“Well…” I clear my throat. “I certainly have no problem with that.”
“Perfect!” The woman sets them on the floor. “We’ll just leave them here rather than toting them back and forth.”
“Great,” I croak. “Anything else?”
“That’ll be all,” Vicky says, leaving without so much as a farewell.
“Thanks for everything,” Maria says, reaching out to shake my hand. “And sorry about all of this.” Her eyes dart to the stuffed dogs eyeballing me from a few feet away. “My parents are a bit eccentric.”
“Yep. Don’t even worry about it. Get some rest. You have a long couple of days ahead of you.”
“Ready to roll?—Oh, hold up.” Wyatt pinches his chin with the thumb and forefinger of one hand while pointing to my new roommates with the other. “Those weren’t here this morning.”
“No,” I agree. “They most certainly were not.”
“Something you ordered for Prissy?” he asks, bending down to touch them. He pulls a face. “Why are they so hard?”
“They’re not for Prissy.”
“Okay…” He picks one up, examining it more closely. “They look so real.”
“Mmmhmm,” I agree, literally suffocating on the laughter I’m suppressing. “Would you mind turning them to face the wall while you’re down there?”
Their lifeless eyes have my skin crawling. I realize that my aversion to them is absurd, considering I spend so much of my time with the deceased. Irrational as it may be, having these poor puppies sharing my space is weirding me out.
I have questions. So many questions.
How long have they been dead? Were they displayed on a bookshelf? Collecting dust in an attic? Do they dress them up like baby dolls for the holidays?
Wyatt does as I ask then rises to his feet. “This is some strange décor for someone who doesn’t really have a fondness for animals.”
“They are not décor.” I shut my books and grab my purse before walking around to lace my arm through his. I can’t get out of here fast enough. “They are Wilma and Fred, and their funeral is tomorrow.”
After rolling up to my usual spot in front of the funeral home, I shift the truck into park and let it idle, flipping my visor down to check my hair. I rotate my head this way and that, taking the time to make sure each strand is perfectly placed. There’s a slight chance that I may be stalling.
With my hand finally positioned on the door handle, I do a quick count backward from ten, fully intent upon flinging it open, but I chicken out and tug the visor back down, this time under the guise of checking the status of my black bow tie. I give that a little adjustment, as well as the collar to my matching oxford.
It’s not even fifty degrees out and I’m wiping sweat off my palms onto my dress pants.
Why am I so nervous?
Just yesterday, I spent well over an hour at the flower shop trying to decide on what color roses to get for her bouquet. Who knew that was such an involved process? Certainly not me. My first instinct was black, since it’s her current obsession. Pretty obvious, right? Then I read the back of the card, learned they represent death, and couldn’t do it. There’s no way I was bringing that child death flowers. Prissy’s not one for bright and colorful. So, where some shade of pink would be the clear choice for most little girls, they wouldn’t work for my date. In the end, I settled on ivory. Hazel, the florist, said they would be the perfect color to show someone you care without romantic intentions.
Have I put too much thought into this? Absolutely.
The fact that I’m behaving like a crazy person is not lost on me, but that doesn’t prevent the need for a pep talk from yours truly just to work up enough nerve to get out of my vehicle and ring the damn doorbell.
The self-imposed pressure I feel to impress this child is more than any date I’ve ever been on. I’ve done all I can think of to make her night magical—to give her a memory she’ll look back on fondly for years to come. Every little girl deserves to feel like a princess at least once—even tomboys with morbid curiosities and a fondness for four-letter-words.
I take a deep gulp of the cool December air, brush off the last-minute jitters, then crush my finger to the button and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
“What the hell are you doing, boy?” The door gives way to Hank’s puckered face. “Since when do you ring the bell?” He grunts like a boar. “Making me come down all them dang stairs.”
“I was trying to make a good impression on the family.” I give him a pointed look, to which he rolls his eyes and hangs his head, slowly rotating it side to side. I can’t tell whether he’s impressed or disgusted with my shenanigans—the niggling worry stirs a little frenzy in my gut.
“Stay right here. I’ll go get her.” The door slams in my face, then instantly swings back open. “You look real nice, by the way.”
Well, that was unexpected. “Thanks.”
He nods. “Almost forgive ya for stealin’ my date.”
“You waitin’ on an apology to go along with that whine?” I ask when he continues to stand there glowering at me.
Once more the heavy oak door slams leaving me chuckling to myself on the threshold. Yep, he’ll do just fine for a father-in-law.
When it creaks open again—for what is likely the first time in my life—I find myself completely lost for words.
A sudden knot forms in my throat. I didn’t expect to be so affected by the sight of this little girl all dolled up. Nor to feel the sense of pride in the way she’s beaming up at me that’s swelling my chest to near bursting.
Prissy’s long blonde hair has been curled and styled half up with loose bits around her face. True to her word, she let her momma add a touch of pink to her cheeks and gloss on her lips. It’s just enough to enhance her natural beauty. She looks polished, but not overdone. Her dress is black—no surprise there—fitted at the top with sequins, flaring out at the waist into a poufy tulle skirt that ends mid-calf.
“We match!” she screams, jutting a booted foot out into the space between us. Dimples dent her cheeks when she stares down at the combat boots I acquired for myself just for the occasion.
“Got a leather jacket sitting on the seat of my truck too.” I quirk a brow. “If your momma’s okay with you wearing yours, of course.”
Her wide eager eyes light up. “Can I?”
I’ve never seen a bigger smile on Whitney’s face. “Go get it,” she says, while her eyes well with tears.
“How are you even real?” Once the little one has scampered off, Whitney steps forward, reaching out to cup my cheeks in her hands. “You thought of everything.”
Her touch is soft and warm, and sets my heart pumping a little faster. “I tried.”
She drags a thumb over my lower lip, giving a gentle tug downward. “She’ll be talking about this for weeks.”
I grin, fighting the urge to lean down and suck her plump lower lip into my mouth. “I hope longer than that.”
She visibly trembles when I brush her hair back from her shoulder, gifting myself with a whiff of her sweet perfume.