“No? Then how’d you know it was tame?” Her hands land on her hips.
I sigh, not wanting to break Prissy’s trust but also not willing to take the fall for something I truly had nothing to do with. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to get mad.”
“Too late,” she growls.
“You’re pretty when you’re angry.”
“Not now, Wyatt.” The woman looks truly defeated.
“It’s your dad’s.” A little white lie never hurt anyone. I hate doing it, but it’s the only explanation I can think of to save Priss from her mother’s wrath. I’m positive Hank won’t mind, being he’s the one that’s been aiding and abetting this situation.
“You expect me to believe Daddy has a pet squirrel?”
“I don’t care what you believe,” I snap back. “It’s the truth. He showed it to me this morning.”
She shakes her head in disbelief, pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s trying to ward off a migraine.
“I don’t appreciate being treated like the enemy, either, considering I just saved your asses in there.”
Before Whitney can think up a response, her office door flies open, and Hank and Marie come charging in.
The fire-breathing blonde whirls on her father. “Is it true?”
He crinkles his nose. “Is what true?”
“That rodent belong to you?”
I’m nodding behind her head, widening my eyes and praying he’ll catch my meaning.
“Yeah,” he says. “So, what? Last I checked, this was my house. I pay the bills, and I can do what I damn well please.”
“Well good then,” she snaps, stepping into his personal space. Her hand flies out, her finger pointing in the direction of the chaos we all just fled. “Then you can go deal with that man’s children, cuz I am done with this entire situation.”
Marie and I stand in silence, watching the father-daughter duo argue over which one’s gonna handle the fallout. I don’t say it, but my money’s on Hank. Whitney is a force to be reckoned with when she’s not angry—I wouldn’t dare going toe-to-toe with her right now.
“Well, while y’all figure this out, I’m just gonna take my uninvolved self back to the chapel.” I throw up a peace sign while making my way for the door.
“Wait!” Whit says, following me out into the lobby.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry for assuming that was your fault.” She sucks her lower lip between her teeth. “I don’t handle stress well.”
“It’s fine.” I try rushing off again, afraid she’ll be able to sense my guilt and I’ll have no choice but to come clean about the real owner of that squirrel. But when she reaches out for my hand, stopping me in my tracks, I can focus on nothing else but the fireworks exploding inside my chest.
“It’s not fine. I was wrong, and I really am sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, any excuse to keep some form of contact between us.
“I don’t really have a lot of time right now.” She gestures with her head toward the viewing room. “But I know you’re off the rest of the week after today, and I don’t know what you’re doing on Thanksgiving, but we’re planning a little lunch…nothing big. It’s just us. Momma told me to make sure I invite you.”
“Your momma told you?”
Her cheeks flush. “She did…but I’d also really like you to be there…as a friend,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
I dip my head in agreement. “Well, all right then. Guess I’ll be seein’ ya Thursday, friend.”
While Mom and I are elbows deep in turkey and mashed potatoes, a call comes in for us to pick up a body at a private residence. To make matters worse, the decedent is a friend of my father. The two played high school ball together and have remained close ever since. He’s been on hospice care for a few months, so everyone knew it was coming. Nevertheless, losing a loved one is always difficult, particularly so during the holidays.
“Y’all just stick around and finish up here. I can manage this one on my own.” Daddy kisses Mom on the cheek and Prissy on the top of her head. “I’ll try to be back in time for lunch, but if I’m taking too long, just go ahead without me.”
“As if,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You take as long as you need. We’ll keep the food warm til you get back.” When he leans in to kiss my forehead, I wrap my arms around my daddy’s neck, giving him a tight squeeze. Momma and Prissy join, cocooning the grizzly old man in an unsolicited group hug.
“Love ya, Paw-Paw.”
When he scruffs the top of his granddaughter’s head on his way out, I have to catch my breath at the rare gleam of tears shimmering in his eyes.
It’s difficult to see my seldom-ruffled father in so much pain. Today’s situation is a harsh reminder that no matter that this is a job and can become routine—that we can at times seem detached—none of us are free from basic human emotion. Not even Hank Daigle, the town undertaker himself.
He isn’t gone long when there’s a heavy knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Prissy sings, sprinting for the entryway. She’s really taken to our new employee in a way I haven’t seen from her before. She’s been on pins and needles awaiting his arrival since she rolled out of bed this morning.
“Happy turkey day, Miss Priss.” After not having seen Wyatt in nearly three days, the mere sound of his voice brings a smile to my face and a tingle of excitement zinging through me.
“Don’t think I didn’t just see that, Whitney Jean,” Momma taunts while stuffing the green bean casserole into the oven.
“What’re you goin’ on about?”
“I saw that lovesick smile of yours. You ain’t foolin’ nobody.”
“You hush.” I swat her on the bottom with the dish towel in my hand. “You saw no such thing.”
“How goes it, ladies?” tall, blond, and sexy asks, stumbling in with a stack of baked goods boxes in his hands and my child dangling from his left leg.
“Prissy! Get off that man!” My mother proceeds to peel my little pain in the ass off of him.
