Page 84 of Mourner for Hire
“It’s great. You should stop by,” I offer.
He practically grimaces.
I roll my eyes. “Or don’t.”
“Oh, is that you, Vada?”
I turn to the sound of the woman’s voice.
“It is. Hi…” My voice trails. I realize I’ve forgotten her name. I just know she owns Something Sweet, yelled at Dominic after I cut my head, and is nothing but kind to me.
“Marylou,” she finishes for me.
“Right. It’s good to see you again.”
“How’s the cottage coming along?”
“Wonderful so far. The bones are good, so my job is easier. It’s going to be beautiful.”
Marylou smiles. “I bet. Well, I can’t wait to see it when it’s done. I hear we’re having a party to celebrate Annabelle.”
I nod. “That’s the plan… I might even have it ready by the eclipse.”
I glance at Dominic, who is still standing at the foot of my cart. However, he seems to be fidgeting, and I wonder if he hasn’t been going through my groceries and passing endless judgment about me.
“Well, I’ll see you around, yes?” Marylou asks Dominic.
“You sure will. Good to see you, Marylou.”
“Bye, dear. Bye, Dominic.”
I turn to Dominic and clear my throat loudly as Marylou walks away. “Excuse me, Dominic.”
“What happened to apologizing to me?”
“For what?”
His square chin jerks forward. “How is it you don’t remember running me down with your cart just two minutes ago? I thought you said we were going to play nice.”
I shrug. “I thought you wouldn’t be such a wimp about everything.”
I swerve around him, but I hear him cackle behind me as I grab my tampons from the shelf. “If you make a joke about me being ornery because I’m on my period, I will report you to the National Board of Feminists.”
When I turn around, Dominic seems to have vanished and is replaced by an older woman in a floral caftan and wicker hat, staring at me like a sinner in church.
I hate to admit that I’m vaguely disappointed.
“Sorry,” I mutter, moving past her and making my way to the checkout stand.
An elderly man in a burgundy apron with wiry white hair and a hunch in his back is working the checkout.
“Good day, dear. You must be new in town,” he says, scanning my groceries with shaking hands covered in age spots.
“I am. Just in town for a few months,” I answer.
“These berries are delicious this week. You lucked out. Normally, the crops go downhill after mid-September,” he remarks, scanning the plastic containers of strawberries and raspberries. “Did you see the boysenberries? They’re good this time of year.”
“Oh, I’ll have to get those next time.” I smile politely.
