Story of My Life (Story Lake #1)

15. Two women walk into a funeral home

15

TWO WOMEN WALK INTO A FUNERAL HOME

HAZEL

Was it my imagination or was Gage paying special attention to you?” I asked Zoey as I sprawled across her bed and flipped through her collection of impulse-buy magazines while she finished her makeup, packing as she went.

“Please. I’m pretty sure the Bishops only have eyes for you. Besides, that man is a red flag waving several smaller red flags,” she said, carefully applying a rosy lip stain in the mirror.

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You and I have very different definitions of red flags.”

She turned to look at me while blotting her lips. “He’s obviously a serial monogamist looking to get his small-town, blue-collar tentacles on a woman so she can give up her career, make a bunch of babies, and drive them to sports ball practice. Plus, he was looking at you, not me. Which makes me doubly not interested.”

“Is that why you changed clothes three times?” I teased.

She turned back to the mirror and began to fashion her curls into a fluffy ponytail. “Excuse me, Miss Power Suit. You don’t get to judge my outfit selection procedure.”

“Hey, I’m trying to make a good impression here. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m looking hot to support your good impression. You wrote two hundred and fifty-seven words today, which is more than in the last two years. If you want this town to like you, I’ll force them to.”

“Ah. And wearing a bustier will help my cause how?”

“You’re getting raccoon fur on your suit,” she shot back.

I rolled off the bed and made a beeline for the mirror and the lint roller. I’d gone with a classic black pantsuit, a rust-colored camisole, and—since Zoey’s rental car hadn’t been delivered yet and we would be walking to the town meeting—my fanciest sneakers. Also, two coats of deodorant.

“I’m nervous,” I announced.

She stopped what she was doing and joined me in the mirror. “Why?”

“Why? Because everyone here hates me already. This was supposed to be a fresh start, a comeback. I bought a house, I moved out of the city, I dragged you along, all because some old newspaper article gave me the tingle?”

She slid her arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “Don’t discount the tingle. Never discount the tingle.”

“What if this doesn’t work, Zoey? What if this town meeting is the first step in a darker, more depressing downward spiral? I don’t think I can survive it.”

Zoey released me, only to grab my shoulders. “You are Hazel Freaking Hart. You are a best-selling author. You supported yourself and your snide, elbow patch–wearing husband in one of the most expensive cities in the world on royalties you earned from books you wrote. Do you know how hard that is? Do you know how many people try and fail to do the same thing?”

“No,” I said petulantly.

“Tens of thousands. Maybe even hundreds of thousands. But you did it. And there’s no reason you can’t do anything you set that brilliant mind to. Including winning over this weird little town, writing the best book of your career, and earning us both a dump truck full of ‘fuck you’ money.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded fiercely. “The only thing you have to do is unlock the closet you hid your badassery away in and start going after what you want. Dim—notice I didn’t say his real name—spent years fucking with your head. I get that it takes time to come back from something like that. But he’s not here anymore. The only one fucking with your head is you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I am never getting married again,” I vowed.

“Right there with you, girl,” she agreed.

“What if I can’t write a love story because of how mine ended? What if I’m too out of touch with the dating world to write a realistic rom-com?” I asked. What if I wasn’t good enough anymore?

Zoey’s laugh was humorless. “Haze, we read rom-coms to escape the depressing reality of the state of our love lives. Either we’re single and looking for ‘the one’ but drowning in a feeding frenzy of swipes, hope-crushing hookups, and outright lies. Or we’re in a long-term relationship that’s gotten staler than that sleeve of saltines we found under the kitchen sink. We don’t need realistic.”

I scoffed. “Geez, and you call me depressing.”

She turned me toward the mirror again. “But at least we’re two badass babes who take no shit and look good doing it.”

I brushed my hands over my suit jacket and blew out a breath. “Okay. Let’s go win over Story Lake so I can write a book and save our careers.”

“This can’t be right,” Zoey said as we watched townsfolk file into Pushing Up Daisies, a funeral home on Walnut Street. Their signage promised they put the fun in funeral.

“This is the address Darius gave me,” I insisted, hugging my emotional support notebook to my chest.

She shook her head. “He was clearly messing with you and is sending you in to crash someone’s funeral.”

“At least I’m wearing black. Come on. Let’s check it out.”

