll. “How did you expect her to know who your mom is?”
Anger slides up the veins in my neck. “Because she was in my mother’s will, for Christ’s sake. There had to be paperwork she signed. Names?—”
“That’s not how wills work,” Joelle adds.
“My mom had to have told her about me,” I finish with an angry breath.
“So let’s say your mom did tell her your name. But did you tell heryourreal name?”
Joelle already knows the answer to this. She stares at me with a sly expression, like a big sister who caught her little brother stealing cookies out of the cookie jar.
“No.” I keep my expression blank.
