I pressed my face forward. A summons to meet me halfway.
Adam’s lips parted. And then retreated. And just like that the inches between us became miles again. “Lily, I’m not . . .”
“Not what?”
“Good enough for you.” He rose from the fountain and wrung out his shirt, wringing me out with it.
I floundered for words. As far as I knew, no boy had ever paid me any attention—at least, not the good kind—since those days in the walnut orchard. By time I thought to shout, “Let me be the judge of that,” he was long gone.
“Lily?” Rachel called from the yard. “Is that you?”
I slithered out of the water and into the mud like some primordial amphibian. “In Paradise,” I hollered. Not.
Rachel pushed through the gate. “I just saw Adam, and . . .” She crossed her arms at the sight of me. “You two were supposed to be working in the garden, not wallowing in it.”
I scooped up the spade at my feet. “Yeah, well, we got distracted.” That was probably a bad choice of words.
She eyed me suspiciously. “So what happened between you two? Adam flew by me like he had a plane to catch.”
“I’m not sure,” I told her honestly.
Her face grew somber. “Well, you’d better get inside and clean up. The Sandovals called. They lost another one.”
The spade slid from my hand. Not again. This made three.
“They’re on their way over right now. And, Lily . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Maria asked for you. She only wants to talk to you.”
Christ.
RULE #18
DON’T GET RUN OVER AT THE CROSSROADS OF LIFE AND DEATH.
A white dove cooed softly from its cage to the rhythm of “Tears in Heaven,” which was playing quietly in the background when the Sandovals arrived for the brief service. Adam was covering for Tony, whose car had decided today was the day to throw a rod or piston or some such. I knew Adam was worried that Zmira wouldn’t keep his word, and to be honest, so was I, but he was needed here more.
The coffin was not much bigger than a dresser drawer and sat in a cloud of baby’s breath. Inside, the lifeless newborn lay swaddled in the blanket I finished that morning. Unlike the previous two babies, who’d died before birth, the Sandovals had held this little girl in their arms, making it that much harder for them to let go and for me to do my job. The handcrafted guest books and swaddling blankets I’d made twice before had made an impression, which is why, according to Rachel, Maria asked to work with me. I didn’t have the heart to refuse.
Maria kept her focus on the mother-of-pearl rosary clutched in her hands, her heavily tinted glasses unable to conceal the dark circles beneath her eyes, her empire-waist dress unable to disguise the post-pregnancy bulge around her middle, and her stoic recitation of the Lord’s Prayer unable to mask her grief. But I had to mask mine. It’s what was expected of me.
It was on days like this that I hated my job.
A late guest arrived, toddler in tow. I handed her a prayer sheet and walked her to the end of the first pew. Maria looked up at the child and broke into wracking sobs. Across the room, Dad’s glower warned me to check my tears. Quickly I retraced my steps to the back of the room, desperately trying to hold it together.
From his post at the door, Adam watched me, no doubt puzzling over my emotional display and trying to put a name to it. He didn’t shed a tear when his father died. I found strength in his example, took a deep breath, and was back in control.
After the procession to the cemetery, a dove was released, and the Sandovals’ little girl was laid to rest beside her siblings.
I gave Mal a call to see how she was doing and if she wanted to go get a frozen yogurt. Last time we talked, she was still dealing with what happened at Hayden’s. I hadn’t known what to say at the time. Now wasn’t much better, but it didn’t matter. She was out shopping at a chic new boutique with Vega. It was Mal’s way of getting her mind off things.
An ache settled in my chest that I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t jealousy. I was glad Vega had taken her shopping. God knows I’d be useless in a boutique. But after the other night I’d hoped we could get back to the way things used be, when I was her go-to.
