Mourning Wood Read online

  Mourning Wood

  Copyright © 2021 by Heather M. Orgeron

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Photographer Michelle Lancaster

  Model Mason Kreidt

  Designer Kate Farlow with Y'all that graphic

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Editor Kiezha Ferrell

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Preview of Take Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Preview of Pour Judgment

  Other books by Heather M. Orgeron

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For Erin.

  Thank you for humoring an old friend.

  Your assistance was invaluable.

  I’m jamming out to some old school 90s R&B while painting the final touch of rose onto Mrs. Thibodaux’s lips when Prissy barges into the prep room, her mouth running a mile a minute—the way it tends to when she’s overexcited.

  My little girl drops her black Jansport bag near the door before dragging a stool over to the table and climbing up beside me. The metal screeches as it scrapes along the cement, making my shoulders tense and my teeth clench tight. “Before you look in my folder,” she announces, reaching to brush an errant strand of hair from the cheek of the old woman, “lemme tell you what happened.”

  Oh, Lord. Here we go… “Well hello there, daughter of mine.” I plant a kiss to the apple of her cheek, noting the actual rat’s nest that sits atop her own head. I swear she’s presentable when she leaves the house. What happens after that is beyond me. “I can’t wait to hear what havoc you’ve wreaked on your fellow first-graders today.”

  She gives me a heavy dose of side eye. “It wasn’t me. It was Jenny Boudreaux.” Her lips pucker like the poor girl’s name tastes sour on her tongue.

  I nod. Of course, it was.

  “Which one?” I hold the pallet of nude eye shadows out for her to choose.

  She points to the one in the middle—beige with a hint of gold. “That one.” Her blue eyes wander to the outfit hanging from the hook across the room. “It’ll look nice with her dress.”

  She’s right. The gold will be gorgeous paired with the deep plum hue. My little girl possesses all the attributes to make a great mortician someday. Her attention to detail is astonishing for a six-year-old, and her comfort around the deceased is borderline scary, but crucial in our line of work.

  After coating the brush with color, I urge her on. “Well, what did Jenny do to make you move your clip?”

  “Can you believe she asked me who’s funeral I was going to?” Her little finger points straight up and wags as she cocks her head. “Just because I was wearing my black pants and my new boots.” Which also happen to be black, and of the combat variety—along with her charcoal T-shirt and black leather jacket.

  Long gone are the days when I could dress her up in pinks, lavenders, and ruffles… I miss it.

  “Uh-huh.” I lean in closer to the body to get a good look, making sure the application is even on both eyes. “And what did you say?”

  “I said”—I have to bite down on my lips to keep from laughing when her head whips side to side—“I don’t know yet… and then I looked at her like this…” Her strawberry blonde brows dart toward the ceiling and she widens her eyes. “And then she sucked in some air really loud and I told her it might be a good idea to get her affairs in order.”

  “Priscilla Louise Daigle!”

  “What?” Her little button nose scrunches, and it has nothing to do with the stench of formaldehyde lingering in the air.

  “Dammit, child! You’re gonna get yourself kicked outta that school before long.”

  She shrugs. “She’s so dumb, Momma. Jenny didn’t even know what that meant. Only Mrs. Bourque heard what I said, and she made me move my clip.”

  I’m gearing up for a nice long rant when the door once again flies open, nearly popping off its hinges—only this time the body filling the doorway is that of my mother. The sound of the metal knob slamming into the wall forewarns that she ain’t happy. “They’re gone!” she shrieks, grabbing two fists full of her auburn bob and tugging. “Just took the money and ran.”

  My heart starts beating double-time. The makeup falls from my hand, clanking against the metal tray. “Wh—who’s gone?” I ask, afraid I already know the answer.

  “Those con artists you hired to renovate the chapel!”

  A bitter taste forms in my mouth. “Ma…I’m sure they just had something come up. I’ll try to get in tou—”

  “They. Are. Gone.” Her tone is one that bodes no argument as she begins pacing back and forth in the small room.

  “Oh, shit,” Prissy hisses, wanting no part of the epic blowup about to ensue. “I’m going find Paw-Paw.” She snatches up her school bag and runs out before I can swat her little bottom for cursing.

  It’s a good thing that our clients are mostly dead, because my family can be downright embarrassing. Oh, we can turn on the charm and professionalism when needed, but one look at this crazy clan behind the scenes would send our customers running for the hills.

  Suddenly feeling lightheaded, I take the seat my child just vacated. “You’re sure?”

  “Cashed the check three days ago and they haven’t been back since.” Mom’s hand goes to her chest, rising and falling with her labored breaths. “I tried Phillip’s cell phone and it’s no longer in service. Went by the hotel they was stayin’ at and they’re gone. Just gone, Whitney!”

