16. Marnie
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marnie
My new job is great. Really, really great. I have a sweet little office with a window to the parking lot—not much of a view, but the breezes are nice. I’m thinking of hanging a bird feeder outside for some cheerful, wing-flapping action, if Liam, the funeral director, lets me. He’s a bit of a stickler about things. I’m allowed one plant, for instance. But one is better than none.
The benefits surely outweigh the small sacrifices. It’s a cushy job, much easier than Sunny’s. I get to wear whatever nice clothes I want as long as they’re “subdued.” Liam says I need to practice smiling less—that’s a challenge I’m working on. I practice my ‘sympathy smile’ at home with the cats.
Owen, the mortician, is a quirky fellow obsessed with reality TV. We’ve had interesting talks about turning a funeral home into a reality show. He wants to call it Died, Sealed, and Delivered , which I argue might be insensitive. We’re working on other ideas. Regardless, I love getting to know people.
So, I’m sure it’ll be great .
Marnie Strange—Office Manager for the Dearly Departed. It has a ring to it, I think.
Not that I manage much. The phone. Data entry. Files. Appointments. The front door—it’s visible from my office. Being on light duty has been easy since there’s so little to do. People don’t die very often in rural areas. Not that I’m complaining.
This work meets a definite need for Seagrove. That’s important.
Ridding me of my sudden aversion to heavy floral scents is another perk. My migraine days have made me sensitive. Checking in the floral delivery for Mrs. Johanson’s wake—not pickle-juice Johanson but her grandmother—I take a deep breath and only gag a little.
It takes as long as it takes.
A smile crosses my lips—just a little one—thinking about Grady. The other night, we got into a music discussion that lifted my spirits more than all my AM CDs put together. He’s a music lover, and when I got a little sheepish about loving old-school Phil Collins, he was quick to alleviate my embarrassment.
Never apologize for loving what you love, Marina.
There’s a teeny-tiny part of me that knows I should be angry. When navigating the rocks across my emotional river, I picture Grady on the other side, arms folded and looking intense. I could hop onto the angry rock and stay there, blaming and hating him for what he’s cost me.
But how can I hate the man who held my hair back when I heaved? Or held my hand when I cried? Or held me together when I was dying? Stay with me, Marina.
Hate simply isn’t in my vocabulary, not for Grady Tripp. Besides, he takes in wounded pets and doesn’t mind getting down and dirty with farm animals—what decent person could hate a man like that?
I finish checking off the floral delivery, resisting the urge to move the arrangements into their proper places. I can’t lift anything heavy yet. The other morning, I picked up Hershey as he tried stealing Sunkist’s food and nearly fell over. I hobble through the small chapel, aching from being on my feet too long.
Returning to work early was probably foolish, but survival wins over aches and pains. Securing the job and a steady paycheck topped my priorities, even with Cora’s vile, keep-your-mouth-shut money. I still haven’t cashed her $25,000 severance check. I will, of course. That’s more money than I’ve ever had at one time, more than I’ve ever seen. But I’m waiting until I need it.
That’ll be soon.
I step and click through the wide hallway, with its pseudo-soothing landscapes and cushy chairs. Even the lighting is dimmed to set the correct mood. A low hum of conversation comes from the casket room where Liam meets with clients—I know not to disturb them under any circumstances. I made that mistake on my first day. He said I was too friendly, as if happy they were there.
But I’m always happy to be around people, even if they’re sad. Oh, well. Another thing to work on.
It’ll be great —I know it.
The wide double doors at the main entrance scrape and swing open as I approach them, screeching through the quiet hall. A formidable force barrels through the doors.
My heart pitter-patters seeing him, but then it registers that he’s upset and I sink with worry.
“Grady? What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?” I demand too loudly.
Liam pokes his head out of the casket room with irritation. “Marnie, shhh.”
“Sorry, Liam,” I whisper back. My attention returns to Grady, and my arms lift to meet his, even though I have my cane. He braces me, hooking my cane to his forearm like I don’t need it if he’s around. “Has something happened? You look distraught.”
“You frustrate me—that’s what happened. You shouldn’t be here.”
His tone is curt, borderline angry, but that’s how his intensity comes out. I sigh with relief, tapping my chest to calm my heart. “Oh, that’s all? You had me worried.”
“Worried?” he blanches.
“It’s a funeral home, Grady.”
His brow pinches. “Oh, right. Everyone’s fine. I’m worried about you.”
I grab Grady’s hand and pull him gently into my office. I’m embarrassed at how drab it is—it really needs more plants. I lean against the desk and offer him the chair. He doesn’t take it but stands front and center, arms folded and eyes fixed on me.
“So, I frustrate you?” I ask, smiling like always. “Was it my obsessive PBS watching or taste in music that finally did it, huh?”
His brow quirks, but his shoulders soften. Slightly.
“Marina, what are you doing here?”
“I work here now. It’s really… great,” I say, desperately holding onto my upbeat tone.
