The Funeral Singer

by Linda Budzinski

  Wait a minute. I was doing it again—making this about me when it should be about Lana. I’d come here for her. What had Pete said? Sometimes just being there for someone is enough.

  I put my arm around her and said nothing. I didn’t try to find the right words or figure out how to make her feel better. I simply sat there and held her while she cried.

  After what seemed like a long time, she straightened and began wiping at her eyes. I fished a packet of tissues out of my purse and handed them to her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I know this isn’t really your thing.”

  I shook my head. “Being your best friend is totally my thing.”

  She gave me a teary smile and stood. “Let’s go.”

  We walked slowly down toward the parking lot. Neither of us said a word, but it wasn’t awkward. It was nice. As we neared the cremation garden, I stopped and gave Lana a hug. “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

  I hadn’t intended to visit Mick’s grave, but it seemed right. I ducked into the garden and found his marker. “In loving memory of Michael Edward Nolan III.” Sitting on top was a fresh spray of violets that I was sure came from his grandmother’s yard. I scooped them up and breathed in their sweet, slightly mossy scent.

  “I’m so sorry, Mick. You didn’t deserve what I said.” I closed my eyes as I recalled his burial service. It was just two months ago, but it felt like a lifetime. I could see it all so clearly—the huge crowd, the twenty-one roses Mrs. Nolan dropped into the grave and the single tear that fell onto her cheek as I sang.

  My eyes flew open. Of course. Mrs. Nolan knew I sang “Amazing Grace” for her that day. She knew there was more to me than one bad decision, just as there was more to Mick than his drug addiction. My legacy might be that of a spoiled, failed starlet, but Mrs. Nolan knew that deep down there was more to me than that. So did my dad, and Lana, and Pete, and probably almost everyone who really mattered to me. Almost.

  I placed the violets back on Mick’s grave. “Rest in peace,” I whispered.

  When I reached the parking lot, Bruno, Lana, and Pete were admiring Pete’s Impala.

  “Sweet ride,” Bruno said.

  Pete tried to shrug it off, but I could tell he was pleased.

  Lana grabbed his hand. “Come on. We need to go.” She looked back and forth between Bruno and me. “Mom’s having some people over to the house if you guys want to come.”

  Bruno stiffened, whether because he was uncomfortable at the thought of going to Lana’s or because he didn’t want to be left here with me, I wasn’t sure. “Thanks. I’ll try,” he said.

  I hugged Lana and assured her I’d be there. As she climbed into the passenger’s seat, I grabbed Pete’s arm. “Thanks for convincing me to come,” I said. “You were right.”

  Pete nodded. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  “Actually, it was. But it was worth it.”

  Bruno and I stood in silence and watched them pull away.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I should go.” He turned and walked toward his car.

  I followed him. “Bruno, I know I don’t deserve it, but please give me a chance to apologize.”

  He leaned against the trunk of the Viper. For the first time all day, he looked straight at me. His stare was cold and hard. In the falling light of dusk, his eyes took on a dark blue tone, the same shade as the violets on Mick’s grave. “Go ahead.”

  I leaned one hip against the car to steady my shaking legs. Where to start? How could I possibly tell him everything that was in my heart? I began to cry, and the words came tumbling out. “I know I’ve apologized a million times, and I know it sounds like a lot of empty words. But please believe me, I didn’t mean it. Any of it. Especially not the part about Mick, but also not the parts about you. It’s just that I was so afraid of you, how I felt about you, and … ” Oh, man. Did I just say that? My cheeks burned, but I forced myself to meet Bruno’s eyes. “I said you don’t know the first thing about me, but the fact is, you do. You know the first thing, but not everything. You were right. I’ve been a major brat. But that’s not who I am, not really. Not deep down.”

  Bruno said nothing. He broke my gaze and rubbed at an imaginary scratch in his paint job.

  So that was it. I’d had my say. I didn’t deserve more. “Thank you for hearing me out.” I turned to go, but his voice, soft and low, stopped me.

  “Anyone who could sing ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ like that … ” He looked up. “I’m not excusing what you did, but I said some pretty cruel things myself that night. Much as I hate to admit it, Zed was right. I pushed you. I was pissed off, and I pushed, and maybe if I hadn’t, things would be different.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t blame yourself. This is on me. And anyway, I started the whole thing with my stupid drunken rant about your supposed flaws.”

  “Yes, that. Clearly you find me … extremely interesting.”

  I blushed. “I do, actually.”

  We stood in silence for a few moments. Finally, Bruno slid down off the car and took my hands in his. “How about we start over?”

  I wanted to. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to lean into him and pretend the last few days had never happened, but instead I pulled away. “We can’t.” I pointed toward the cemetery entrance. “There are two television crews on the other side of that gate waiting to pounce the second I leave. They’re going to follow me around for days, maybe weeks, recording my every move.”

