Page 97 of Mourner for Hire
This time, Timothy jumps up. “What do you mean, she’s leaving her legacy?”
His gaze cuts through me. Confusion sweeps over his face. For a moment, I feel bad. Then I remember his crimes. His lack of remorse and complete entitlement. I remember all of it. I remember Marilee and how I sat with her and she told me her diagnosis before she even told her sons. She told me she loved them, and she always would, but there was only so much she could do when she was made to be meek as a mouse next to her powerhouse of a husband. They weren’t always this way, she said. But they were now. And now, they needed to feel the weight of their actions.
“We’ll discuss it more later, boys,” Henry says, which is quite funny considering they are in their twenties, probably just a few years shy of Morgan and me.
“We’re just as shocked as you, and I hope and pray we can celebrate our mother’s life with all she’s left us with. She really isquite generous, considering… everything.” Morgan emphasizes the last word.
“How much do they get?” Barron asks.
“We’ll discuss it later,” Henry repeats.
“Tell us now!” Timothy demands.
Henry hesitates. I know he hoped this would have been confrontational behind closed mahogany doors, but alas, entitled men like this want answers on their timetable, even if they don’t realize it’s at the expense of their own embarrassment.
“They get everything. Your mother left you with nothing.”
“Fuck this!” Timothy shouts, and Barron kicks a chair, sending it toppling into the wet grass.
There were a few snickers in the crowd, a few expressions of disbelief, and many faces of confusion. But the woman sitting next to us who spoke to Morgan was smiling with pride. She made eye contact and held a hand over her heart and mouths, That’s my girl.
The shouting grows louder, and chaos starts to ensue. Henry tells us thank you and to check my account, but we should really get out of there.
We waste no time speedwalking down the hill until we reach the tree that was my line of focus during my speech. A man steps out from behind it.
Not just any man.
Dominic.
Shit.
He slow-claps as he walks toward us. “Well done, Vada. That was quite the performance.”
There’s a flash of fear from a man jumping out behind a tree, but then all I feel is confusion. “What are you doing here, Dominic?”
“I just wanted to finally see you in action,” he responds.
“Who’s this?” Morgan asks.
I glance at her. “The thorn in my side.”
“Aw, you speak so kindly of me,” he says.
“Wait. This is Dunner? This is Dominic? This is the bartender? This is—” she cuts herself off as her gaze sweeps over him. “That’s right. I remember the picture you sent me way back when.”
I know what she sees. Six-foot-three inches of solid man. A deafening scowl. A sharp jaw. Perfectly disheveled hair. And eyes that are a cross between honey and milk chocolate and that still make my stomach flutter.
Damn it.
“Yes, this is Dominic. Dominic, this is my friend, Morgan.”
“There’s more of you?” he asks.
“I’m sorry?” My face twists in confusion.
“Funeral crashers,” he clarifies.
“Not usually. Just today,” I answer.
