The Dearly Departed Dating Service

by Rae Renzi

  A little sharkish, in my opinion. Nonetheless, it was probably financially sound. “Okay, except somewhere in there I want it absolutely, unconditionally clear that I will not act as a medium between the Bereaved and Departed. Absolutely not. Never.”

  I should have known better, but at the time, it seemed like a simple rule.

  Chapter 11

  With our first potential client chosen for a sales call (a process that had required too much time and energy and a fair amount of squabbling because the Departed were so eager to depart), and a long list of others waiting—clear evidence that my brilliant plan couldn’t fail—I was exceptionally cheerful the next day, even though it was a Saturday and I was working again. So were the Departed.

  This translated into a ridiculous number of them hanging around the mortuary and finding ways to make my life interesting. I adored the Departed, I really did. But when one enterprising soul decided it would be funny to lie on—or rather, in—a new corpse and scream when I first applied a scalpel to re-situate a misplaced nose, I’d had enough.

  I decided to take an afternoon break to get some coffee and to fine-tune my plan, because after the past two days, speeding the Departed along to the Hereafter—and collecting some money—had zoomed to the top of my to-do list.

  Also, although I wouldn’t admit it to her, Marybob had made me think: maybe I do spend a little too much time among the deceased. Right now, I was motivated to change that. I wanted to hear happy people talking. Mortal people, that is. I’d had just about enough of the cheerful dead.

  I grabbed a notebook and my purse and marched out to my car.

  It was a glorious winter day, cool and bright and almost dry. The air smelled clean and fresh, with a hint of the Gulf Coast on the breeze. I loved living in the semi-tropics. Everything was green, and there were flowers all year long. Besides, it was efficient. Dealing with truly cold weather was time-consuming. For instance, there was the multiple-clothes factor. The time needed to put on and then pull off layers of coats, scarves, mittens, hats, galoshes, long underwear and so on—it added up. Minutes daily, maybe hours weekly, by my calculation. So, by taking a coffee break in the middle of the day, you could say I was just using up my warm-weather dividend, as it were.

  An empty parking place opened on the curb in front of my favorite café. Taking this as a good omen, I eased my car into it with barely a squeak or rattle.

  The rich smell of roasted coffee enveloped me as I pushed open the unmarked front door of Pie Sigh, an old brick garage-turned-bike-shop-turned-pie-and-coffeehouse. What the café lacked in polish it made up in atmosphere, if you liked your atmosphere funky, earthy, and determinedly undecorated against the background of cement floors and worn brick walls. Underlying the pervasive smell of coffee, the aroma of freshly baked pie—savory and sweet—drifted through the air. Muted clinks and rattles of spoons against coffee cups blended pleasantly with the rumble and rise of earnest and optimistic but completely anonymous voices. The combination was a balm to my vexed state.

  I started to give my order to the barista behind the coffee bar, but a deep voice beside me cut in. “I just need a refill.”

  I quirked my head at the slightly familiar voice. It was the tone, the sense of entitlement: not exactly rude, but leaving no room for debate—the man was obviously used to giving orders and having them obeyed. A muscular arm slid an empty coffee mug along the counter in front of me. The waiter’s glance bounced from the man to me in silent inquiry.

  I was usually nice to everyone, and people were usually nice in return. But every now and then I ran into someone—alive or dead—who needed a gentle hint. I hiked my chin. “Oh, go on ahead and serve this, ahem, gentleman first. He’s obviously in a rush to leave. I’m willing to make allowances for him.” I let my gaze wander over to the man and arched my eyebrow at him, inviting him to do with my permission what he’d attempted by fiat.

  He was built like an athlete, the kind meant to push, shove, or throw things rather than jump, run, or fly. His dark hair looked as though it couldn’t decide whether to sit down or stand up, so it did some of each, although it was only slightly longer than the bristle on his square jaw. Dark smudges under his eyes made them seem deep blue. All in all, he looked like a brawler.

