Page 7 of Mourner for Hire
“I will forget all of this information, I hope you know, but I find it sweet.” Then I lean into the bar top. “But tell me, do I look familiar at all?”
His brow twists, and his pupils shrink then dilate as he studies me.
“I was born here.”
“No shit.” He leans back and crosses his arms in disbelief.
“I left in the middle of second grade when my mom died. I loved my teacher with her frizzy, red hair. She reminded me of Ms. Frizzle fromThe Magic School Bus.”
She’s one of my few memories from childhood, and I hope no one ever underestimates the impact of teachers on little lives.
He sort of laughs. “Mrs. Nettles.”
I lean on my elbows. “Yeah! Did you have her, too, or…?”
“No, I had Ms. Hill.”
I nod, more in acknowledgment. I don’t remember the other second-grade teachers.
“Sorry, I don’t remember you,” he says.
“It was a long time ago.” I shrug and grab my beer. “Maybe you will now.”
The comment wasn’t intentionally flirtatious, but it came out that way, and I refuse to take it back. Because this guy—this man with broad shoulders and a dog’s name—is rather charming when the brunette from out of town makes him blush.
“So why are you here?” he asks, bracing the bar on the other side and leaning closer.
“The traffic,” I play coy. Not everyone responds kindly when I tell them what I do.
“Right. But why were you headed back to town?”
He saysbacklike I visit frequently, but I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t.
“Oh, are you trying to scare me off?”
“I’m curious.” He crosses his arms. “You said business, but unless you’re a fisherman…”
I let his voice trail and drum my fingernails over the bar top, unsure if I want to tell him the truth.
His honey-colored eyes stay fixed on me. They’re mesmerizing to say the least.
“Fine. I get hired to attend funerals,” I answer.
“By who?”
“The dead.”
A laugh snorts through his nose as he keels over in laughter. I’m not surprised. This is one of two responses I get: laughter or horrification.
“Yep.” I press my lips together.
His laughter settles, and he manages to say, “So, you talk to ghosts?”
I rear back. “What? No. No, no, no. The deceased hire me before they die,” I explain. “I don’t talk to ghosts. I don’t believe in them.”
His teeth run along his bottom lip as he processes what I’m saying. “I don’t get it.”
“Some people are lonely and just want someone to be there. Some people have very specific stories they want to be told at their service, and I do that. Some want me to weep. Some want me to laugh—weird kink if you ask me, but it happens. And others will ask me to wear a widow veil and stand mysteriously behind a tree.” I scrunch my nose and smile. “Drama seekers—I love it.”
