Page 34 of Mourner for Hire
He tsks out an irritated scoff.
“Please. It’s just a few months. I’ll do the things and leave. You won’t even know I’m here.”
I watch his Adam’s apple disappear in his throat as his mom says, “No, you should spend time together.”
“I won’t even take the money,” I add, ignoring her.
“No, you will. My will is ironclad. I’m not going to let my son pretend to be this macho vigilante that intimidates young women?—”
“Shh—” I involuntarily hush her. Confusion blooms on Dominic’s face. “Shhhhe was lovely, and I just want to respect her wishes.” I recover quickly.
“Nice.” Annabelle applauds me.
Dominic’s anger twists into something that looks a lot more like grief.
“Why did my mom hire you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t ask questions. I just show up to the services and fulfill their requests.”
“Which were?” he shouts.
My mouth is dry, and I don’t know how to respond. “Just to come and renovate and leave.”
That wasn’t the only request and he knows it, but it would seem this answer will suffice.
His jaw continues to tighten and relax over and over before he speaks again. “Don’t make me regret this,” he says, digging intohis jeans pocket and retrieving a single key with a keychain and a gray rabbit’s foot.
When I reach for the key, he holds onto my hand for a second. “This is fucking weird.”
“Language!” Annabelle scolds again.
“Yes,” I agree. So is the fact that I still love the feel of his hand in mine.
For a glimpse of a moment, his expression softens and his eyes search my face, remembering the night we met or searching for the woman he thought I was, I can’t be sure.
He drops my hand and turns away from the cottage. I watch him walk completely away before turning to the old yellow door and opening it.
Annabelle waits next to me. Right. My friendly neighborhood ghost.
“Can the next month not be a never-ending sleepover?” I ask Annabelle.
“You are outspoken.”
“Honest.”
“Feisty.” She shimmies.
“Tired.”
She stares at me for a beat. “Need a minute?”
“Yes,” I answer tiredly. “I need several minutes, six-hundred milligrams of ibuprofen, and an exorcism.”
Funny how she has no repartee for this.
I crank the key and open the cottage door. It smells musty yet beachy, and clouds of dust dance through the air, the light from the afternoon sun piercing through the windows. The shag carpet is a crime for a house on the beach, but the linoleum is in decent shape, considering how old it must be. It’s incredibly outdated, appearing as if it was dropped from the set of an eighties sitcom, but is otherwise clean. A denim sofa and loveseat. A round wooden kitchen table painted sunshine yellow in the breakfast nook. An arched doorway with beads as a door that leads to the bedroom where I see a glimpse of an iron bed frame and quilt.
“Cute,” I remark.
