Mourning Wood

by Heather M. Orgeron

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching for his hand and lacing my fingers with his. The need to acknowledge his pain is so strong.

  He gives me an appreciative nod before turning to face the opposite wall. “Ready to check out our room?”

  “Wyatt,” I growl.

  “Hey,” he says, tugging me along, “a guy is nothing without his dreams.”

  “Show me the damn master.”

  He guides me to his room where he points out the newly refurbished floors and shiplapped walls. The king-sized bed has a simple wood frame that really fits the feel of the space. The adjoining master bath features a clawfoot tub that appears to be the original, if the green patina on the copper feet is any indication.

  “There’s no way you fit in that thing.” I peer around the cramped room, looking for a standing shower, finding none. The state of disrepair makes it clear he hasn’t started renovating in here yet.

  “I’m really good at squeezing myself into tight spaces.”

  I bite my lip and shake my head. “I can’t…I don’t even know what to say to you.”

  “Allow me to demonstrate?” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing it toward the bed looming ten feet behind us.

  “My kid is here.”

  “Oh, yeah…next time, then.”

  I neither accept nor decline his shameless offer, shaking my head to myself at how forward he’s become while inwardly chastising myself for liking it so much.

  “This is my next project,” he says. “I’m going to extend the room, add in a walk-in shower fit for a king, and an enormous closet for my queen.”

  Once again, I decide it best not to respond, instead moving on to the next room, knowing he’ll follow.

  “This’ll be the nursery, since it’s closest to the master.”

  “Will it?” My mind starts filling the space with furniture—a crib on the far wall, a round braided rug with a little wooden rocking horse in the center. Model planes hanging from the ceiling. Lord, my imagination is running wild today. “So, you’re planning on multiple kids?”

  “Maybe.” His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “With the right woman.” He restates his position from Thanksgiving dinner while his eyes not so subtly journey over my form.

  Heat radiates from my ears and my heart squeezes. I feel myself softening to the idea a little more with each brazen proposition being thrown at me. Before I can do anything foolish, my flight response kicks into overdrive.

  “Next!” I say, choosing self-preservation and hightailing it down the hall.

  “These two rooms are a little bigger,” he says, peering over my shoulder, “and share a Jack and Jill bath.” Wyatt crosses the room, opening the door to the bathroom, which contains a tub-shower combo and all of his manly soaps and shampoos. There’s even a towel draped over the curtain rod and a little steam still fogging the mirror. Hah. I knew he wasn’t fitting his ass in that tub. “Prissy can have her choice, or even both, until we have to free up the nursery again.”

  “Sounds like you plan on keeping your future wife busy.”

  He waggles his brows. “I promise, I’ll leave no room for complaints.”

  Well, then.

  Having Whitney and Prissy here in my space feels right.

  Two months doesn’t seem like a lot of time—certainly not enough to be envisioning forever with a person. Neither does it seem sufficient to be prepared to commit to taking on a six-year-old child. But every move I make, every change, every addition to this old house, is with them in mind—much to my Mimi’s displeasure.

  My grandmother’s worried I’m moving too fast. She says I need to slow down and stop letting my emotions lead. But I know that once she has the chance to meet the new ladies in my life, she’ll be just as smitten as I am.

  “Shhhh!” I say when Miss Priss comes thundering in with Rufus following closely behind. “She fell asleep.” I point to the living room, where Whitney is curled up snoring on the sectional.

  “Sorry.” She scrunches her shoulders. “Wanna see what I taught Sprinkles?”

  I look around to see what the heck she’s talking about. Did she find a new pet in the woods?

  “Just watch,” she orders, grabbing a handful of treats from the jar on the counter that was so full it could barely close this morning and is now damn near empty. “Sprinkles, sit!”

  My usually obstinate pup obediently plops his ass on the floor, wagging his tail as he stares at her expectantly.

  “Good boy,” Prissy praises, placing a Milkbone on his tongue and giving him a scrub behind the ears.

