Page 52 of Mourner for Hire
“Oh, Dominic…”
“Marylou, respectfully, put yourself in my shoes.”
She glances at her husband. The empathy in both their eyes feels so misplaced. I don’t want pity. I want everyone else to see how the fact that my mom left all this money and her cottage to some random person she knew once twenty years ago is certifiably insane. When Mom told me about it, she said she didn’t want me to worry. I trusted that notion, but now that it’s in my face, I am filled with worries.
“We love you, Dominic. This whole town does.” Her tone is soothing, and she stares at me a beat before patting my hand. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the bakery. The apple cider donuts don’t sell themselves!”
I watch her and Bernie walk back to their bakery, hand in hand.
I keep my hands busy, letting the anger dissipate in my fingertips as I pour ciders and drinks for everyone. It doesn’t take much for my attention to continue to be drawn in her direction. Her smile as she introduces herself to Jenna. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear as she nods. The echo of her laugh over rubber duck races and the apple slingshot. She’s infuriating.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
Eli’s pompous grin clouds my view of Satan in a sundress. My jaw tightens, embarrassed I didn’t see him coming.
“Shut up, Eli.” I don’t even attempt to deny my lingering glances as I call over to my bar hand. “Hey, Chelsey?”
“Yeah, boss,” she shouts back, sliding two ciders to paying customers.
“You good for a minute?”
“Yeah,” she answers, and I grab a bottle of beer from under the bar.
Fury and fear boom in my chest with each step I take, but I don’t stop. I’m committed. I watch Connor hold her hand and spin her around. I see him hand her a beer and whisper something in her ear, and ignore the anger thrumming in my chest. I knowwhere he’s going to take her. I’ve seen that laugh. That smile on her face is unsuspecting, and all I want to do is ruin her night.
I head to the bobbing for apples booth and smile at Veronica as she helps the next couple sign up to bob. I don’t stop. I make it to the end of the street where the cobbled stones begin to blend under the sand from the beach, and I keep walking.
EIGHTEEN
VADA
I’ll admitI was reluctant to meet Connor, but as soon as I stepped foot on Beach Street, I knew I was going to love it. There is something magical about a town that celebrates together—even if it’s something as silly as the weekend after Labor Day, because all the out-of-towners return to their suburban neighborhoods and city sky-rise apartments, leaving this sweet Oregon beach town to live and breathe to its own rhythm.
The cobbled stone street is packed with tents and vendors, spilling out from the shops lining it. A dessert and coffee shop called Something Sweet. A Taqueria called Don Chuys. A parking lot of surreys to rent and ride down the boardwalk next to a tourist shop called Shell Take You Home filled to the brim with neon-colored sweatshirts that say, Shellport: Shell Love You Forever. I don’t know what caricature of a mayor let that be the town slogan, but I would vote for him simply for that. It’s even on the Welcome to Shellport sign perched next to the highway, just past Dominic’s bar.
I exhale sharply at the thought of him, trying desperately to release the new nerves that just buzzed in my chest. I scan the crowd of festivalgoers as if he’d magically appear. Of course he won’t. It may be a small town, but it’s not that small.
But alas, the crowd parts, revealing the man I’m actually here for… He’s tan and blond, with a sharp jaw and charming smile, and he’s wearing socks with his sandals.
“You came!” he says, arms outstretched.
“I did,” I answer, rocking back on my sandals and making the length of my dress sway against my ankles. My gaze drops to his feet and back up. “Nice socks.”
He wiggles his toes in his Birkenstocks and laughs. “My toes get cold.”
“It’s very Pacific Northwest of you.”
I let myself smile. He looks ridiculous, I’ll admit, but there’s something almost endearing about him. He’s wearing a sage green, short-sleeved button-up with khaki shorts, Birks, and socks, and I am still waiting for him to charm the pants off of me.
He takes note of my strappy leather sandals. “And those are very Jesus of you.”
I can’t help it. I toss my head back and laugh.
“Which, it makes sense, really. You work with the dead. Of course you’d dress like Jesus,” he continues.
“I am not dressed like Jesus,” I say, laughter hanging on to the edges of my voice and my fingertips drifting to the sides of my dress.
“Well, no. The dress is sexy as hell. It’s just the sandals. They’re definitely Jesus sandals.”