  Except for his hands. They were the size of mallets, but his fingers were long, and he moved them as if they were precision instruments. They were the hands of a jeweler, or clockmaker. Or a surgeon.

  “I am not in a rush.” Still holding his mug, he turned to me. “And I’m in no hurry to leave.”

  His stormy look hit me with the force of a slap—I could have sworn I’d seen those eyes before. And that voice--it made me ping with recognition—or was that just the oh-so-familiar tone?

  “My mistake.” I ripped my gaze away and turned back to the barista. “Go on and serve this man first. He is obviously terribly important, and who am I to stand in his way?”

  The waiter, smothering a grin, reached for the man’s mug, only to have it pulled out of his grasp.

  With an air of strained patience, the man rubbed his hand across his tufty hair and turned his eyes, now thundercloud blue, to survey me again. I met his gaze serenely, sure of my superior position, at least with regard to courtesy. His jaw worked and a low growl rumbled in his chest.

  The moment stretched out between us as he worked through the situation. Oddly, my heartbeat sped up under his scrutiny. I didn’t know why—I certainly wasn’t afraid.

  “Point taken,” he finally ground out from between clenched teeth. “I’ll wait my turn.”

  I thoroughly enjoyed the moment, which made me slightly ashamed of myself, but not for long.

  I let my eyes rake him up and down, a comment on his disheveled appearance, although, I had to admit, at least to myself, that disheveled looked good on him. Absurdly good, in fact.

  I had been a little testy, I realized. This person—probably an architect or piano tuner—was guilty only of attitude, and maybe an unfortunate resemblance to a demon from my past. He was probably just tired. Softening the edge in my voice, I said, “No, please, I insist.” I nudged the mug toward the patient waiter. “Really. You look like you need it more than I do.”

  He bristled slightly but glanced away and suddenly seemed to deflate. When he spoke again, his voice had lost the tone of superiority and instead sounded rueful. “More true than I’d like to admit.” He took his now-filled mug from the waiter and gave me a nod before he turned to leave.

  It was an odd statement, too revealing for the situation. It gave me a prickly feeling all over, as if it were a premonition of sorts.

  As he took a step, he looked back over his shoulder at me, a slightly puzzled look on his face. “Do I… ?” Then he shook his head and walked on.

  Strange.

  Well. It wouldn’t be the first odd thing to happen to me.

  Nor, it turned out, the last.

  Chapter 12

  By the time I got my coffee and found a table, the perturbing man had faded from my mind, displaced by the Dearly Departed Dating Service. My initial enthusiasm had given way to more practical considerations, the nuts and bolts of the business. As much as I loved the idea of helping the Bereaved and the Departed, I had to keep my eye on my primary goal: to earn enough money to save my house.

  Solving the stuck-in-the-mortal-world problem for the Departed was only a matter of enlightening the Bereaved, but how exactly to go about doing that wasn’t crystal clear to me. At least not yet. Our intentions were right on target, but I wanted a plan. When was the last time you heard someone quip, “The road to hell is paved with good planning.” Never, right? That was why the approach to each and every Bereaved should be carefully considered. After all, they were vulnerable—a state we planned to exploit, but only for their own good.

  I was pretty sure that the Bereaved didn’t recognize the true cause of their grief, that is, selfish concern for their own emotional comfort. Their capacity for romantic longing was usually ti
ed up in the tragedy (their own) of losing a dear one. But, with the right framing, it could be managed.

  I could easily imagine Marybob, whose personality was equal parts angel and sledgehammer, saying to the grieving person, “Don’t be a self-centered jerk. Your beloved can’t move on to somewhere better until you get over it. So get over it.”

  I had to admit, the approach did have a certain appeal in terms of economy and simplicity. However, there might be unfortunate side effects—breaking the more fragile Bereaved into smithereens, for one, although maybe with a slight modification it would work.

  I could masquerade as a medium, and in that guise, move the Bereaved along a little more obliquely by claiming to have communication with the dead. I spent a moment thinking about the convolutions of pretending to be something one was before I pulled myself back to the matter at hand.