  “What did you just call him?”

  “Rufus is a stupid name,” she says with a shrug.

  I choke on air. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. What even is a Rufus anyway?”

  “A name,” I answer. “A manly name for a manly dog.”

  “He looks like vanilla ice cream with chocolate sprinkles. It had to be changed.”

  “You can’t just change a dog’s name. He’s eight months old. He likes his name. He knows it.”

  “Does he?” she asks, arching a brow. Jesus, she looks so much like her mother right now it’s almost scary.

  “Rufus.” I whistle. “Come here boy.”

  He lets out a whimper, but stays rooted in place, his eyes trained on the girl with the snacks.

  “Sprinkles, come.” Priss points to the floor.

  That traitor rises to all fours, looking more regal than Queen Elizabeth herself as he marches to her side. Man’s best friend, my ass.

  “Good boy,” she says, stuffing another treat into his mouth. “Sprinkles, sit.”

  He sits.

  “Shake,” she says, holding out her hand for his paw.

  “You taught him all of that in less than two hours?”

  “Uh-huh. Wasn’t hard. I watched some dog training videos.”

  “Let me guess, YouTube?”

  She grins. “Well, it worked.”

  “I see that.”

  “So…Sprinkles?” She steeples her hands in front of her face, poking out her lip for added drama.

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of how my beast of a dog became a pansy.

  “You’re a disgrace,” I grumble at the pooch while nodding my head at the little girl. “Guess I can’t change what’s already done.”

  She beams, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I’ve always wanted a dog. Think maybe we can share yours?”

  What I think is I’d find a way to give this child the fucking moon if she asked for it. “Don’t see why not.”

  “Thanks, Wyatt. You’re the best!”

  “I try.”

  “Hey,” she says, disentangling herself. “You don’t have a tree.”

  I can hardly keep up with the kid and the way she jumps from one topic straight into a new one. “A what?” I ask, staring through the still open door. “I have a yard full of them.”

  “A Christmas tree, Wyatt.”

  “Oh.” Well, she’s got me there.

  “It’s in three weeks, you know? Where’s Santa gonna leave Sprinkles’s presents?” The disapproval in her tone has me ready to right this misstep immediately.

  “That’s because I was…waiting for you and your momma to help me. It’s no fun putting a tree up all alone.”

  “Really?” she squeals. “Where is it? In the attic?”

  “The tree lot.”

  She frowns.

  “Come on,” I say, motioning for her to follow. I grab the keys from the hook and my wallet from the counter, slipping it into my back pocket on my way to the living room.

  “Hey,” I say, squatting beside the woman sawing wood on my couch. I can smell the alcohol still seeping from her pores when I give her shoulder a gentle shake.

  “Huh?” She jumps with a start, nearly rolling to the floor. I give her a moment to orient herself while her daughter practically pisses herself laughing.

  “Is it okay if I take Priss with me to the store?�
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  “Uh, yeah…sure,” she says, wiping the drool from her chin with the back of a hand. “Want me to come?”

  “Nah. We won’t be long. Rest up for tonight.”

  Shopping with a kid is an adventure. An expensive adventure.

  Three stores and nearly four hours later, we come trudging back into the house with our arms overflowing with bags and a monstrous tree strapped down in the bed of the truck.

  “What’s all this?”

  “I could ask the same question,” I counter when I find Whitney wide awake, whipping up an impressive spread of breakfast for dinner.

  She shrugs, “Didn’t know what to do with myself when I got up. This was the best I could do for a meal. You didn’t have much to work with.” Her eyes widen, like she’s just come to some major realization. “I hope you weren’t planning on us going out to eat.” She starts nibbling on her lip, making the vision before me even more tempting.

  “This is so much better than anything I had planned,” I assure her, because damn, seeing this woman scrambling eggs and frying up bacon on my stove feels like a little preview of the domesticated life I’ve been fantasizing about lately.

  “Planning on doing some decorating?” she asks, peeking into the bags.