We entered through the double doors where a woman with braids down to her waist and an oversize daffodil-yellow suit appeared to be directing foot traffic. “Welcome to Pushing Up Daisies. Are you here for the council meeting or the Stewart visitation?”

“The council meeting,” I said quickly.

“Wonderful. You’ll be in the Sunset Room. We just ask that you take a quick trip through the Garden Gathering Room and express your condolences to Mr. Stewart’s family. He was a hundred and four, and it’s been a low-traffic event, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, uh. We didn’t actually know Mr. Stewart. In fact we’re new in town as of yesterday,” I explained.

“Ah, well, in that case, I must insist. I think seeing the woman who allegedly ran down a town mascot and welcome sign in one shot pay her respects will go a long way toward repairing your reputation,” she said, her sympathetic smile now looking a hint more mercenary. “Besides, there are cookies after the urn.”

“Happy to pay our respects,” Zoey said, taking my arm and dragging me toward the dimly lit Garden Gathering Room.

“I don’t want to go to a funeral,” I whisper whined.

“And I didn’t want to come to When Wild Animals Attackville, but I did,” she said firmly. “Look at it as the first stop of your apology tour.”

We entered the Garden Gathering Room through the open folding divider doors. It looked as if we weren’t the only town meeting attendees who had been roped into visiting. There was a short line of people dressed for anything but a funeral lined up and yelling their condolences to the three ancient-looking adults seated on folding chairs in front of what looked like a large pickle jar.

“Please tell me that’s not Mr. Stewart in the pickle jar,” Zoey hissed.

“Let’s get this over with.” I linked my arm through hers and directed us to the front of the room.

“Real sorry to hear about Mr. Stewart,” hollered a man in jeans and a flannel almost as old as the family he was yelling at.

“What’s that you say?” barked the woman on the end in a long-term-relationship-with-menthols rasp. She cupped her ear and squinted at him through pearly pink glasses.

“REAL SORRY,” the man shouted again.

“When’s dinner?” demanded the withered, wrinkled man next to her. He was wearing a suit that looked like it had been made in the 1940s.

“I told you we’ll eat after,” the gentleman on his right bellowed, smacking the other with his cane.

“After what?”

The line moved quickly, most likely because the family barely understood a word any of the visitors said.

“Just try not to say anything stupid,” Zoey whispered to me as we approached the aged trio.

“Hi, I’m Hazel, and this is my friend Zoey. We just wanted to tell you how sorry we are about Mr. Stewart,” I said as loudly as I dared.

They all looked at me expectantly.

Zoey elbowed me.

“We, uh, didn’t know him, but I heard he was a big dill.” I gestured toward the pickle jar.

“Oh my God,” Zoey muttered under her breath.

All three of them blinked at me. The man with the cane reached in his ear and cranked up his hearing aid. “What was that?” he shouted.

“I’ll have the chicken fried steak,” the one next to him said to me.

“You got a cigarette on you?” the woman asked. “That lady dressed like a buttercup took mine until after the visitation.”

“We’re very sorry,” Zoey said and dragged me out of the room. “A big dill?”

I snagged a cookie from the tray on our way out and stuffed it into my pocket for emergencies. “I got nervous. You know I say inappropriate things when I’m nervous.”

“Well, you better get unnervous fast or we’ll be run out of town by the end of the night,” Zoey said, nodding ahead.

The Sunset Room held more than twice the number of chairs as the Stewart visitation. Several of them were actually occupied. There was a riser on the far end of the room with a table and chairs.

People were turning and frowning at me.

“Where do we go? Where should I sit? Should I stand?” I demanded as new room anxiety tied my intestines in a knot.

“Let’s find a friendly face,” Zoey said, scanning the room.

“Good luck with that,” I whispered.

“There. The boy wonder mayor.” Zoey towed me in Darius’s direction. He was standing behind a folding table on the far side of the room, handling a cashbox.

“There’s Story Lake’s most famous resident,” he said. He was wearing a suit with sneakers and a violet shirt and matching bow tie.

“More like infamous,” I said, eyeing the crowd.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll clear up the misunderstanding and you probably won’t have to worry about a public dunking or the potato walk.”

“The potato walk?”

