Mourning Wood Page 3

  “I’ll be here.”

  I wait for him to disappear down the hall before I start for the door. A little wad of black fabric on the floor of the last step catches my eye.

  “Well, that isn’t safe,” I mutter to no one at all, nudging it with my boot. Hmmm. What have we here?

  Panties.

  Whitney must’ve dropped them when she tripped.

  Why the heck was she carrying around lingerie?

  Ever curious, I scoop them up and head in the direction of her office.

  My timing could not be more perfect; I arrive just in time to see her walking out the elderly couple she was meeting with.

  She waits until the door shuts behind them to give me her attention. “Well, you’re still standing.” Her eyes make a slow perusal of my form. “That’s good.” She shrugs. “Or bad, depending who’s asking.”

  I wave a hand through the air as if it was no big thing. Like I wasn’t just practically shitting my drawers. “Went well,” I lie. “He gives us his blessing.”

  Her cocky smile slowly morphs into a scowl. “His what?”

  “Relax,” I say slipping past her into the office. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. I’m just fucking with you.”

  With a loud huff she follows me inside, kicking the door shut behind her. “You don’t know shit about my panties.”

  Swear to all that is holy, I couldn’t have planned for a better opening if I’d tried. “Oh, I know a little.”

  “A lot can change in two years, Wyatt, including a woman’s taste in lingerie…” She looks at me pointedly. “Also in men.”

  Ouch.

  I punch a hand to my chest, recoiling dramatically from the blow before reaching into my pocket to retrieve the scrap of fabric that’s burning a hole in my thigh. With deliberate slowness, I shake them loose then drape the skimpy elastic over the tip of my index finger.

  Her mouth falls open. “Where did you—?” She pats the front of her skirt, feeling for the lump that’s no longer there. Just as I suspected…definitely hers.

  “Black,” I say, beginning to tick off all the things I just so happen to know about her lingerie of choice. I give my finger a twitch, so they sway just slightly. “Lace.” I nod my approval. “Thongs.”

  “Give me those!” Red-faced, she practically jumps at me, trying to snatch them away, but at 6’3, I’m much taller, and easily lift them out of her reach before balling them up in my fist and stuffing them back into my own pocket.

  “Come get them.” I lift my arms, folding them behind my head to give her clear access.

  She blows out a long breath. “You that desperate to have a girl touch your junk?”

  “Just desperate for one.”

  “One touch?”

  “One girl,” I tease, giving her a solid eye fucking.

  Her hands rest at her hips, and she taps one heeled foot while giving me her best momma stare. “You’re hilarious,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Just give me my underwear.”

  “Finders keepers.”

  “What happened to being professional? Gave up on that fast, didn’t you?”

  I shrug, thoroughly enjoying seeing her so flustered. “I don’t officially start the job until tomorrow.”

  “You make a habit of stealing girl’s panties?”

  “Do you make a habit of walking around with thongs in your pocket?”

  I didn’t think it was possible, but the red in her cheeks deepens.

  “Tell you what… you explain to me why you’re carrying these around in your pocket, and I’ll give them to you.”

  She chews the inside of her cheek, clearly cooking up a response. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m on my period. They’re emergency backups.”

  “Nice try.”

  She throws her hands out. “What?”

  “You think just because I’m a guy that I don’t know about ‘period panties?’ These sexy little thangs ain’t no period panties.” I run my lower lip through my teeth while slowly roving my eyes over her form. “Try again.”

  She growls. “Incontinence.”

  “In—what?”

  If looks could kill, I’d be vapor. “I have weak bladder control, okay?” she mutters, looking adorably embarrassed at her knee-jerk response.

  That does it. I’m shaking with laughter.

  “You’re making fun of me? Seriously? What are you, like five?”

  “Not five, but not an idiot either.”

  “’Scuse me?”

  “Not buying it.” I move toward the door. “Think I’ll hold on to these for a while longer. If you’re willing to lie and say you carry around extra panties in case you tee-tee on yourself… the real reason will be worth the wait.”