“Ah, she’s fine,” he insists, while I relieve him of the mountain of sweets he’s carting. “I picked up a few pies and cookies and apple fritters at Dana’s Bakery last night. Hope that’s okay.”
“Duh,” Prissy says. “Desserts are always okay.”
He looks around the small living area like he’s lost something. “Where’s Hank?”
“Mr. Wiltz finally dropped dead this mornin’ and Paw went to scoop him up.”
Wyatt visibly shudders at the reminder of his recent experience with body retrieval.
“He might be a while.” I offer an apologetic shrug. “I told him we’d wait to eat…hope that’s okay.”
“It’s no problem at all. Y’all need some help in the kitchen? I ain’t much of a cook,” he confesses rolling up the sleeves of his button down, “but I can wash dishes like a boss.”
“Leave the ladies to the cookin’.” Prissy tugs on his arm. “Since Paw took off there ain’t nobody to hang out with me.” My child has puppy dog eyes down to an art form. That shameless begging of hers has me wanting to crawl under the table.
“Go on,” Momma shoos him away. “We got this.”
“There’s a game on,” Wyatt says, raising his brows at his biggest fan. “You like football?”
“Eww!” The little drama queen shoves a finger into the back of her throat, forcing herself to gag. “I got a much better idea. Come on,” she says, taking him by the hand. “I wanna show you something in my room.”
Wyatt glances over his shoulder back toward me and Momma to make sure it’s okay. “Go ‘head,” I say, trying not to let the laughter I’m stifling explode, because there’s only one thing she’d be this excited to show the man, and his reaction is one I don’t want to miss.
As soon as they turn the corner into her room, I scurry over, posting up beside the door to listen in.
“You collect anything
?” Prissy asks.
“Not really. Not unless you count the collection of beer cans in my garbage.” He laughs, but ever solemn, my daughter doesn’t react in kind. Tough crowd.
“You a big drinker?” Where the hell does she get off with that judgmental tone of hers? Girl thinks she’s grown.
I’m unable to hear his response but imagine it was either a nod or noncommittal shrug by her reaction. “Remind me to go over some alcohol death stats with you later.”
“Sure thing.” He huffs out a laugh, and I find myself picturing the easy smile of his that would accompany it. “Why’s everything so dark in here?” he asks. “I thought little girls liked pink and unicorns and rainbows?” His pitch suggests he’s messing with her. Anyone who knows my daughter wouldn’t expect anything less than exactly what they find in that dungeon of hers.
She grunts. “I’m not your average six-year-old.”
“No kidding?”
I’m biting my lips with anticipation when I hear her begin riffling around in the drawer. “Here it is,” she says, her voice brimming with pride.
I hear the case meet the wood of her desk and the snick of the clasps being unlatched, and my own heart accelerates. “Are you ready for this?” she asks.
Drama—all about the drama.
“As long as a dead body ain’t about to pop outta that little briefcase, I’m all good.”
Prissy snickers. “Okay,” she drawls, “here it comes…I present to you, Gramma Agnes’s eyeballs!”
“Holy, cow!” he says. From the crack in his voice, I can tell he’s feigning excitement for her benefit, but she’d never know the difference. “Are these real?”
“Uh-huh. My momma’s Gramma Agnes got her eye poked out. So, she got to have a really cool glass one.”
“Why do I see three rolling around in here?” By this point, he sounds less shocked and genuinely curious.
I hear the clanking of the globes in her hands. “Because she used to like to switch ’em out. Sometimes she had two blue eyes, sometimes a blue and a green, but my favorite was at Halloween time, when she would wear this purple one.”
I peer around the door frame to witness his reaction as she passes him the little glass eyeball. Prissy gets in real close, pointing out the webbing. “See how this one has spider webs instead of veins in the white part?”
He runs his thumb over it, really inspecting each and every detail. “This is quite possibly the neatest thing I’ve ever seen, Priss.”
And with that I slip away to the bathroom to dry the sudden and unwelcome tears trickling down my cheeks. I followed them back here fully anticipating a really good chuckle over his horrified reaction to a little girl collecting glass eyeballs. Never in a million years did I expect to bear witness to him embracing my unique child and all her weirdness with such grace. Or that it would affect me so deeply.
They say the quickest route into or out of the heart of a single mother is through her child. That beautiful man has no idea of the way he just latched onto mine. I’m beginning to fear it may require the Jaws of Life to extract him.
Keeping myself in check around Wyatt Landry will be harder now than ever before.
“Who’s ready to eat?” Daddy comes barreling through the door at a quarter after two with a smile on his face that does little to hide the pain lingering in his red-rimmed eyes.
The men and Prissy rush to take their places around the table we’ve had set for over two hours now. Momma and I bring out the feast of turkey, ham, rice dressing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and homemade rolls.
“It all looks delicious,” Wyatt says, practically drooling over his plate. “Thanks again for having me over.”
Daddy says grace, blessing our family and friends, the food we’re about to eat, and those less fortunate. We end with a moment of silence for our own reflections, and a sign of the cross.
