Mourning Wood

by Heather M. Orgeron

  I’m so focused on maintaining my composure that I drive us right into another pothole—this one the size of a damn crater. And that’s when I hear it, the groaning coming from behind my head.

  “Holy fuck!” I shout, jerking the wheel to the right. “He’s alive! Why? How?”

  Before Marie can reply, I plow us right into a neat row of mailboxes.

  Wyatt insists on picking me up and driving, not buying into my argument that it would save him time and hassle if I went in my own car and took myself home after dinner.

  I think he knows I’m just trying to put an added barrier in place, and he’s not having it. That boy is determined to get the most out of this sham of a date.

  He rushes ahead of me to open my door and helps me up into the cab, every bit the gentleman. When he reaches across my body to fasten my seatbelt, my heart takes off at a canter. His attentiveness doesn’t go unnoticed and neither does my attraction, if that cocky grin of his is anything to go by.

  “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look tonight?” Wow. Isn’t he just laying it on extra thick? The guy’s a real charmer, I’ll give him that.

  I clear my throat, giving my head a little shake to break the heat in my gaze and do my best not to swoon when his hand brushes my thigh. “Three times now.” Dear God, he smells heavenly. A mix of sandalwood and yum. “Thank you…again.” My breathing is shallow, and my cheeks warm with want. I’m nothing but a ball of sensation, and if this is indicative of how the night’ll go, I’m in bigger trouble than I originally thought.

  “Don’t mention it.” Careful not to smash any limbs, he shuts my door before rushing around and climbing up into the driver’s seat.

  He looks so natural behind that wheel… a true country boy made to travel these wooded back roads. “I can’t even picture you in the city,” I say, staring at his profile.

  He laughs. “I was a fish outta water, no doubt.”

  “But you lived here before, right?” My voice fades out, the uncertainty over whether I should even bring up his past fueling a bout of instant regret. “Kate told me…” I give an apologetic shrug. “The other night when we were at her house.”

  “Yeah,” he says, casting a brief glance my way. “After the accident, I went to live with my mom’s parents. There was no will or anything. They were just better suited financially to raise a kid.” He pauses briefly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I owe them so much.”

  His love for the people who raised him comes shining through his every word. “I’m glad you had them to help you to deal with that loss.” Why can’t I just shut up? I promised the man a date, not a session with a grief counselor.

  “It’s fine,” he says, sensing my reluctance to continue. “It all happened so long ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I just get chatty when I’m nervous.” Way to out yourself, idiot. “I mean, not that you make me nervous, or anything…” Hot lava bubbles in my tummy.

  “Of course not.” He rolls his tongue over his lips, biting back a smile, and his grip tightens on the wheel, flexing and unflexing with manly pride. “How else are we gonna get to know one another?”

  “Is that the goal here?” I ask, starting to backpedal. How could I allow myself to get sucked into his orbit so easily?

  “Isn’t it?” He grants me another brief look before turning his attention back to the winding road.

  “I’m just here to repay a debt.” I’m trying to keep it real, but one look at the disappointment on his face has me wishing I could take it back.

  “Right,” he says, his jaw suddenly tense. He doesn’t say another word for the remainder of the short drive to Clotille’s Riverside Restaurant.

  I’m stewing in a mixture of relief and regret, sure I’ve just ruined the entire night, when we pull into the gravel lot. But I shouldn’t be surprised to find that Wyatt is extremely forgiving—at least where jaded females such as myself are concerned.

  “Get your fingers off that handle,” he orders when I reach to open my own door. “My Mimi didn’t raise no millennial.”

  His comment has me choking on a laugh. “What, no Fortnite and Tinder for you?”

  He scoffs. “One of the benefits of being raised by old people who didn’t know the first thing about interwebs and those playboxes.” The way he mimics their language with such fondness is priceless.

  “You’ll be glad to know you’re dodging a bullet here,” I say, referring to myself.