  “And?”

  “Come on, Bruno. Don’t pretend you don’t get it. You still have a chance to bring back The Grime, to put out the new album and go on tour. You and the rest of the guys haven’t done anything wrong. But getting involved with me … that would be the end for you.”

  Bruno leaned forward and touched my face, his eyes staring deep into mine. “I’m not Zed. I’m not interested in managing my image. I’m interested in you—Melanie Martin. And not Melanie Martin, the famous Funeral Singer, but Melanie Martin, the girl who’s standing here in front of me.”

  I smiled. That sounded so good. Perfect, actually.

  Bruno pulled me toward him and kissed me. It started off as a slow, gentle kiss, his fingertips roaming idly down my back, past my waist and around my hips. I leaned into him, and he kissed me harder, with an intensity I’d never felt before. I once again had the sensation of tumbling through space, only this time I wasn’t falling. I was soaring.

  I had no idea how long we kissed, but when at last my feet landed back on solid ground, I caught my breath, and the cool evening air sent a shiver up my spine.

  “Bruno?”

  “Yes?”

  “Lana showed me something the other night, something you wrote.” I suddenly felt self-conscious. That crumpled sheet had been private. I wasn’t supposed to have seen it, and it might not even have been about me. But I wanted to know, needed to know. “‘With you I can breathe. With you I believe … ’”

  Bruno’s eyes widened in surprise. “‘Sink or swim just like him, but your smile reels me in.’ Yeah. I know the one.”

  “I was just wondering. Was that … ?”

  “About anyone in particular? Maybe.” Bruno’s eyes teased, and he gave me another long, sweet kiss that left no doubt as to who the song was about. We stood for a while in each other’s arms as dusk fell around us. The cemetery was so quiet, so peaceful.

  Finally I straightened and broke the silence. “I should probably head over to Lana’s. She’ll wonder what’s happened to me.”

  Bruno nodded. “Of course.”

  “You want to come?”

  He shook his head. “No. You go. She needs you.”

  My stomach clenched at the idea, but I knew he was right. And I knew now I could handle it.

  Bruno walked me to my car. I opened the door and turned to him. “See you soon?”

  “Is tomorrow night soon enough?”

  I grinned. “That works.”

  As I climbed into the driver’s seat
, I gazed up toward Milton and Eleanor’s graves. A light fog had settled around the tent. I imagined the two of them, together again, a forever love.

  Would I ever have what they had? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure I even deserved it, but for now, just knowing such a thing existed was enough. As I put the car into reverse, I caught my breath. Because there, just above their headstones, the clouds parted ever so briefly to reveal the golden sliver of a new moon.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  In writing, as in life, I have been blessed with many wonderful friends, family, and supporters. I am thankful to all of you, and especially:

  To the Swoon Romance team—with special thanks to Georgia McBride, Amy Garvey, Mandy Schoen, and Emily Sims—who’ve made this book a reality. And to the designers at Morgan Media for creating a gorgeous cover.

  To my agent, Andrea Somberg, who is smart and savvy and supportive. I am lucky to have you on my side.

  To mentors Ellen Braaf, without whom this book would not exist, and Erica Chapman and Alisha Niehaus Berger, without whom this book would exist only in a drawer.

  To author T.A. Barron, whose work and words inspired me to write Mel’s story.

  To the Cudas—Lisa Amowitz, Heidi Ayarbe, Pippa Bayliss, Dhonielle Clayton, Trish Eklund, Lindsay Eland, Cathy Giordiano, Cyndy Henzel, Christine Johnson, and Kate Milford. You make the heartbreaks less heart breaking and the celebrations more celebratory.

  To the Writer’s Center, with special thanks to my fellow WC-Leesburg Committee members, Ellen Braaf, Khris Baxter, Louise Baxter, Brad Holzwart, Jeff Kleinman, and Val Patterson.

  To fellow writers and all-around amazing, talented people Tom Angleberger, Kathy Chappell, Jessica Martinez, and Noreen Wald.

  To all my funeral service friends, who are too numerous to name, and whose dedication too often goes unnoticed.

  To the tweens and teens in the Sterling United Methodist Church youth group, whose faith and spirit inspire me week after week.

  To my parents, Bea and Ted Acorn, and my siblings, Deb Acorn, Karen Benfield, and Ted Acorn, who are always there for me, and for each other.

  To Eris and Sarah, who have taught me more than they will ever know.

  To Joe, whom I adore and who built me an awesome website, and who reads my YA romance stories without a word of protest.

  And of course, to God, in whom all things are possible.