If I had to guess, by the look of discomfort on his face as he mimics the rest of us touching two fingers first to his forehead, then to his chest, left shoulder, and finally the right, I’d say Wyatt wasn’t raised Catholic. It probably isn’t something most would take note of, but you could count on one hand the people in Moss Pointe who aren’t. It’s just one more thing that sets him apart from the rest. I find him utterly adorable.
“Amen,” we all say in unison, and just like that, the signature confidence that oozes from Wyatt’s every pore has returned.
Dad immediately strikes up conversation with our guest, making plans for the placement of the new pews and altar while we scarf down an obscene amount of food. Having to smell all the delicious aromas on empty stomachs apparently made us all ravenous.
It was Momma who set the table, so it’s not surprising in the least that Wyatt is seated to my right. My mother just happens to be directly across from us. Her interfering brow darts for the ceiling every time she catches me staring at his profile.
“Hey, Priss,” I say, jerking my attention from the man beside me when I’m once again busted ogling him like a piece of meat. “What’s this I hear about a father-daughter dance the Friday before Christmas break?”
She drops her half-eaten roll back onto her plate, eyes wide, and brings her shoulders to her ears.
“The email Principal Wyler sent out said we had to buy tickets by this coming Monday. You haven’t so much as mentioned it.”
My dad preens. “Sounds like we got us a date, little missy.” He sits up taller, adjusting his signature black tie in a manner that suggests he considers himself to be the luckiest man alive. The way he dotes on my kid is more than I could have ever hoped for. While she may not have a father of her own, she’s certainly not lacking for love or attention.
“I’m not going,” Prissy announces, slouching in her seat as she braces for my attack.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, my voice wobbling. “Of course you are.”
“Serious as a heart attack,” she assures me. “I’m really not.”
“Oh, but you have to go,” I practically beg, dropping my fork with a jarring clank. My mind goes straight to the junior and senior homecomings and proms I missed out on myself. I know she’s just in first grade, and I’m likely being ridiculous, but I don’t want her to forego anything life has to offer, especially at the hand of that dickwad who walked out on her before she was even born.
“Ugh…” The force of her groan is one that would top the Richter Scale. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“You will?” I eye her skeptically. My stubborn as hell daughter is never this easy to sway.
“Yep.” She beams. “I’ll go, as long as Wyatt takes me.”
When I accepted an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, the last thing I expected was to be put on the spot like this.
As my mouth opens and closes, searching for breath, I’m realizing the true value of what it means to become speechless. While everyone around me is sputtering as they try to find a way to let the child down easy, I can’t seem to formulate a single sound.
“This is a family event, Prissy.” Hank is tripping all over himself in his attempt to make this right without crushing the little one’s spirit. “You know Paw-Paw loves going to these things with you.”
The little girl folds her arms on the tabletop and looks the old guy dead on. “No offense, Paw, but you’re kinda…old.”
His mouth falls open in mock horror.
“Priss. It’s fine. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Whitney rushes out, blushed to the roots of her blonde hair. “You can’t ask that of Mr. Wy—”
“I’ll do it.” I don’t know who’s more surprised by my outburst, Whitney or me.
“You will?” Whit’s head jerks back with surprise at the same time that a huge smile covers Prissy’s face.
A lifetime of feeling out of place over my own lack of parents pushes me to make what’s probably a very rash decision. But I know what it’s like always being the odd man out. I understand her desire to fit in, to not be the one on the arm of the old guy
for once.
“I’d be honored.” I dab at my mouth with the cloth napkin in my lap and clear my throat. “I mean…” I turn to my left, locking eyes with the fidgeting woman beside me. “As long as it’s okay with you, of course.”
“Say, yes, Momma,” Prissy begs when the cat seems to catch hold of Whitney’s tongue. “I’ll even wear a dress!”
“I don’t know…” She looks to her parents for guidance, both of whom just shrug their shoulders and smile.
“Makeup!” Prissy shouts, pulling out the big guns to bribe her mother to allow it. “You can put on my makeup.” She laces her little hands in front of her face, fanning those baby blues like a pro.
I locate Whitney’s hand beneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “She’s so excited,” I murmur. “Let me do this for her.”
“Fine,” the flustered woman says. “But I will be taking you up on that makeover, Priscilla Louise.”
“Fine!” Echoing her mother, she pumps her fist into the air a few times. “I’m gonna have the hottest dad at the dance.”
I won’t even lie; my chest swells with that comment.
Whitney’s head falls into her hand with a loud groan. “He’s a friend of the family, Prissy, not a dad…yours or anyone else’s.”
“Potato—tomato,” she says, waving her mom off. The kid is bouncing around like a little jumping bean, suddenly unable to keep her bottom in her seat. It feels good knowing I’m the one responsible for her excitement.
“You’re not, right?” Whit turns to me and asks, her voice laden with unease.
“Not what? Hot? I’m offended.”
“A dad! This is crazy, I don’t even know enough about you to answer that with confidence.”
I choke on a sip of Coke. “I have no children.”
“But you’re open to it, right?” The question comes from the busybody sitting across the table.
“Momma!” Whitney’s forehead lands on my shoulder. “I am so sorry,” she groans.
“Yeah,” I say, biting back a laugh. “Eventually, with the right woman, sure.”
Mourning Wood Page 6