By the time I finished gathering all the spent candles, tissues, withered petals, and crackly leaves from the cushions and floorboards of the chapel, I was half starved and wallowing in a big fat vat of self-pity. I headed back to the house to self-medicate with a pint of Moose Tracks and a can of whipped cream. I was the last one to lunch, and not one person said so much as a thank-you for taking care of all the cleanup. Not Evan, who was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, playing with his half-eaten sandwich. Not Adam, who didn’t even look up when I entered the room. Not Dad, who was ripping the cufflinks from his sleeves and probably revving up to lecture me on my lack of professionalism. Not even Rachel, who was huddled over the sink, scrubbing the griddle so hard it seemed she might wear a hole through it.
“You’re all welcome,” I said.
“I don’t want to hear it,” snapped Dad. “The world doesn’t always revolve around you, you know.”
“Your father doesn’t mean that,” said Rachel, running interference between us as usual, but this time her voice lacked conviction. “Cam, tell her.”
“Tell her what?” demanded Nana Jo, coming in through the door. She made a beeline for the cupboard. “Are we out of baking soda again?” Baking soda was her solution to everything, from scouring saucepans to cleaning the carpet after Specter gagged up a fur ball.
Silence.
“Something happen?” she asked. “You all look like somebody else died.”
My father stripped off his tie and chucked it onto the table. “EMS stole the crematorium right out from under us, that’s what’s happened!”
“What?” I was certain I’d heard wrong. EMS had its own crematorium. Why would it need another one—unless it was to put the screw on us?
“After the Sandoval service I went over to make a final offer and was told Bill Crenshaw and his partner signed papers yesterday afternoon with Jim Sturbridge.”
“But I thought it was a done deal?” asked Nana Jo.
“So did I, but while I was waiting for the loan approval, Jim Sturbridge stepped in with a cash offer. Someone tipped him off. Probably Tony.”
“Cam, stop. You don’t honestly think Tony would . . . ?” Rachel couldn’t even say it.
“What? Betray us? Who else? He’s the only person outside this family who knew what we were planning. All those sick days. And where is he today? I suspected he was up to something, but—”
The whipped-cream can slipped through my fingers and clattered to the floor, releasing a foamy spray across the checkered linoleum. Everyone turned. “It wasn’t Tony,” I said. “I didn’t mean to . . . I was, you know, making conversation.”
My father glared at me. “With whom?”
“José. I might have mentioned to him that we were thinking of buying Crenshaw and Madsen.”
Dad’s hands formed fists tighter than a hangman’s knot. “José with St. Margarita’s Transport?”
I bobbed my head, my eyes focused on the splotches of cream splattered across the floor.
“Now, Cameron,” soothed Rachel, “settle down. You know what the doctor said.”
From somewhere outside came the rhythmic shht-shht-shht of the sprinkler striking the side of the house. The sound echoed my thoughts. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut like I normally did?
“How could you be so stupid?” demanded my father.
I was asking myself the same question. “I . . . I . . .” I stammered. Tears threatened to spill. Not now. They would only make him angrier. “I’m so sorry, Dad . . . everyone. I . . . We were talking . . . We’ve known him for years. I never thought—”
“You did this on purpose,” accused Evan with a malice I’d never seen in him before.
“I didn’t!” I insisted, but it was
plain that no one believed me.
But Evan wasn’t done. “You could have been honest and admitted you don’t want to take over the mortuary. You didn’t have to sabotage the entire business.”
“Is that true, Lily?” Dad asked, his expression the same as when I showed him the found photo of my mother. “But it’s all we’ve ever talked about. You taking over someday, carrying on the family tradition. What about the college catalog I gave you? You said you were going to apply.”
I was no better than my mother. All I wanted to do was run. I hung my head, the weight of my shame and the depth of my betrayal more than I could bear.
“Look at me!” he shouted. “And don’t you dare cry.”
Tears blurred my vision as I met his eyes.
“Cam,” said Rachel, “she didn’t mean any harm by telling José. It was a simple slip of the tongue, I’m sure.”
