Page 17 of Mourner for Hire
“Right. Nice to meet you.” She holds out a hand.
She’s got a firm handshake, and as soon as the thought crosses my mind, a sharp memory surfaces of my teacher teaching me how to shake hands properly when I was in kindergarten.
“Try again. No, don’t squeeze like you’re trying to hurt me.” She laughed.
That laugh.
I know that laugh. I try to pull my eyes from the scratched wood floors of the classroom, but apparently, eye contact was hard for me at that age.
I’m stunned by the memory, and it knocks my normally professional demeanor off-kilter. Because where was it, and why did it just arrive? Between the handshake today and the clock yesterday, it’s like this town is tugging at threads I didn’t even know were loose. The idea that this town could stitch back together every lost memory of my childhood should feel like a gift, but it only makes me want to proceed with caution.
“It’s lovely to meet you. Please, come in,” Annabelle says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Her voice is warm like honey, and her house smells like citrus and cinnamon sugar. We walk through the entryway that is stuck in the late nineties country style, not to be confused with the modern farmhouse of the 2010s.
This kind of country is roosters and distressed furniture and so many knick-knacks, I’m immediately reminded of my best friend Morgan’s mother’s turquoise hutch that she filled with Precious Moments figurines.
She leads me into the family room where two large sofas covered in muted burgundy floral fabric are facing each other, a yellow oak oval coffee table perched in the center with a vase of wild flowers and a stack of housekeeping magazines. She gestures for me to sit down.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks.
I realize I’ve had nothing but coffee and carbs this morning since my drinking binge last night.
“Actually, water would be great.”
She nods and retrieves a mason jar from the cupboard and fills it from the tap. Oregon water always tastes a little funny to me, but I’ve grown accustomed to it, and I’m so thirsty I don’t care.
“Thank you,” I say as she hands me the glass, and I take a long swig.
She plops down on the couch across from me and immediately hops back up. “Oh! I made donuts.”
“Donuts?” I question.
“Yes, it’s my famous apple cider donuts.”
As she walks back to the kitchen, she doesn’t seem at all unwell. She practically dances when she moves and sings when she speaks. She seems like someone who’s had a lifelong love affair with the simple things in life. It’s a pity that one day, she will die. It’s even more of a pity this is why I’m here.
But as I’ve said before… Death is a bitch.
She returns to the living room with a pewter platter of freshly baked donuts with two plates, and napkins. She correctly assumes I want one.
“Marylou over at Something Sweet has been trying to emulate this recipe since 2003, and she still can’t get it right.” The arrogant smile spreading over her lips is more playful than vindictive. “Her bakery is fabulous, though. Have you been yet?”
I chuckle a bit. “I haven’t, but I didn’t realize there was a feud between the resident baker and the…”
I wait for her to fill the silence with her profession.
“The old, crotchety retired teacher.” She huffs out a laugh. This woman is anything but crotchety. “She loses to me every fall bake-off. I still haven’t been able to out-bake her in the lemon bar department so she wins during the summer bake-off.”
My mind is instantly trapped in the whimsy of small-town drama, and I smile at her, a thought flashing over my brain:I don’t want this woman to die.She’s pure, downhome kindness—familiar yet surprising. The kind of person who makes me feel like I’ve been draped in all my long-lost memories. Like cinnamon sugar toast with butter on a foggy Sunday morning. Or brand-new tennis shoes before the first day of school. Butterfly kisses and princess Band-Aids.
False memories I’ve planted in my brain to cope since I have very few of my own.
She watches me take a bite and welcome the rich sweetness inmy mouth. The flavors are delectable, exploding on my tongue with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg, the tartness of apple cider bursting in the background.
“Oh my gosh, this is so good!” I remark, practically taking half of the donut in one bite.
She grins while I eat, taking a much more delicate bite for herself.
