Page 5 of Mourner for Hire
I casually sip my beer and pull my e-reader out of my purse, uninterested in making any friends. This is a work trip. One night. In and out. A simple pre-death meeting. I’m here for work. My only tie to this town is the city written on my birth certificate. I never came back. Dad would have never allowed it, and by the time I was old enough to make my own decisions, I didn’t care to.
I make it to chapter two as he slides the burger in front of me.
“Headed to a funeral?” he asks, his gaze unapologetically sweeping over my black dress. It’s sleeveless and cut just below my knee—it screams church funeral.
I smile and answer, “Work,” instead of telling him I’m comingfroma funeral.
He cocks an eyebrow.
“Uh-huh,” I say in response to his expression.
“Let me guess. Consultant for a construction company that remodels bathrooms?”
“That’s very specific.”
“This town is stuck in the seventies. It’s high time everyone renovates their bathrooms. My mom has been asking me to remodel her bathroom for years.” He huffs out a laugh.
“Why haven’t you?”
He shrugs. “Time, I guess.”
“You know time isn’t replenishable. People often wish they can flip the hourglass over, but you can’t.”
Sadness is laced in his smile. “Yeah, you got me there. Are you saying I should spend more time with my mom? Because I’ll have you know I am her favorite only child.”
“No, I’m saying you should remodel her bathroom,” I respond, and he laughs. “It’s funny. I used to remodel houses.” I don’t know why I tell him this. “It was my first failed business attempt, so I must not be very good.”
“Really? What makes you think you aren’t any good?”
“Well,” I begin, feeling the buzz of the beer affect my brain almost immediately. My charm bracelet jingles as I rotate the plate in front of me and plop a fry in my mouth. “I went to college for interior design, and I just couldn’t get a job that paid well enough to afford rent downtown so I thought, I’ll be the next Martha Stewart and create my own brand. It turns out I’m not quite as savvy as Martha.”
“What was it called?”
Even though I’m the one bringing up the subject, I’m somewhat surprised he asks.
“Chantilly Lace.”
“I like it.”
“Thanks.” I take another sip of beer.
“Why do you think it failed?”
His immediate interest in me is genuine but also unexpected.
I sigh. “I don’t do gut jobs. Not everything should berenovated when it can be beautifully restored. Not everyone likes that. It takes time. Sometimes, the changes aren’t as drastic.”
He smirks. “My mom would like you.”
I huff out a laugh. “That’s a good line.”
I flip open the ketchup lid.
“Wait.” He stops me, and I freeze. “Try it without the ketchup.”
“I love ketchup.”
“Just trust me.”