  It would be crucial to have the medium make the claim that the dearly Departed wouldn’t rest (true) until the Bereaved had someone to love (true). A perfect someone (false), whom their dearly beloved Departed had identified by the mysterious ways of the spiritual world (utterly false).

  The Departed would help. They obviously had far too much time on their hands, and providing information about their Bereaved was the least they could do. They could also spread the word among the Departed about our service. Once we knew who was Bereaved, we could come up with an individualized plan. I liked the sound of that—the personal touch. The Departed could also help evaluate candidates for their own Bereaved’s new love, because no one was more motivated to make a good match: the Departed really, truly wanted to move on.

  As Craig explained to me one day (about the other Departed, definitely not himself), hanging out in the material world was like returning to your favorite childhood playground. The swings and slides brought back sweet memories, but you couldn’t live in it the same way: your butt was too big, your legs too long.

  Which was why the Departed wanted to leave. With their help, the plan would succeed. How could it not?

  I took a sip of coffee and gazed at my outline as a feeling of satisfaction welled up in me. With our excellent project almost launched, my circumstances seemed just a little less dire. At a hundred dollars each, if we could enroll a hundred Bereaved, I’d be in the clear. One hundred. That was only fifty Bereaved to round up per month. Heck, I knew almost that many right off the top of my head. I had no doubt that the Departed would have paid the fee in a New York second to help their Bereaved move along, but, of course even the richest of them no longer had access to money. So the plan hinged on getting the Bereaved to recognize what was good for them and be willing to pay for it.

  A noisy group of college students filed by my table, searching for a place to sit. As I idly watched, one of them pointed across the room, where I recognized my recent adversary, the human bulldozer. He stood and beckoned to the kids, indicating he was vacating the table, and waited until they were within swooping distance to take his leave.

  I don’t know why I stared at him—I was curious about his last words to me, I guess. He was attractive, in a gladiatorial way. Although he threaded through the crowd with the agility of a running back, avoiding waiters with full trays and milling patrons, fatigue showed in the droop of his shoulders. Apparently the coffee had not done the trick.

  I glanced at my watch and jumped to my feet, alarmed at how much time had slipped by while I refined the new business venture. At the rate the bodies at Tranquility Park were stacking up, I’d be working until midnight if I didn’t get moving. I gathered my things and dashed out the door to my car.

  At the first turn of the key, my car started. I smiled—it wasn’t always so agreeable—and put it into gear to ease away from the curb.

  “Who is he?” Craig asked from beside me.

  I jumped at the sound of his voice. My car stalled.

  “Who is who?” I asked, putting the car into neutral.

  “The fellow you were staring at in the coffeehouse. He’s a good-looking guy.”

  Craig leaned back companionably with his arm over the back of the seat, waiting for my reply.

  “I was not staring. He’s no one, just an egotistical jerk I had to deal with.” I turned the key in the ignition to re-start the car. The starter growled, but the engine didn’t turn over. “Why? You aren’t jealous, are you?” The idea was ludicrous, of course. Craig had nothing to be jealous about.

  He smiled sweetly. “No, Joy, not jealous. Hopeful.”

  A movement outside his window caught my attention. A car—a shiny new car—rolled down the inclined driveway from the parking lot directly toward my now-stationary vehicle.

  I glanced at Craig. “Hopeful?”

  My eyes snapped back to the approaching car. It had not slowed down. I quickly tried to start my car again. It didn’t cooperate.

  “Sometimes I’m not sure my hanging around is good for you,” Craig said, sounding thoughtful and worried. “Or me.”

  My eyes darted back to him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “There’s something you should know.” Craig looked distinctly uneasy now, which I didn’t like at all.

  “Something? What something?” The car loomed suddenly over Craig’s shoulder. I could see the driver now. His eyes were trained on something in his lap. They most definitely were not looking out his windshield at the obstacle—me—in his path.

  I slammed my hand on my horn. It gave a feeble cough.