He huffs, runs a hand over his shorn head, and tries again. “You aren’t supposed to work anywhere for at least three more weeks. The doctor said?—”
“I’m on light duty, short shifts,” I chime in quickly. “I had cabin fever. Besides, I’m taking it easy. I spend most of the day sitting and wanted to get acclimated at my new job ASAP.”
His eyes narrow, analyzing me.
“I’m okay , Grady.”
“You’ve lost your fiancé, the job you loved, and you’re working at a fucking funeral home. You can’t possibly be okay.”
My smile retreats with his bluntness, and suddenly, our truth policy feels difficult to manage.
“We talk every day. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I manage a smile. “Tripp Grady Tripp, those shoulders are impressive but can’t carry everything.”
“When it comes to you, I’m a packhorse.” He edges closer. “Tell me what happened.”
I’ve wanted to tell him. To pepper our innocent convos with oh-by-the-way drama bombs. To latch onto the one person forced to care and gobble up the comfort in those packhorse arms of his. Whenever he asked if I needed anything, I hesitated between wanting more from him and knowing how inconvenient and unfair it would be to ask. Still, my pesky longing grows with every word we manage to share and aches now that he’s here. I’ve missed him.
But allowing feelings for Grady is an unstable rock I can’t afford to jump to in my emotional rapids. It’s not right—exploiting his guilt for my comfort. It’ll only make him feel worse about that day. How could I do that to him?
“Marina, truth,” he urges when I hesitate.
“Sounds like you’re caught up.” My arms fold over my chest. “What’s left to tell?”
He hooks my cane to the edge of the desk beside me, but refuses to break eye contact. “Ashe is no loss, but how could you lose your job over this?”
“I no longer met expectations. ” The words tumble out—me forgetting to use my top-notch, finely-meshed filter.
A fire sparks in his eyes. “Those motherfuckers said that?”
“Not exactly. What does it matter? Ashe and I are history, and Sunny’s didn’t feel so sunny for me anymore. Cora arranged this opportunity.”
“This isn’t an opportunity, Marina. This is a fucking joke. You don’t belong here any more than I belong in customer service.”
I chuckle, trying to imagine Grady forced to smile and chit-chat. “I understand your point, but I’m lucky to have this job.”
“How is this lucky?” He groans.
“I’m making nearly what I made at Sunny’s—that’s pretty good for someone without a degree,” I say, hating myself a little for it. “Other grocery stores and retailers like to hire managers from within, so getting another job like that would mean starting at minimum wage again. I can’t do that, Grady.”
“So, your years at Sunny’s mean nothing?” he asks like he doesn’t believe me.
“Not nothing. My experience matters. I took Sunny’s from mediocre to magnificent during my career there, and everyone knows it. But retail employers don’t equate experience monetarily when hiring someone new. That’s all. Until I find just the right opportunity, this is great .”
“There’s nothing great about this. You deserve better.”
I smile at his kindness. “Better will come along. Eventually.”
“It’s not just the job, Marina.” He edges onto the armrest of the office chair, his features softening. “You’ve suffered loss. I know something about that. Carrying on business as usual isn’t healthy.”
His voice catches like his words are difficult, caught in his throat, especially about loss.
“Tell the truth,” he urges. “This bothers you, right? You must be… hurt.”
All my instincts tell me to smile wide and lie, to bank my emotions rather than spend them and engage my superior filters.
But this is Grady. How can I lie to the one person who’s been there for me through all this?
“I am devastated,” I admit finally, “but I can’t let them break me.”
His lips curve into an approving smile. “Good. How can I help?”
A little laugh bubbles from me at his genuine intensity—having someone on my side feels good. “More cute dog pics would be nice.”
He still looks annoyed but more concerned, like he doesn’t know what to do with me. A beat passes, and I long to engage him in silly conversation like we so easily do over text. But I fear asking him about his workplace plant preferences or telling him about Owen’s tacky reality show idea will only annoy him more, given how upset he is. And I need a friend right now.
“You don’t belong here, Marina,” he says, raking a hand through his hair.
Not here. Not anywhere. “Well, until I get to good ol’ England, it’ll have to do,” I say with my British accent.
He’s not amused. He looks as though his million thoughts are hitting him at once. And I don’t know what to do.
A step brings him into my bubble, pinning me to the edge of the desk. He’s close enough to grab and hold on to. Not that I would. Or should.
He looms over me, his annoyance slipping behind what looks like a gentle mix of worry and affection. But that could be me projecting. Truth is, I very much like Tripp Grady Tripp.
His laser-through-my-soul stare makes my breath hitch, and my heartbeat quicken.
“Pretending to be okay won’t make it true. Don’t pretend with me. It goes against our truth policy,” he says, his eyes circling my face like he’s mapping my freckles.
A quiet moment passes between us—I don’t know what to say. Truth is, I like his attention.
But he’s not expecting me to say anything. He smirks lightly before backstepping toward the door. “Don’t get too comfortable here, Marina. I’ll talk to you later.” He doesn’t wait for pleasantries but offers a short wave before leaving.