  “We’re gonna do it!” Prissy says, dropping the lot she’s carrying to the floor. “Wyatt was waiting for us to come over to put up his tree.”

  “Was he now?” she asks, eying me skeptically.

  “I was,” I readily agree, fighting the urge to kiss that knowing smile off her face. It’s getting harder to behave myself when her little girl’s around. Now that she’s gotten comfortable with me touching her, it’s a constant urge.

  All in due time.

  “Hope you’re ready to deck the halls,” I say, dropping my load and heading back out to the truck for the rest.

  “The Nightmare Before Christmas?” Whitney shakes her head as she continues pulling items from bags once we’ve finished stuffing ourselves into a food coma. “I don’t even need to ask whose idea this was.”

  “It was mine,” Prissy beams.

  “You don’t say?” Whit runs a hand through her daughter’s hair before pressing a kiss to her cheek.

  “Hey,” I interrupt, feeling left out. “I picked the topper.”

  “Well, let’s see it,” Whitney urges.

  I finish tightening the last screw in the base of the tree’s trunk before getting up and dusting the needles and dirt from my pants.

  “Here,” Prissy says, passing me the white box the clerk carefully packaged it in.

  “Where did y’all even find this stuff?” Whit’s eyes light up when she sees the ornate black velvet top hat with Jack’s face front and center. His bowtie is made of purple, teal, and orange ribbon, and there are glittery swirls around the hat in the same colors. It’s bright and festive. And so Prissy.

  “The girl said she wanted a Nightmare Before Christmas tree, so I went online and found a little boutique in the French Quarter that carried it.” I shrug. “That’s where we found most of this stuff.”

  “I love these!” Whit’s face lights up when she finds the balls, some hand painted with Jack’s face and some with Sally’s. There are others made of handblown glass in the shape of the characters. “You must’ve spent a fortune on all this.”

  “He let me run wild,” Prissy says. “We even found a Jack outfit for Sprinkles.”

  “Sprinkles?” Her brow furrows. “Who’s that?”

  “Come here, Sprinkles,” I call, luring the big lug from his bed. “Whitney, I’d like to introduce you to Sprinkles, the beast formerly known as Rufus.”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “I am so confused.”

  “Wyatt let me change his name!”

  “Wha—?” She looks from her daughter to me—back and forth a few times. “Prissy, he’s just being nice. You can’t just change a dog’s name.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Whit releases a relieved sigh. “Thank you. Finally, someone’s speaking some sense.”

  “And then she proved me wrong.” I hold my hands out, palms up in surrender.

  “You don’t have to give her everything she wants, Wyatt.” The concern on her face is adorable.

  “Can I show her?” The little girl is bursting at the seams with pride.

  When I nod, she runs off to the kitchen, returning with a handful of treats from one of the boxes we just purchased. Then proceeds to demonstrate all the new things she’s managed to teach the big galoot.

  “Turns out he’s not simple-minded after all,” I say. “Just needed the right teacher.”

  “And name,” Prissy adds. “Don’t forget the name.”

  “That too.”

  Whitney shakes her head at the both of us. “I still think it’s confusing as hell for the poor animal, but what do I know?”

  “Nothin’, Momma. You don’t even like animals.”

  “This one’s not so bad,” she says, seeming surprised by her own admission. “Look at him.” She points to the dog, who’s just curled up on his bed in front of the fireplace, resting his head on his favorite stuffed bear. “He’s even a little cute when he’s not jumping and slobbering on people.”

  Well, I’ve just mentally checked off another box. Get her on board with the idea of having a horse-sized dog…check. Although she might not know that he’s not full-grown yet. We’ll save that conversation for another day.

  With only two weeks remaining until Christmas, the funeral home has been a complete mad house. In the last week alone, we’ve had two suicides and a group of three high school seniors who smashed into a tree after a night of partying. There were no survivors.

