Page 55 of Mourner for Hire
“Oh, God, I hope not.” My voice is wracked with preemptive humiliation.
He steps closer, a wicked grin cutting through his face. “You wouldn’t like that?”
“I would be traumatized.” I laugh. “Being sung to is my worst nightmare. I once saw a clip from a pop star’s wedding, andhe sang his vows! In front of everyone!” I throw my hands up and shudder. “I had second-hand embarrassment for her, and I wasn’t even there. I watched it online.”
A rough chuckle escapes his broken smile, and for a moment, I think this is us making peace.
“Serenade me with French fries, a good conversation, a favorite book… a cup of coffee—” I catch myself on the last suggestion, realizing I just revealed one of my tells.
He doesn’t seem to catch it as he says, “So, a bed of roses?”
“Oh, no,” I respond quickly. “I hate roses.”
He squints, clearly not understanding.
“When you do what I do for a living, roses usually just remind you of death.”
His gaze drifts to the dark ocean while he absorbs my explanation. I choose my next words carefully. He may have the presenceof a German Shepherd and the face of a god, but deep beneath his amber eyes, there’s sadness.
“Isn’t the official flower of death a lily?”
I eye him quizzically, surprised he knew that. “It is, but more people send roses.” I sigh. “There are always so many roses, particularly white ones. And I know it’s because people don’t know what else to send. I know it’s a gesture. I know it’s a Hail Mary attempt to bring even just a minuscule part of beauty during such a hard time, but it makes me sad.”
“I didn’t realize what you do makes you sad.”
I shrug, though I didn’t realize it had come out that way. “I don’t like seeing people hurting.”
His jaw is set as his gaze slices through me. “I don’t understand you.”
I scoff out a laugh as his eyes study my face rather harshly.
“And quite frankly, I just… I don’t want to,” he continues.
I huff out a breath. Well, in that case, I guess we won’t be making peace. Dominic clearly is putting up roadblocks toward any sort of truce.
When he turns to walk away, he runs a frustrated hand through his hair and I can practically feel the contrite confusion drifting off his shoulders.
It’s going to be a long stay in Shellport. With that last thought, I head down the beach in the direction of the cottage.
NINETEEN
DOMINIC
Fuck me.
She’s hard to be mean to.
TWENTY
VADA
After a fitful night of sleep,I wake to the sounds of seagulls.
They’re loud and angry, and as I drag myself out of bed and peer through the back window, I see at least thirteen of them swarming around a dead seal on the beach.
“Oh, no…” I whisper. With my cell phone in hand, I run outside, down the deck stairs until my feet hit the cold sand, flailing my arms and screaming, “Hey! Goaway! No one likes you! Be gone, sea pigeons!”
The seagulls scatter, cawing at me with contempt as they go. But as I get closer, I realize it’s not a seal. It’s Annabelle.