  “Fuck.” I smooth a thumb over the vein pulsating in the center of my forehead.

  “Fuck is right,” the tiny, explosive woman shouts. “I knew. I knew that deal you struck with them people was just too damn good to be true. Now they done hauled off with our money and we got ourselves a mess, Whitney Jean. Just a big ol’ mess!” She’s gonna work herself into a coronary one of these day
s.

  “I’ll fix it,” I promise, without a single clue how the hell I’ll manage such a feat. “Don’t worry.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” she shouts back. “It’s only our livelihoods at stake.”

  “Nothing about this is easy!” I counter, leaping to my feet. I’m a perfectionist by nature—having to admit I screwed up is about the hardest thing in the world for me, and she knows it. “Just give me a few minutes to figure out how to make this right before you start jumping down my throat.”

  She sends me a hard look as she heads back toward the door, muttering a string of profanity along the way before slamming it behind her.

  With no clue where to even begin, I do what I always do and call my bestie, Kate. She’s the most level-headed person in my life. Surely she’ll know where to start.

  “Hey,” she answers on the second ring. The sound of my goddaughter Lucy babbling brings a brief smile to my face. “What’s up, Morticia?”

  “I fucked up.” Vomit climbs in the back of my throat.

  “Wait,” she says, before hollering at her husband Beau to lower the music. “Can you say that for me one more time? I thought I just heard you say—”

  “Cut the shit.” My voice cracks. “I’m in real trouble this time.”

  “I’m listenin’,” she drawls.

  “Okay, so you know those guys I hired to redo the chapel a few weeks ago?”

  “Uh-huh… The ones I warned you not to pay until the job was complete?” I hear her pass the baby off to her husband. “Those ones?”

  “Yeah… those ones.”

  “Uh-huh. What about ’em?”

  I gulp hard. “They uh—they finished the demo a couple days ago, and I gave them the final payment.”

  “Made out to cash, right?” she inquires. Her condescending tone has me feeling even more ridiculous.

  A lone tear trickles out from the corner of my eye, scorching a path of shame along my cheek. “They said it had to be cash for the cash price…so they didn’t have to claim it on their taxes.” It sounded totally reasonable at the time.

  I can practically see the “I told ya so” fighting to escape her lips through the phone. “Well…what are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know,” I cry. “Why do you think I called you? It’s a complete disaster. All the old woodwork is in pieces in the back yard. We only have the one tiny makeshift chapel set up in the smaller viewing area. This is gonna kill our business.” I don’t have to tell her that the upcoming holiday season is always our busiest. It’s a sad reality that suicides and car accidents spike this time of year, and she’s been in my life since kindergarten—long enough to know the ins and outs.

  “Wait a second…” she muses, an idea already taking shape. Kate is a problem solver and has saved my ass more times than I can count. “You remember Beau’s cousin, Wyatt?”

  “From your wedding?” I ask—as if there’s any way I could forget him fucking me up against a dumpster in an alley on Bourbon Street the night of her and Beau’s joint bachelor/bachelorette party.

  “Mmmhmm,” she singsongs. “That’s the one. Well, he’s actually just moved to town and is lookin’ to get his construction business started here. I bet he’d be willing to—”

  “No,” I blurt, cutting her off. “Absolutely not.”

  “Oh, come on, Whit, that was years ago. He probably doesn’t even remember you.”

  “Good! And we’re gonna keep it that way.” My cheeks radiate enough heat to melt the makeup I just applied to poor Mrs. Thibodaux’s face. I’ve been so careful not to introduce any of the guys I’ve hooked up with to my daughter. It’s bad enough her father chose not to be a part of her life. She deserves better than a revolving door of men. The last thing I need is one lurking around for heaven knows how long.

  “But—”

  “No buts,” I argue. “There has to be another solution.”

  Any other solution.

  “Home sweet home, Rufus.” I throw my old, beat-up Chevy into park beneath a limb of the sprawling oak that drapes over the front of the fixer-upper I snagged for a steal in Moss Pointe, Louisiana. The mature trees and property alone are well worth every penny I paid. This little slice of heaven was my present to myself two months ago, on my twenty-fifth birthday, when I finally gained access to the trust my parents set up before they died.

  The eighty-pound puppy follows me out through the driver’s side door, immediately popping a squat.

  “You piss like a bitch,” I grumble, shaking my head at the sight while hauling my luggage and essentials to the porch.

  I laugh when I catch myself looking around to be sure no one is watching the shameful act. All that surrounds us are acres of unkempt land that’ll keep me busy for months on end. Such a welcome change from the apartment life we left behind with my maternal grandparents in Dallas.