Suddenly Dad staggered back against the pantry, clawing at his collar. His legs buckled and he slid to the floor.
“Cam! Cam, honey?” Rachel dropped to his side.
“My chest,” my father gasped, his face red. “I can’t breathe.”
“Oh my god,” Rachel shouted. “He’s having a heart attack. Call 911!”
I snatched the phone from the counter and punched in the numbers. An operator answered, and I gave her the situation and verified our address. I raced back to Dad, the operator still on the phone. “I didn’t know he would say anything to anyone. I swear, I didn’t know.”
Rachel was yelling at me to step back and give him room. Evan was clearing away the furniture. And now Adam was pulling me to the far end of the kitchen, but I was still calling to my dad. His eyes were pinched shut, his mouth clamped against the pain. Nana supported his head, wiped the sweat from his brow, and comforted him in soothing tones. She was scared like me, but she was also determined. She wouldn’t lose her son.
The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt my father.
Distant sirens grew louder.
“Dad, don’t leave me,” I begged over and over. “Please don’t leave me.”
RULE #19
EYES ARE BEST GLUED SHUT.
I was numb, so numb that Rachel and Nana had to tell me we were home. If only they could tell me what day it was. In a hospital, hours are not marked by the rise and fall of the sun; they’re marked by a smattering of progress reports, some bad, some not so bad, and all you can do is brace for the next one.
I stumbled from the car.
Adam met us at the front door. “Well?”
The others would have to fill him in. At the hospital I’d been able to keep all my emotions stitched up inside. But if I had to face Adam, say the words out loud, then all the tiny knots holding me together would slip, opening a seam so wide, everything would come spilling out, raw and messy. That is not how a proper mortician behaves. I was supposed to be the one to comfort. I was supposed to be the stoic one, the selfless one.
I shuffled past Adam, silent in my disgrace.
Only Nana had it together enough to answer him. “We won’t know the extent of his heart damage for a few more days.”
“But he will live?”
“Yes,” she answered, “assuming there are no more setbacks.”
“And Lily? How is she?”
I didn’t hear her reply. Rupert Baker was waiting for me. I retrieved the photos I needed from my desk’s bottom drawer and retreated to the cold room, where the chill would hopefully steal away any feeling I had left.
I pulled the sheet back from Rupert’s face. It was etched with the road map of his life, and from the looks of it, it had been a road well-traveled. I did my best not to think about the brothers, wife, children, grandchildren, and friends he was leaving behind on this next journey, or how close in age he was to my father, but my best was not enough. Not today. I sank to the floor as the strings holding me together unraveled. I made pathetic, mousy sounds, my shoulders jerking with each one.
From behind me, I heard the click of the lock and the swoosh of the door’s rubber seal as it scraped across the floor. The sound was followed by two tentative steps. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
“Are you crying?” Adam asked, sounding more curious than concerned.
“No.”
He walked around to face me. “You are a terrible liar. Your eyes are red and swollen.”
“You’re not supposed to be in here when there’s a body present,” I reminded him.
“You’re right. I should go.” He started to leave.
“No. Wait. Stay—please?”
Adam hesitated, then swept the door closed and joined me on the floor, cross-legged and stiff-lipped. I saw how he struggled to find words he thought I needed to hear. But I didn’t want his words right now. I wanted his ear.
“You should have seen him,” I said, voice cracking, traitorous fluids leaking from my nose and my eyes, running down the hollows of my cheeks. “They had him hooked up to all these tubes and machines. He didn’t look so different from . . .” With a hiccup, I nodded my head toward Rupert on the gurney. “If only I’d kept my mouth shut. But no, I had to go and blab to José. I know what a gossip he is.” I wiped my brimming eyes. “Dammit, I don’t want to cry.”
“Go ahead and cry.”
And just like that, I began to sob.
He reached up, pulled a tissue box from the counter, and placed it in my hands.
