Page 58 of Mourner for Hire
I hesitate for only a second because I know when women like Mrs. Martha Nettles want to give something away for free, there is no stopping them. “Thank you, Mrs. Nettles. It was really nice to see you.”
I take my bag and make my way through the rest of the market, letting the rush of nostalgia consume me before stopping at the fresh flowers. I contemplate a bouquet of dahlias. They’re gorgeous. Blush burgundy, yellow, and orange. My fingers drift over the petals. Dahlias are my favorite flowers. It’s unfortunate all ofthe dahlias are paired with white roses, ruining the whole bouquet, and practically bringing me to tears.
“Would you like me to wrap those up for you?” A blonde woman pops up from behind the trimming table.
I panic and say, “Sure,” even though I don’t want them.
She smiles, and when she walks by me, the smell of her shampoo sends a flutter of a memory in my gut, and a vision of my mother dances in my mind, front and center. An alarming flip of grief rotates in my gut, making my chest feel weighted—like a dam is about to burst inside me. A dam that I had no idea was holding back so much water.
“These are my favorite,” the blonde says, wrapping and rubber-banding the bottom of the stems in plastic and then wrapping them in brown paper and tying with twine. “I got a little too happy planting them this year. I have so many; I can’t even harvest them fast enough. But apparently, everybody wants roses, zinnias, and sunflowers. Not these beauties.” She fluffs and adjusts the flowers in the bouquet, then hands it to me. “That’s a whole lot of eternal love.”
I shoot her a questioning look.
“Dahlias. They represent eternal love,” she clarifies.
“Oh. Lovely.”
“You’re new around here, huh? Living in Miss Annabelle’s cottage, right? Gosh, I love that place. It’s so beautiful. And quaint. She used to plant petunias and lavender along the walkway. Absolutely gorgeous.”
I hum in amusement.
“It really is a shame you’re embezzling all that money from Miss Annabelle.”
Her tone is so sugary sweet that I almost don’t register her accusation.
I swallow, my throat coated in disbelief. “I’m sorry?”
“You know her son? Dominic? He told a few of us last night you’ve been embezzling money from that poor woman, and I’vegot to tell you… We accept all kinds of people in this town, but we don’t tolerate thieves.”
I draw in a breath, debating whether or not I should defend myself to her. Instead, I grit my teeth and ask, “How much do I owe you?”
“Ten dollars.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s what I charge to the locals and visitors alike. I don’t discriminate or try to take advantage of someone not familiar with the price of flowers in a small town.”
She smiles sweetly, but it makes me sick to my stomach.
I hand her a twenty. “Keep the change.”She needs it more than me.
I turn out of her booth and wander along, holding my bouquet of death until the fresh smell of cedar hits me, and a smile reaches my lips as I see a booth filled with birdhouses. Large ones. Small ones. One is the shape of the Disney castle. Another is shaped like the Eiffel Tower. Another a lighthouse. Each one is so unique and beautiful.
The birdhouse shaped like a sun gives me pause. It reminds me of the clock at Dominic’s bar. The same clock that upended my entire night by transporting me into a memory. It’s just a sun, and yet, I can hear my mom singing “You Are My Sunshine” while she ran a hand over my head, and I stared up at a ceiling covered in plastic glow-in-the-dark stars. They say the first thing you forget about a person is the sound of their voice. I thank God every day I never forgot hers.
I stare at the sun-shaped birdhouse a moment longer, considering buying it when I hear?—
“Why do you look so sad?”
I startle and jump, slamming the crown of my head against the hanging heart-shaped birdhouse, and cry out, “Shit!” My hands fly to my head. “Sorry, you scared me. I was just?—”
My voice freezes when I register his amber-colored eyes and deep frown. The oddest type of fear trickles through me. I’venever experienced this feeling before, and truth be told, it probably has to do with the fact that my heart can’t not consider this man with empathy… no matter how much of an asshole he is.
“Is it because of your haircut? Is that why you look so sad?”
My jaw drops, and my hand flies to my hair. “I didn’t get my hair cut.”
“Hmm.”