  The spotted Dane looks up at me with his head cocked to one side. He’s a good listener, even if he seldom understands a word I say.

  “Come on.”

  Rufus is right on my ass as I ascend the drooping steps, leaning every bit of his weight against my thigh while I wiggle the key into the lock. We’re welcomed by the musty scent of mildew and rot. “She doesn’t look like much right now, boy, but her foundation is strong.” I slap my palm against his ribs, giving his coat a nice rub. His back leg lifts, vibrating with delight. “They don’t make cypress frames like this anymore.”

  His tail wags, slapping me behind the knee a few times.

  After transferring my belongings inside, I head right to the sink to fill Rufus’s water bowl. The sound of a vehicle approaching steals my attention. I move the yellowed curtain aside and peer through the window above the sink to find my cousin Beau’s Jeep rumbling to a stop.

  Dropping the water bowl on the worn linoleum, I hear, “Wyatt, my man!” Beau comes charging in and moves his briefcase to the other hand so he can hit me with an enthusiastic one-armed hug. The genuine smile splitting his face reaffirms that this was the right decision. “How was the drive?”

  “Long.” I yawn, stretching my arms up, my fingertips easily meeting with the low ceiling. “But it’s good to be back.”

  I’ve spent every summer since the accident in Moss Pointe, bouncing between our Maw-Maw and Paw-Paw’s house, God rest their souls, and Beau’s parents’—Uncle Curtis and Aunt Sue.

  To see the two of us together, him in his three-piece suit and short tapered cut and me in my worn jeans, dingy tee and my unruly hair that’s always in need of a trim—well, you wouldn’t imagine our fathers were brothers, or that despite our differences we could be as tight as we are. But even growing up hundreds of miles apart, in completely different states, we’ve managed to remain thick as thieves.

  “How’s your Mimi doing with all this?” he asks, referencing my big move to the country.

  I roll my eyes. “Ten times worse than whatever you’re imagining,” I answer, smiling to myself at her theatrics. “You’d swear I was moving to another continent.”

  “Ah,” he waves me off. “She loves you.”

  “I know it.” I shut the door behind him to block out the chill. “Was just about to take a walk through and check out the furniture I had delivered last week.” I motion with my head for him to follow.

  Rufus needs no encouragement to join us. I’m forever tripping over the big galoot.

  The rich brown leather sectional looks out of place, surrounded by scuffed wood floors and the wall of cracked bricks that’s crumbling around the old fireplace. This living room is in desperate need of some TLC. But that’s what I love about construction—where most would see nothing but headache, I see endless possibilities.

  “Lotta work to do,” Beau says, whistling as he runs a hand over the mantle. With a frown, he walks into my space and wipes the layer of dust he just picked up right across the front of my T-shirt. Pretty boy.

  “Yup. Dig out your work boots. I’m gonna need all the manpower I can get.”

 
He snorts. The mere suggestion that he owns anything besides loafers and brand-name tennis shoes is hilarious.

  “I actually came by to talk to you about something.” He’s still grimacing as he peers into each of the doors, one after the other.

  “Oh?” I peek my head into the master at the king-sized bed that’s beckoning me, dying a little inside as I walk away.

  “Yeah.” He follows me back into the kitchen, taking a seat at the little wood breakfast table. “I know you’re literally just pulling into town, but Kate’s got a friend in a bit of a bind.”

  I retrieve two beers from the box on the top shelf of the ancient fridge, literally the only thing besides dog food I bothered to pick up on my way in. After sliding one over to Beau, I whip out the chair across from his and straddle it. “She need a date to Christmas dinner or something?”

  He laughs. “Not that kinda bind. Do you ever stop thinking with your dick for even a few minutes?”

  “Not if I can help it.” I wink, popping the tab on my Bud Light. “What’cha got?”

  “All right, so her friend hired this crew to update their family’s chapel… She paid cash.” His head shakes with disappointment. Pretty sure I already know where this is going. “They ran out on her halfway through the job.”

  I hiss. “That’s tough…but what’s it got to do with me?” I hope he doesn’t think I’m about to restore a whole fucking church as a favor to his wife, no matter how much I like Kate.

  “Well, the Daigles are a pretty influential family in this town. It would be a great contract to land for your first local project.” He drums his fingers, worrying his lip between his teeth.

  Contract. Now we’re talkin’. My interest is piqued now that I know it’s a paid job. “What’s the catch?”

  His victorious smile seems a little premature, taking into consideration I haven’t agreed to anything yet. “I actually took the liberty of stopping by and hashing out the details with Hank, the owner.”

  What the hell? He better not have already volunteered me for anything. “You did what?”

  “I didn’t want anyone else snagging the position ahead of you.” His blasé shrug proves he’s not the least bit sorry.