“Noli desperare. Noli desperare. Don’t despair. Don’t despair. Vita eundo vires acquirimus. In life we gather strength as we go.”
I snorted. Only Adam could say something like that and make it sound wise and true. “I’m such a fool.”
“My father had a saying. Semel in anno licet operari stultus. One can act the fool once a year.” He plucked a tissue from the box and dabbed at my leaky eyes and runny nose.
“Then I’m way over my limit.” A timid smile. Another snort. “That crematorium was our last hope for saving the business, and now, because of me, the deal is ruined. We’re ruined. How will I ever make this up to my father?”
“You’ll think of a way. I know you will.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“Lily, you are not to blame. You thought you could trust José. What we need to do now is find a way to stay in business until a more permanent solution can be found.”
He said we. “But how? That’s going to take cash.”
“I’ll find a way, I promise.”
And I believed him. He did not make promises lightly.
“For the next few weeks your mother will be busy caring for your father. Evan and I will have to handle all the removals and deliveries, and Tony will manage the—what do you call it—embalming. Your job will be to keep everything else running until your father recovers.”
I started to protest, but he didn’t give me the chance. “You can do it. I’ll help you.”
There was hope in his words. I took a deep, ragged breath and then squared my shoulders.
“Okay.” I felt anything but okay. So much had been lost—my father’s health, the crematorium, my faith in my ability to fix the damage I’d done. But if I surrendered now, it meant handing my entire family legacy over to Sturbridge. I couldn’t live with myself if I let that happen.
I blew my nose and gave it one last dab. Adam extended a hand to pull me up from the floor, but I was afraid that if I took it, I’d never let go. So I pushed myself up and put on my apron and a pair of latex gloves, ready to work.
“Can I stay?” he asked, to my surprise.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“I want to. Mr. Baker, is that okay with you?”
Rupert Baker did not object, so I handed Adam one of Evan’s aprons, then told him that the man lying on the gurney had been cleansed, embalmed, and dressed. All that remained was the cosmeticizing, which was my job.
We rolled Mr. Baker into the prep room where I opened a drawer crammed with assorted jars, tubes, and applicators
and withdrew two plastic half circles. “They have little nubs on one side to keep the eyelids closed,” I explained. “See?” I placed one over each of Mr. Baker’s eyeballs, pulled over the lids, and sealed them top to bottom with glue. “You okay so far?”
Adam nodded. “He could be sleeping.”
“That’s the idea.” I held up a razor. “Now we shave him.” That’s when it dawned on me that I’d never seen so much as a hint of stubble on Adam’s face. Born lucky, I guessed.
Next I demonstrated how to apply a thick cream to the skin to keep it from forming deep creases—or, in Rupert’s case, deeper creases. “Now we need foundation to tone down the age spots. Can you hand me my makeup case?” I pointed to the well-worn leather satchel on the counter, which contained my best brushes and mineral powders.
“The trick with makeup is to make it look natural. You should’ve seen some of my first attempts. One woman looked like I gave her a pair of those big wax lips. And then there was our dentist’s father. By the time I was done with him, he looked like a drag queen.”
“Like royalty?”
I laughed. “No, like a person who dresses up as a woman for entertainment.”
“I’m glad my ignorance amuses you.”
I had him push over the compressor. I selected the paint that best matched Mr. Baker’s complexion, placed five drops into the airbrush reservoir, and flipped on the power. Adam watched in rapt attention. I couldn’t tell whether he was intrigued or completely mortified that I was painting a dead man’s face, but when I was done, he proclaimed me an artifex.
“You’re different in here,” he conceded. “Confident.”
That’s because here was safe. No one can leave you if they’re already gone. But he was right. Cosmeticizing was what I did best. I belonged here. I knew it like I knew my name. And, for the first time, someone else knew this about me, too.
“Adam.”
“Yes?”
“You are good enough for me. More than good enough.”
RULE #20
Mortal Remains Page 14