  That one shook me to my core. I’ve still not gotten over it. Daddy fixed them up beautifully, and I spent an entire night in the prep room with those girls, fussing over their makeup as if they were my own.

  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a normal profession. To be able to go to work and return home without having the weight of grief resting on my shoulders. As tempting as that idea can be at times, I know I’ll never actually leave. Too much of who I am I owe to this place. And, as silly as it may sound, I don’t want to entrust the job to anyone else.

  “Mornin’, gorgeous.” The deep baritone greeting is accompanied by a light rap to the door frame.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I look up from my planner to find the most welcome sight there is, Wyatt Landry in a toolbelt.

  Yum. Yum. Gimme some.

  Although nothing’s been made official yet, it’s safe to say the two of us are an unlabeled item. I believe what we’re doing in fancier circles would be referred to as courting. I’m fairly certain my parents have drawn the same conclusion as a result of our frequent lunch dates.

  As long as Prissy is none the wiser, I could care less who knows. I’m not quite ready to cross that bridge with her yet.

  “Hey, yourself.” His unexpected drop-in brings a much-needed smile to my face and a warm fuzzy sensation spreading throughout my body. “Isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” I set my pen down, offering him my undivided attention.

  “Is it?” He steps inside, shutting the door behind himself. “Come gimme some suga, suga.”

  “You’re so corny.” Giggling, I hop up from my chair and round my desk at warp speed. The man makes me feel giddy, like a young girl completely addicted to the rush of endorphins one gets while falling for the boy of her dreams.

  And that’s exactly what he’s turning out to be. Only I’m not a girl, and he’s certainly no boy. And the possible repercussions that hang on the outcome of this particular bout of puppy love are enormous.

  “Replace that C in corny with an H and you would be correct.” He pulls me close, pressing his pelvis into my waist to demonstrate before molding his lips to mine. His kiss is warm and tender and over far sooner than I’d like. The groan that slips out as he pulls away relays as much.

  “There are two sobbing women in the lobby.” W
ith a frustrated laugh, he presses a final smooch to the tip of my nose. “They’re here to make Mr. Boudreaux’s arrangements.”

  “Renovating the chapel, collecting dead bodies, and now acting as my personal secretary…” I run my hands over his shoulders and along his arms while staring into his hungry eyes. “Is there anything you don’t do, Mr. Landry?”

  “Yes.” His answer is immediate and leaves my cheeks burning on account of the ravenous smolder that accompanies it.

  “Shameless,” I hiss, swatting him on the ass before slinking away and slipping into the chair behind my desk. “You may see them in…and feel free to make arrangements for my lunch break.” I touch a finger to my chin, smiling coyly. “Why don’t you invite that hot handyman working in the chapel?”

  “Now who’s shameless?” he teases, twisting the doorknob. “Pick ya up at noon.”

  “Don’t be late!”

  As soon as he’s gone, I have the urge to call him back—not that I can act on it, seeing how I have less than a minute to switch myself back into work mode.

  “Ms. Daigle?”

  “In here,” I call out to the feminine shadow hovering just outside my door.

  A woman who can’t be much older than I am peeks her head into my office. She’s a little mousy, with layered, shoulder-length hair and the same red-rimmed eyes I encounter on a regular basis. “Come on in,” I say, waving her inside. “Please, have a seat.”

  An older version of her slips in right after.

  “Both of you,” I add, directing them to the two chairs across from mine.

  “I’m Maria,” the younger of the two offers, “and this is my mom, Vicky.”

  The grieving widow lifts one finger in greeting while blowing snot into a hanky.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I say, offering them a box of tissue. “I’m very sorry it had to be under such awful circumstances.”

  “Thank you,” Maria says, cringing when her mother sets her bag down and it barks.

  “Mom,” she grits, nearly expiring from mortification.

  “It’s fine,” I assure her. I rise from my seat, peering over the top of my desk to seem more welcoming. “Who do we have here?” I ask when not one, but two little Yorkshire terriers climb up onto her lap.