Page 56 of Mourner for Hire
I halt my steps, just ten feet from her. “Are you okay?”
Annabelle stands, dressed the same as always, with sand in her hair and relief in her expression. “Oh, thank heavens! I don’t know what I would have done without you. Apparently, sea pigeons hate ghosts. Who knew?”
My jaw drops. “They can see you?”
“Yes. All animals can see spirits.”
“Right.” I draw out the R.
“Plus, Bernie spilled his beer on me last night, and the smell of rancid beer mimics the smell of death.”
“It does?”
“No, death smells like shit and hospital.”
My jaw drops, and my stomach roils. “Are you being serious?”
She shrugs and brushes sand off her elbow. “I don’t know. This is my first time as a ghost.”
A quick laugh escapes my throat. “What are you doing out here?”
“You locked the door.”
“That’s never stopped you before.” I cross my arms and stare at her as she brushes sand off her dress.
“Well, I’m trying to respect your boundaries.” The last word is drenched in sarcasm.
“Thank you,” I say seriously.
She sighs and halfway rolls her ice blue eyes toward the ocean water. “What are you doing today?”
“Farmers market, then I need to shop vac the kitchen and living room,” I answer.
Her smile grows like she just tasted something sweet. “Oh, really?”
I ignore her excitement. “Yes. Do you happen to have a wallpaper remover?”
She grins even wider. “Jack has them at the hardware store.”
I nod once.
“Busy day, then?”
Reluctantly, I answer. “It’s going to be really pretty, Annabelle.”
Her chin shakes a little. “Thank you.”
Again, I ignore her emotion. “Anyway, I need to get ready if I’m going to get everything done.”
“Well, I’ll try to meet you there if I can get this smell out.”
She turns to walk out into the ocean, the waves lapping at her shins. I watch her frolic in the waves, laughing, screaming, and wringing out the hem of her dress. She really is a lovely woman.
It’s too bad she’s dead.
Forty-five minutes later,I stroll into the farmers market in my yellow sundress, wicker bag swinging at my side. I'm on a mission: fresh flowers, a warm baguette, and a shell necklace from Martha. I look like a Saturday morning cliché—and honestly, I’m here for it.
It’s rather comforting to see how the festivities of last night, which included apple presses, kegs, tacos, and dancing, turned so effortlessly into the sweetest farmers market. The only things that remain the same are the surreys with their red and white striped tents, ready for rental. Booths line Beach Street until the cobbled street meets the sand. Toward the end of the road, there’s an open park area with cement picnic tables and dense beach grass. Vendors are still setting up their tchotchkes and displaying their macarons in white boxes and aqua-colored bows. It smells like coffee, pastries, and salt air.