  “You are dead to me,” I growl, storming through the back door of my former best friend’s house without knocking, Priscilla in tow.

  “You’re welcome, you ungrateful twit.” She doesn’t skip a beat—just continues scraping the skin off a huge russet potato into the trash, all the while looking like she belongs in a freaking magazine.

  Kate Landry brings to life the term domestic goddess. I don’t know another housewife who gets up every morning and curls her hair and puts on a full face of makeup just to chase a baby around all day. But you can rest assured, without fail, the girl is always put together. She says the least she can do is give her man something to look forward to coming home to at the end of the workday.

  She says it’s for him, but I know it makes her feel better about herself, and there’s certainly nothing wrong with that.

  “Pissy he-ya. Pissy he-ya,” my goddaughter chimes, wobble-running on those stubby little tree trunks of hers.

  My daughter grips two fists full of my blouse and presses herself against my back trying to hide from the tot.

  “Hey there, Lulu muffin.” I scoop her up, smothering her chunky cheeks with kisses while she wriggles around trying to free herself from my hold. “One day you’re gonna realize how awesome Nanny-Whit is,” I tease setting her to her feet.

  “Thanks a lot, Mom,” Prissy groans when I move aside, letting the toddler attack. “Luciferrrr!” she growls, wiping a dollop of drool from her lips. “You’re so disgusting.”

  Kate and I share a laugh when Prissy takes off sprinting down the hall with Lucy toddling behind.

  “Now, where were we?” the smug brunette inquires, drying her hands off on the front of her apron. Yes, an apron. “Ah, yes, you were about to thank me profusely for saving your ass.” She cups a hand around her ear. “Come on…don’t keep me waiting.”

  “How could you do this to me?” Just speaking of the man in question has my heart racing out of control and heat pooling between my legs.

  “He’s a good man.” She grabs a stock pot from the cabinet, fills it with water, and sets it on the stove. “You’re just embarrassed and taking it out on the poor guy.”

  She’s probably right. She usually is, but I don’t even care because having him in my space is stressing me out! “I can’t work under these conditions.”

  “What conditions, exactly?”

  I start pacing the kitchen, worrying my fingers. “Well, for starters, I can’t look at him without turning into a fucking tomato… Also, my father heard us talking about the dumpster.” I make air quotes around that last word to sum up all the details of a night I wish like hell I could forget.

  Kate spit laughs. “Shut up.” She dumps the bowl of peeled potatoes into the boiling water before lifting the lid on the gumbo pot and giving it a good stir. “I was only kidding…” she says when I clamp my lips together. “Tell me more.”

  “I’m so glad you’re enjoying this.”

  “Mmmhmm,” she nods, taking a swig from her bottle of water before rotating her hand in circles toward me. “Go on…”

  “He stole my panties!” I hiss.

  “Hey now!” Her big brown eyes widen like saucers. “How, pray tell, did he get his hands on your underwear?”

  “They fell o
ut of my pocket.”

  She stares after me, waiting for more.

  “Just forget it. It’s not even important. What is important is that it’s only his first freaking day and he’s already ruining my life.”

  “You say ruining,” Kate singsongs, “but sounds to me like he’s bringing some much-needed excitement to your mundane existence.”

  I halt my stride and gawk. “Why are we even friends?”

  She winks. “Quit your bitchin’ and make yourself useful. Put on a pot of rice, and let’s get this potato salad finished. Gumbo’s almost done.”

  My ire cools mildly while I busy myself with rinsing the grains until the water runs clear. Once it’s clean, I fill it to the first line on my index finger the way my Granny taught me, add a splash of vinegar, sprinkle a little salt, and drop it in the cooker. As soon as I flip the toggle to cook, the back door opens and all hell breaks loose.

  “Hey there, Roofy,” Kate coos, slapping her hands on her thighs.

  The biggest dog I’ve ever seen comes charging into the house, nearly knocking me on my ass for the second time today. His incessant bark is deep and deafening. And don’t even get me started on the drool hanging from his jowls.