  “Why do you say that?” He takes my hand, helping me down from the cab.

  Once standing, I rise up to my toes and lean in close, pressing my lips against his ear. “I might have had a YouTube channel in high school.”

  He gasps. “Say it ain’t so.”

  “I’m not proud of it…it was a dark time in my life.”

  “You go through a goth phase or something?” He laces his fingers with mine, leading me up the wraparound porch of the quaint eatery.

  “Quite the opposite.” I chew the inside of my cheeks, hesitant to expose myself. “A cheerleader.”

  “Table for two under Wyatt Landry,” he says to the hostess, who grabs two menus and instructs us to follow.

  “That actually doesn’t surprise me at all,” he says, guiding me along the uneven floors with his hand at the small of my back.

  “Really?”

  “You look the type.” He shrugs. “Gorgeous, leggy, blonde, with a bangin’ body.” He makes a show of looking me over head to foot. “I could see you on the arm of a quarterback, easily.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll never make that mistake again.”

  The hostess seats us at a table in the courtyard, leaving us with menus and a promise that our server will be with us shortly. It’s a beautiful evening, nice clear skies granting us the perfect view of the stars that are just peeking out to make their nightly appearance. The temperature is perfect, too—cool enough that we aren’t being eaten alive by mosquitos but not so cold we have to bundle up.

  I stupidly think I won’t have to elaborate on my earlier comment, but Wyatt doesn’t skip a beat, picking up right where we left off.

  “Bad experience?”

  I groan, hoping to convey just how much I’m not wanting to have this particular conversation. “Prissy’s father was the star running back of our rival team. We dated for a bit…until I popped up pregnant. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “What a dick.”

  I shrug, trying not to dredge up old hurts. “He was a teenager, and a baby didn’t exactly fit into his plans.”

  “So were you.” He reaches across the table laying a comforting hand over mine. And although I know that I shouldn’t, I let him. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that on your own…” He shakes his head with a timid smile. “Fucking millennials, man. No sense of responsibility.”

  “I haven’t really been on my own, though. My parents didn’t bat an eye, just stepped in, and they’ve been by my side every step of the way.”

  “Your folks are good people.”

  I smile at his assessment. “I can only hope someday to be half as decent as they are.”

  I’m grateful for the interruption when our waitress finally arrives to take our orders, gulping down half the glass of water she sets in front of me without stopping for a breath.

  We order two of their famous hurricanes to sip on while waiting for our food, making small talk about the weather and the house he purchased on the river. His passion for what he does is infectious. He’s so animated when he speaks about the big plans he has for the renovations.

  “I can’t wait to see it all when it’s completed,” I say while scrolling through the before pictures on his phone, shocked by how much I mean it.

  “I’ll look forward to showing it to ya.”

  By the time the server delivers our meals, an easy friendship is already forming between us. I’m truly taken by how witty and intelligent he is.

  Charming, sure, that I expected. I mean, he charmed the panties right off o
f me the night we met. But he’s also fun and thoughtful and so much more. It’s a shame we can’t just erase the past and have a do-over. If it weren’t for that unfortunate hookup, I might be inclined to explore this crazy attraction… but who the hell starts their happily ever after with a quickie in a public alley? Not this girl.

  I wait until we’re a few drinks deep and almost done with our meals to bring up what went down earlier in the day. It’s killed me to hold off this long. I’ve been itching to interrogate him since Mom filled me in.

  “So, you actually thought my mom pooped her pants, huh?” I am snickering over my plate of shrimp alfredo, just imagining the way it all went down.

  His face turns beet red. “I knew it wasn’t me… I assumed there was only one other option.”

  “When a person dies, their muscles relax,” I explain, sucking my tongue to my front teeth. “All the muscles.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “It’s no bed of roses, that’s for sure… Sometimes they leak so much that Daddy has to pack ’em with cotton.”

  His eyes get big and round. “Their butts?”

  I nod. “Uh-huh.”