  I looked out of the window. Craig had vanished; the car rolling toward me hadn’t.

  In desperation I threw myself across the seat and yelled out the window, “Honk! Honk!”

  The driver looked up with a start and slammed on his brakes just as the nose of his car bumped into my fender.

  It was him. The man. The human bulldozer. He tilted his head and his mouth shaped the question, “Honk?”

  Then he started laughing.

  A flush of heat raced through me. I was flustered because of Craig’s comment, and something about the man annoyed me. I almost leapt from the car.

  Almost, because my car door stuck. Which was probably for the best. Forced into a more considered approach, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  A second or two later, I bumped the door open with my shoulder and emerged from the car, cool and collected. I’m sure it appeared as though I slammed the door closed, but the stupid thing was balky, that was all. Perhaps my gait was more a stomp than a saunter as I walked around the car to talk to the man, but I was in something of a hurry.

  The human bulldozer, already out of his car, gazed at the precise point where his bumper met my car. As I opened my mouth to politely point out the error of his ways (again), he looked up, a lopsided grin on his face, and said, “Kismet.”

  It took me by surprise. I stood there, lips parted, fists clenched, fully ready to give him a piece of my mind, but I suddenly forgot exactly which piece. His eyes, so stormy before, were now crinkled in amusement, and his lips, previously tight and unyielding, now seemed soft and willing. A sprig of his wayward hair grew straight up in the front before it drooped to brush his forehead, lending him an air of boyish charm. He leaned toward me, as if inviting a confidence, so close now that I smelled the faint scent of soap on his skin and felt the warmth radiating from his body.

  I can’t think what came over me. I had a fleeting urge to touch him, to feel warm flesh and hard muscle under my fingertips.

  BEEP… BEEP… BEEP! An irritating noise sounded from his waist. He pulled a pager off his belt and glimpsed at it.

  Then I knew. He was a surgeon—one I was pretty darn sure I’d met before. He looked different now, in jeans and a pullover sweater, and with his hair exposed, but I was almost certain I knew this man.

  I pictured him in scrubs, a cap over his hair, a mask on his face, barking out commands, eyes intense, ordering me from the room. It could be him. It could be the egocentric jerk I’d confronted during Craig’s battle for life. He certainly had the attitude. Loathin
g washed over me.

  “Hardly kismet,” I snapped. “More like inattention. I presume you’ll pay for the damage?”

  That wiped the smile off his face. He frowned at my car and raised an eyebrow at me.

  I have to admit it would be hard to determine exactly which of the dings and divots in my fender might be attributed to the collision, but that wasn’t the point. It was a matter of his taking responsibility for his actions. I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow back.

  BEEP… BEEP… BEEP!

  He glanced at his pager again. “I have to go,” he said, as if I had detained him.

  “Of course. Once we’ve settled this issue,” I said, reasonably. My position was unassailable. He had hit me, not the other way around. And—a little bargaining point—he couldn’t go anywhere until I moved my car. I smiled graciously at him.

  “Look, miss, I’m a doctor. I’m on call. There’s a patient coming in for emergency surgery. I have to go.” His eyes weren’t so friendly now. He pulled out his billfold, yanked out several bills—hundreds—and held them out to me. “If I did any damage, which I sincerely doubt, this should cover it, but if you think you can nail me for personal injury, think again.”

  My mouth started sputtering before my brain actually formed words. He had accused me—me—of unethical intentions. I couldn’t believe my ears. I was so offended that defense wasn’t a possibility, so I went directly to offense.

  “You can’t seriously intend to perform surgery in your state? You can’t even handle a car, much less a scalpel.”

  A strange expression crossed his face, and the hand holding out the cash drooped to his side. “What do you mean?”

  I knew he wasn’t asking for either a repetition or an explanation, but I wasn’t certain what he was asking, only that I had hit a nerve. Did I back off?

  Like a train on a downhill track.

  “What about ‘only for the good of my patients’? Does that mean anything to you? Do you even recall the Hippocratic Oath?”