Page 125 of Mourner for Hire
She smiles softly and traces her fingers over the plaque with the sailor’s name and the year he was lost at sea. “What did you hope for?”
“I haven’t written anything yet?”
Her head snaps in my direction. “You’re kidding.”
“I have too many hopes to narrow it down to one, and I don’t want to choose wrong.”
She laughs and sits on the rock, gently dragging the pebble I put in her palm just minutes ago. “So what, you were going to trick me into engraving my hopes, only for them to wither away.”
“Something like that.”
She sighs and looks out at the waves crashing against the poles of the pier.
“I’m going to have to think about it. I still have a few weeks left, right?”
“Right.”
A few weeks left.
For the last couple of months, this timeline would’ve been a relief, but now, all I feel is disappointment.
“Tell me the best part of living in Shellport,” she says.
I shrug. The sticky taste of regret is bitter on my tongue.
“Oh,” she says in acknowledgment.
“Oh, what?”
“You hate it here.”
My chin snaps back as the sun begins to set. She doesn’t say anything else, but her expression encourages me to continue.
“I don’t hate it here.”
“Fine. Then what’s the best part of living in Shellport?” She repeats the question, and something twists in my stomach. She must sense my unrest because she blanches. “Oh. Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. That was incredibly insensitive of me.”
My brow twists in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, your mother just died, and here I am asking you why you love living here when the grief you’re experiencing is woven into the very fabric of this town.”
She stands and meets my gaze.
“There’s a little more to it than that.”
She nods once. “It’s getting cold. Let’s start a fire at the cottage, and you can tell me everything.”
Thirtyminutes later,the fire on the beach is blazing, and Vada is wrapped in a flannel blanket and seated in an Adirondack chair next to the fire. I reach out and grab her hand, holding it as the flames illuminate her face.
“Tell me,” she prompts, and I take a breath.
“Remember how specific you were in figuring out who I was when we first met?”
She nods.
“Well, I was in active duty when my father died.” I clear my emotion from my throat. “I thought I had more time. I thought it was a small heart attack. I thought he’d make it out of surgery and be fine, but he wasn’t, and he didn’t.”
Her grip tightens, and I focus on the flames before me.