“A legal discipline that’s been on the books here for nearly two hundred years. The guilty are marched around the park while townsfolk throw potatoes at them. Have some punch. We’re fundraising for the elementary school math club.” He pointed at the hand-painted sign on the front of the table. Mathletes are athletes.

“I can’t do this,” I hissed at Zoey.

She pulled out her wallet. “You can and you will. Trust me. I won’t let you get pelted with potatoes.”

“Here’s your change,” Darius said.

The woman next to him handed over two cups with a smile.

“Hi, I’m Darius’s mom, Harriet. I’m a big fan.”

A friendly face. I wanted to fall at her feet and promise her an expensive birthday present. “Thank you,” I managed. “Where should I go? Can I hide in the back?”

Darius chuckled as he closed the cashbox. “You’ll be up onstage with me and the rest of the council.”

“Oh goodie,” I said and took a sip of punch. I choked as alcohol fumes snaked up my throat and into my sinuses.

“Sweet baby Jesus, what’s in this?” Zoey gasped.

“Vodka and fruit punch,” Harriet said with a grin.

“We found the meetings go smoother with cookies and booze. The stronger the punch, the shorter the meetings,” Darius explained.

“Hang on,” I said, and downed my punch in one gulp. I pulled out a fistful of cash from my own wallet. “Hit me again please.” I had a feeling I’d need all the liquid confidence I could choke down.

Harriet refilled my cup. “Good luck up there. Remember, they can smell fear.”

I downed the second cup. “Thanks,” I wheezed.

Zoey gave me a double thumbs-up. “Knock ’em dead. ’Cause we’re in a funeral home.”

“Ha,” I said weakly. I felt the weight of several aggressive gazes as I followed Darius to the front of the room.

“Psst!”

I spotted Frank Bishop waving from the front row, where he was sandwiched between two beautiful women. The younger one was platinum blond with an edgy haircut and perfectly applied smoky-eye makeup. She occupied a wheelchair at the end of the row. The woman on Frank’s other side looked much like the first, only somehow softer.

“Don’t you worry about a thing. The Bishops have your back,” he promised me.

“Thank you,” I whispered, trying to pretend an entire town wasn’t shooting eyeball darts at me.

“This is my wife, Pep, and my daughter, Laura,” Frank said, making the introductions.

“We spoke on the phone, and I apologized for my brother’s behavior. I also may have brought six of your books for you to sign,” Laura said.

“Then I’ll see you afterward…unless I’m chased out of town by a mob with potatoes.”

Laura shook her head. “We haven’t potatoed anyone here in the last two years. You’ll be fine. We’ve got your defense covered. Just remember, be aggressive up there or they’ll eat you alive.”

“Thanks.” I had a feeling the smile I had pasted on my face looked more like constipation pains, but it was the best I could do.

Darius directed me up the step onto the riser. “Hazel, this is Dr. Ace, Erleen Dabner, and I believe you already know this guy,” he said, pointing at Cam. “Emilie’s around here somewhere. Everyone, this is Hazel Hart, our new councilperson.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dr. Ace said in a booming baritone. He was a very tall Black man with fluffy gray hair and a cardigan stretched over his ample belly. He wore half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose. “I’m the town GP—that’s general practitioner, in case you’re not familiar.”

“Hi,” I said, shaking his offered hand. “Hazel Hart, romance novelist and nervous first-timer.”

“You’ll do fine,” Erleen promised. She was an older white lady with a profusion of freckles, flowy silver-red hair, and an equally flowy dirt-brown dress. She wore a ring on nearly every finger and had four crystals around her neck.

“Thanks,” I said, returning her smile with a weak, wobbly one of my own. I saw there were paper nameplates in front of each seat and took a seat behind councilwoman hart . Darius took the chair on my right.

I spotted Gage approaching Zoey and Harriet at the punch table. The other brother, Levi, sat in the back row with a ball cap pulled low and his arms crossed over his massive chest. For all I knew, he could have been asleep.

There were about thirty people in the room. Most of them had funeral cookies in one hand, punch in the other, and scowls on their faces.

Darius leaned into his microphone. “Let’s get this emergency town meeting started, folks. I’ve got a Dungeons and Dragons game in the morning.”

The noisy rumble increased as people took their seats. One by one, the other council members took the stage. Cam was last. He leveled an inscrutable look at me as he pulled out the chair on the end. I felt my cheeks flush and looked away. Frank gave me an encouraging wink from the front row.