  His face starts to look a little green as he stares down at what’s left of his ribeye smothered in crawfish etouffee.

  “How ‘bout a change in subject,” I offer, starting to feel bad for ruining his dinner.

  “I’m good,” he assures me, pushing his plate away. “I’ll just take the rest of this to go.”

  “Oh, come on, if you’re gonna be hanging around the Daigles, you’re gonna need a stronger stomach.” I twirl my fork in my plate, loading it with pasta, and pop it into my mouth, before shielding my lips with a hand to speak. “Besides, we haven’t even gotten to the part where you took out three mailboxes.”

  “Didn’t say I was ready to go.” He sets his utensils down, ready to indulge my antics. “You really should have warned me.”

  I finish chewing and swallow before shrugging a shoulder. “Didn’t dawn on me. We’re all so used to it.”

  “Well, next time you send a guy out to fetch a body, I suggest mentioning the deceased have a tendency to groan and gurgle.” He outwardly cringes. “Pretty sure you’re responsible for shaving ten years off my life.”

  “Oh, my God. I wish I could have been a fly on that windshield.”

  He dips his head into his hand, giving it a good shake. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

  “Not a chance.”

  We order another round of drinks and continue chatting. Wash, rinse, repeat, and before I know it, we’re closing the place down.

  I haven’t laughed this hard in ages. It was totally worth having to suffer through a date with Mr. Hot Stuff over here to have a night of normalcy. To feel like an actual person—like a woman—not just a mom.

  And by suffer, I’m being a total drama queen. I don’t think a better view exists than Wyatt Landry in a baby blue button down, cuffed at the elbows, and thigh hugging blue jeans. And that smile of his. Good Lord Almighty. It sends my hormones into overdrive.

  I’m still giggling when he pulls up to the house to drop me off.

  “Thanks for tonight,” he says, reaching across the bench seat to squeeze my hand. “It was fun.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, shocking myself. “Surprisingly, I had a really great time.”

  “Ah-ah,” he reprimands when I reach for the door handle. “We’re gonna end this night right.”

  Nervous energy starts bubbling in my chest as I try to decipher what exactly he means by that comment. I’m admittedly a bit trigger shy and will be devastated if he ruins what by my estimation was the perfect night, by taking things too far.

  When the door swings open, my throat squeezes. I hope he can’t see the hearts in my eyes when I look at him, because if he makes a move, I’m already too far gone to refuse it. The last thing I need is to wake up with more regret. Lord knows I’ve got enough of that to last a lifetime.

  “Come on,” he says, taking my hand, and once again helping me down from his truck. This time I’m just buzzed enough that I think I actually need the assistance.

  He walks me all the way to the door and waits for me to unlock it before tipping my chin with his finger.

  This is it, I think. Butterflies flutter in my tummy and I run my tongue over my lips, preparing myself for the wreckage.

  “Thank you,” he says, placing a kiss to my forehead.

  He withdraws his hand, and I’m filled with… disappointment? This can’t be right.

  He gives me one final look before turning for his truck and calling back, “See you tomorrow!”

  “How’s it going, Wyatt?”

  Prissy’s loud greeting echoes throughout the empty chapel, nearly knocking me off the ladder where I’m applying the first coat of paint to the new crown moldings I installed yesterday. “Hey,” I say, after regaining my balance. “It’s Monday. Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  “Thanksgiving break.”

  I glance to the date on my watch. “So it is.”

  She places a hand on the third rung of the ladder to hold it steady. “Did you know over 300 people die each year from falling off ladders in the United States alone?”

  This kid here… “No, Miss Priss, I sure didn’t.”

  “Now ya do.” She beams, like she’s just offered me lifesaving information.

  “I guess I do… You always so morbid?” I ask, climbing the rest of the way down.

  She shrugs. “Just curious. I researched construction death stats when we started the renovations on the chapel a few months ago. Paw-Paw says I’m like a sponge for useless information.”