  “You got a dog?” I’m shouting, twirling in circles trying to dodge his wet nose that for some reason he’s hell bent on getting up under my skirt.

  “He’s mine.”

  You’ve got to fucking be kidding me.

  “Wyatt,” I say, forcing a smile. “Didn’t know you were coming,” I add, my teeth clenched and eyes narrowed and homed in on Kate.

  I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that the wild beast belongs to him. Let’s be honest, this rotten apple didn’t fall very far from that tree.

  “Down!” he yells at the mangy mutt. “Down, boy.”

  “A puppy!” my child squeals, rushing toward the gray and black-speckled brute. “You didn’t tell me y’all got a dog,” she says to Kate, giggling while he licks her from chin to forehead.

  “He’s mine,” Wyatt offers again.

  Prissy’s brows dip inward. “And who are you?”

  “Prissy, this is Mr. Wyatt… Paw-Paw just hired him today to clean up the mess Phillip and his crew made of the chapel.”

  Her eyes narrow as she sizes him up, still running her hands over the dog. “You better not piss my Maw-Maw off like those other guys,” she warns.

  “Prissy!” I shout, slapping a hand to my forehead.

  “I have no intention of doing anything of the sort,” he assures her, grinning ear to ear.

  “Then we should get on just fine.” She nods.

  This is what happens when your parents treat their grandchild like a whole grown-ass adult whose opinion actually counts for anything: you get a frequent urge to crawl under the nearest piece of furniture.

  “Why don’t you take Rufus out into the back yard before your momma has a heart attack?” Kate suggests to my kiddo, ushering her through the door with Lucy and the giant dog not far behind. “And quit that cussin’. You get my baby talking like a sailor and I’ll be the one tanning your hide!” she shouts.

  “So, how was your first day?” Kate asks, after the commotion has died down—a lame attempt at breaking up what has become a painfully awkward silence.

  “It was good,” Wyatt says, beaming. “I think my new boss really likes me, and his secretary is fine as hell.”

  I gasp, ignoring his hooded gaze, and correct his erroneous assumption. “Funeral Director.”

  Kate smothers a laugh while he stares on in confusion.

  I clarify. “I’m not a secretary. I’m the funeral director and makeup artist.” I toss my hair, vexed at his minimalization of my extremely important position.

  “My apologies,” he says in an annoyingly sincere tone as he pulls out a stool behind the bar-height counter and straddles it. “So, you actually meet with the bereaved?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s awesome. I—I didn’t realize…” He shakes his head to himself. “Sorry, that’s got to be an extremely difficult job. I just thought because the Andersons weren’t in any way upset…”

  “Preplanning.”

  He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t get it.

  “We have a lot of people who come in to make their own arrangements ahead of time, so that when they die, it’s something their children aren’t left to deal with.”

  “Gotcha.” He drums his fingers on the granite. “And you like…put makeup on dead bodies?”

  “They don’t bite,” I assure him.

  He visibly shivers. “That doesn’t creep you out just a little?”

  “Not a bit. It’s an honor that their loved ones trust me to prepare them for their final gathering.” A prideful smile stretches my cheeks. “Anyway, it’s like my daddy always told me, ‘It’s not the dead folks you gotta watch out for…it’s the living ones that’ll getcha in trouble.’”

  “Guess I never really thought of it like that.”

  Another agonizing silence descends upon us. And once again, it’s Kate who breaks it. “Why don’t you go find Beau in the man cave? He’s out there watching Sports Center.”

  He tips his ball cap farewell, all but jumping at the chance to escape.

  “What’s his deal?” I ask when he’s out of earshot.

  “What do you mean?” Kate passes me a bowl of boiled eggs to peel and starts dicing up the potatoes.

  “I don’t know…he just seems really weirded out by death…I mean, more than most people.”

  My friend walks over, bringing her lips close to my ear. “Poor thing lost his whole family in a car accident when he was just four.”

  My heart squeezes, and chill bumps coat my skin as she continues.

  “He’s the only one who made it. Mom, Dad, and his baby sister…well, they weren’t so lucky.”