Zoey sat behind them, with Gage taking the seat next to her. She put her fingers in the corners of her mouth and tugged them up.

Automatically, my facial muscles reacted with a bright, phony smile. It wavered almost immediately when I saw a woman holding a sign over her head that said Bird Murderer .

Two rows behind her, a man held up a piece of blue poster board that read Bingo Killer .

“You’re in my seat.”

I looked up to find myself staring into the face of the woman who’d yelled at me at dinner last night.

“Oh. Uh, sorry. I just sat where my name was,” I said, looking to Darius for help, but he was in a whisper session with what looked like an oversize barbershop quartet. They were all wearing straw hats and red-and-white-striped Story Lake Warblers T-shirts.

“Move,” my nemesis said flatly.

I knew I was supposed to be aggressive, but this woman looked like she could crack me open like a walnut.

“Now, Emilie, this isn’t the way to attract new residents to town,” Ace admonished.

“The sooner you get out of my seat, the sooner we can get justice for Goose,” Emilie barked.

“Justice for Goose!” The cheer spread like wildfire and drowned out Darius’s requests for quiet.

With murmured apologies, I scrambled to pick up my name tag and notebook. In the past, when I’d walked into a room of people who were there because of me, the reaction had been significantly warmer. Heck, I’d walked into bookstores and had readers cheer before. This was new and yucky. I felt my badassery add a deadbolt to its closet door.

Standing on the stage clutching my stuff made me feel like I was living out one of my naked-in-high-school nightmares. I didn’t know where to go. My panicked gaze fell on Cam, who, without looking at me, nudged the empty chair next to him with his boot.

With gratitude more in line with a lifesaving organ donation or being pushed out of the path of a runaway bus, I took the offered seat. “Thank you,” I whispered.

Cam grunted then leaned forward to the mic. “Everyone sit the hell down and shut the hell up so we can get this shit show over with.”

The room quieted like a kindergarten class that had just gotten yelled at. Frank and Pep gave Cam proud-parent thumbs-ups from the front row. A pretty Black woman toward the back opened a bag of Skittles like she was in a movie theater.

“Thank you, Cam,” Darius said into his mic. “I officially call this meeting to order.”

He pointed to the barbershop group. Together they hummed enthusiastically into a microphone.

“Good people of Story Lake, we are gathered here today for an emergency town meeting…and Mr. Stewart’s visitation. Thank you to those of you who attended. Now, we’ve got a couple of items on our agenda, so let’s get to it. First I’d like to introduce you all to our newest council member, Hazel Hart,” Darius announced.

The scattered applause from Zoey and the Bishops was drowned out by the booing.

Cam sighed next to me. His knee collided with mine under the table. I was certain it was an accident, but I savored the touch like it was a friendly hug. Man, I really needed to get laid.

“Hazel is a best-selling romance novelist who just purchased Heart House. I’m sure she’ll find a great deal of inspiration in our wonderful town,” Darius continued as if he hadn’t heard the boos.

Our youthful mayor flashed me an apologetic smile before turning back to address the crowd. “Okay then. On to the next agenda item, did Hazel Hart kill our friendly bald eagle mascot Goose?”

Led by Emilie, the booing got even louder. More signs appeared in the audience.

“Is someone handing out poster board and markers?” I wondered out loud.

A potato landed on the stage in front of the table with a dull thump.

“I’d like to remind everyone that potato throwing is strictly forbidden unless officially sanctioned,” Darius said.

Zoey looked like she was going to start throwing punches from the second row. Instead she grabbed a Keep Your Helicopters Away from Our Bald Eagles sign out of the hands of a woman behind her and ripped it in two. Gage quickly pushed her back in her seat.

This was an absolute disaster. I wasn’t equipped to be disliked. I was used to being moderately adored at best and completely invisible otherwise. What would my heroine do? What would Old Hazel do?

Cam reached over and scrawled something at the bottom of my notebook page.

Stand the fuck up for yourself.

I frowned. “But I want them to like me.”

“No one’s gonna like you if they don’t respect you,” he pointed out.

I stared down at the words. They looked like they belonged on one of those inappropriate inspirational posters cool offices had on their walls like Rise and grind, fucker or Hang in there...or you’ll die.

I sucked in a breath and grabbed the microphone.