  “Is that right?”

  She nods, fiddling with something in the pocket of her hoodie. “You need something, or just stopping by to say hi and put the fear of death into me?”

  “Momma told me I had to go find something to do with myself cuz there’s a wake today and I’m being too loud.”

  Poor kid looks bored out of her mind.

  “That’s why I’m stuck painting. She told me I can’t use my power tools.” I hang my lip to the floor in a sign of solidarity.

  “Think I could hang out in here with you?”

  “Sure.” I give my shoulders a shrug. Misery loves company, right? “Whatcha got in there?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” With a shit grin, she retrieves something small and furry from her pocket. “Name’s Squishy.” She lifts the little fuzzball to her face, placing a kiss on the top of its head. “He’s a flying squirrel, and he’s top-secret, so don’t tell Momma.”

  “You have a pet squirrel your mother knows nothing about?”

  Prissy nods, stroking its back with a finger. “She says the funeral home is not the place for animals, so I can’t have any pets.” She follows that statement with a drawn-out sigh. “But Paw-Paw says what she doesn’t know can’t hurt, and he lets me keep him in a birdcage in the climate-controlled shed where he stores his embalming stuff. Momma never goes in there.”

  “I’m not sure I wanna be in on this secret, Priss. I’m already walking on thin ice with your mother.”

  She waves me off. “No worries. I won’t tell. Wanna hold him?”

  Knowing about this classified rodent is one thing…coddling it feels like a whole other level of deceit I want no part of. Plausible deniability is important. “Nah,” I say. “I’m good. Why don’t you go put him in his cage before you get us both into trouble? Then you can come back and help me paint those moldings on the floor over there.”

  “Fine,” she grumbles. “Be right back.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  The kid isn’t gone five minutes before I start hearing one hell of a commotion coming from the area of the viewing. My stomach sinks to my toes, and I close my eyes and pray to Jesus that it isn’t what I think it is.

  Mrs. Marie pops into the chapel, red-faced and breathing like she’s just run a marathon. “We got us a situation.”

  “What’s going on?
”

  “There’s a—a squirrel flying all around the visitation room.” Tears drip down her cheeks. “We ain’t never had nothin’ like this happen before.” She clutches my sleeve, tugging me toward the door. “Will you come help?”

  “Of course.” Not that she’s affording me much chance to say no.

  “Stop it! Don’t! You’re gonna hurt him.”

  Upon entering the parlor, I find Prissy screaming while yanking on the shirt of a teenaged boy, who’s chasing after her pet, wielding a broom like a sword.

  There are guests laughing, others crying, some hiding behind chairs and a couple others who’ve made it their mission in life to catch the damn thing.

  “It’s okay,” I say, trying to get some kind of control over the situation. “He’s friendly.” I snatch the broom from the kid’s hand, passing it off to Whitney, who is presently breathing fire in my direction. I half expect her to come after me with it. If we weren’t surrounded by mourners, I’m positive she would.

  It’s painful to watch all the progress I thought I made with the woman last night burst into flames. But I’ll have to save that problem for another day, seeing as I can only focus on one crisis at a time.

  “Come here, Priss.” I hold my arms out for the distraught child. “I’m gonna lift you up, and you grab him.”

  She nods, sniffling into her sleeve.

  “Everyone else, stay calm, and try not to spook him.”

  Stay calm, I repeat in my head, while making my way toward the casket. I hoist the little girl up higher, dangling her over the body of an old man—an old dead man, so she can retrieve her frightened pet from the top of the casket lid.

  I don’t breathe until she’s back on the floor and I’ve moved away from the corpse.

  That’s when I look up to find nearly every pair of eyes in that room glaring in my direction. “What?” I say to no one in particular.

  “What the hell, Wyatt?” Whitney grabs my wrist, dragging me from the room like I’m the one to blame for that epic shit-show. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t get sued for that.”

  “It’s not mine,” I say, once we’re closed up in her office.