  A hollow ache steals my breath as Wyatt Landry suddenly becomes more.

  More than an old fling.

  More than a test of my wills.

  His time with Daigle Family Funeral Services just became more than a job, and he doesn’t even know it yet. Because I’ve just decided to make it my mission to heal this broken man—to gift him with a whole new outlook on life and death.

  Lucky, she says. Such an ironic word so often used to describe those left behind.

  “Did you know one in every five work-related fatalities occurs in construction?”

  I power off the circular saw and lift my safety goggles, once the blade comes to a stop. “Well, hello there. It’s Prissy, right?” I ask, turning to greet the tyke.

  She nods, letting her backpack fall to the floor.

  Guess she’s planning on hanging around a while.

  “That’s some awful big knowledge for someone so young.”

  “I’m little,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Not stupid.”

  I choke on my saliva. “Noted.”

  She nods. “I’m gonna run this place someday. Paw-Paw said so. Cuz Momma…she’s too squeamish to drain and embalm the corpses…but I’m not.” She crosses her arms over her chest, standing tall and proud in her little combat boots. “I wanna do it all!”

  “Oh, yeah?” I rock back on my heels from my crouched position, dropping to seat myself on the dusty plywood floor.

  “It’s so cool. I bet he’d let you come watch if you wanna. We’re embalming Mr. Rick tonight after dinner…”

  Jesus Christ. “I’ll pass,” I say, trying to hide the horror from my expression.

  “It’s okay. Not everyone has the balls for it.”

  What the—“You’re something else, you know that?”

  She grins, taking my observation for a compliment. “Thanks.”

  “Priscilla Louise,” Hank calls with a dopey grin on his face—one that shows just how much he adores the little heathen. “You aren’t out here bothering Mr. Wyatt while he’s tryin’ to work?”

  “Who, me?” Her little hand flies to her chest. “Never! Just tellin’ him to be careful. I’d h
ate to see him on the table one of these nights.”

  The little shit turns back in my direction and winks.

  “Cute kid,” I say, pushing my palms on the ground to get up to a standing position. “I’m glad you’re here. I was about to come find you. Had an idea for those windows on the outer wall.”

  “I’m listenin’.” He scrubs a hand over his clean-shaven chin.

  “Well,” I say, excited by the prospect, “What if we take them out? Replace them with some stained glass?”

  His lips purse and he nods, but not in a permissive way, more like he’s mulling it over. “I like it,” he finally announces. “But you’ll have to run it by the boss.”

  “Whitney?” I lose a little steam with the question, positive she’ll shut the idea down for no other reason than my being the one to come up with it.

  “He means me,” the modern-day Wednesday Addams announces. “I just told you, he’s groomin’ me to run the place.” Her head shakes. “Don’t you listen?”

  Of course, the six-year-old is in charge.

  I look to the man who’s signing my checks, waiting for his nod of approval before posing the question once again. “Well, what’d’ya say, Miss Priss?”

  “Let’s do it.” She pumps her little fist into the air.

  “Really?” Well, that was easy enough.

  “As long as,” she adds, “no biblical scenes are depicted.”

  “Okay…” I drawl, half shocked by the child’s vocabulary. “I think we can make that happen.”

  “I mean, I got nothin’ against Jesus and the Bible, being Catholic myself, but we get people from all walks of life, you know? Jews and even some atheists.” She looks to her Paw-Paw for his consent.

  “That’s very nice of you to consider everyone’s feelings, my girl. Paw’s proud of ya.”

  She beams, obviously very pleased with his praise. “A funeral is not the time to have anyone feelin’ judged or like they don’t belong.”

  “All right then,” Hank says, scruffing the top of Prissy’s ponytail. “Abstract it is…now get your little tail upstairs with Maw-Maw and get that homework done. I’m gonna need my favorite assistant in a couple hours.”

  Once they’ve both departed, I decide to wrap up for the day and start fresh in the morning. I’ve just coiled the last of my extension cords when I hear a commotion on the other end of the wall I share with Whitney’s office.