  Linda Budzinski

  Linda Acorn Budzinski decided in the second grade that she wanted to be a “Paperback Writer,” just like in the Beatles song. She majored in journalism in college and now works in marketing and communications. She spent 18 years at a trade association in the funeral service industry, where she discovered that funeral directors are some of the bravest and most compassionate people on earth. Linda lives in Northern Virginia with her husband, Joe, and their Chihuahua, Demitria. She has two step-daughters, Eris and Sarah. THE FUNERAL SINGER is her debut novel. She is represented by Andrea Somberg of Harvey Klinger Inc.

  PREVIEWS

  From the author of SECONDARY CHARACTERS, Rachel Schieffelbein, comes a new novella called RUN FOR THE ROSES. Preview an uncorrected sample chapter below.

  RUN FOR THE ROSES

  Chapter One

  They’re about to call the final trot. I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, setting my hands. I pass my dad on the rail; he nods approvingly. My mom leans against his side and grins as I walk by.

  “You’re doing great, honey. She looks great.” She nods toward my mare, Paris to London.

  “Aaaaaaand trot please,” the announcer says. I shorten my reins and bump London up with my legs.

  “Trot,” I say. She picks it right up, her ears flicking back for only a second at the sound of my voice.

  The final trot is my favorite part of the class. Assuming the class went well, that is. My adrenaline pumps as London flies down the rail. They call for the line-up and we take one final pass before pulling into center ring.

  I’m panting, my heart races. I reach down and stroke London’s smooth neck. Our first direction trot could have been better, but overall I’m feeling pretty damn good about our class, until Sydney pulls up next to me in line.

  Her ginormous bay gelding makes London look itty bitty. But London is so much prettier. Either way, Sydney’s my toughest competition. And not just here at Regionals. In two weeks we head to Youth Nationals in Albuquerque, and I know she’s who I’ll be competing against for the roses.

  “How was your ride?” she asks, looking down at her gelding’s mane, patting his shoulder. I’m about to answer her when the judge and ringmaster come walking down the line. Sydney smiles her big fake, stupid smile at them.

  Okay, I do, too. But I like to think mine doesn’t look quite as cheesy as hers.

  “It was good,” I say once they’ve passed us by. “You?”

  She nods, breathing hard. “It was good.”

  We don’t look at each other. I mean, I can see her in my peripheral, but I don’t turn to her. We are not friendly. If this were a comic book, she’d be my nemesis.

  She’s wearing a beautiful black show suit. No surprise, she always has the best of everything. It must be nice to have parents who can afford to buy you anything you want. I had to work overtime for a month to get my suit, but it was worth it. It’s dark olive green and looks perfect against London’s chestnut coat.

  They call out the top five from the class and we line up again at the far end of the arena, waiting to hear who’s champion and who’s reserve.

  “And our reserve champion tonight is number 732, Paris to London! Ridden by Hannah Conrad.”

  Damn it.

  Okay, I know it’s not the proper response, but I can’t help it running through my head. I wanted to win. But I smile, I reach down and pat London’s neck again, and trot over to get my ribbon.

  And I am happy. Honestly. Reserve is still pretty awesome. It’s just that one moment of, well … whatever.

  They call out the champion and of course it’s Sydney. But I already knew that. If it wasn’t me, it was going to be her. That probably sounds totally obnoxious, like I’m just so great I knew I’d be in one of the top two spots. But, unless one of us screws up, Sydney and I are pretty much always the top two in our classes. We both have damn cool horses.

  Although I think London is better.

  While the other top five are taking their victory passes, Sydney trots over and looks down her probably-fake nose at me. “Congratulations.” She grins a giant I-am-so-much-better-than-you grin.

  “Yeah, thanks. You, too,” I say in the sugary-sweet voice I reserve only for the spoiled brats I have to deal with at horse shows. Then I bump London up to a trot and take my victory lap.

  That’s it. I am so going to kick her ass at Nationals.

  ***

  “So, how’d the class go?” my sister asks over the phone.

  I lean against one of the barns at the show, cooling down after my ride. I always call Emma as soon as I can. She made me promise … and threatened to cut up all my favorite sweaters if I failed to keep said promise.

  “Fine. I got reserve.”

  “Fine? That’s awesome. Congratulations!” She squeals into my ear and it makes me smile. She’s always impressed with whatever ribbon I get. She totally pretends to give a crap about horses. It’s sweet.

  “So, what’s going on there?” I’ve been gone for almost a week. It’s the last day of the show, and we’ll pack up tomorrow and head home. It’s the one thing that sucks about horse shows: I miss Emma.

  She’s in the middle of telling me about some drama amongst her and her giant posse of friends when this guy walks out of the barn and struts past me. My mouth almost drops to the ground.

  There aren’t a lot of teenage boys at horse shows to begin with; it tends to be a girls’ sport, so that would have been enough for me to notice him. But the thing that causes me to temporarily stop breathing is the fact he is absolutely gorgeous.
>
  He turns, brushing his dark hair off his forehead, and then his green eyes lock with mine. I suck in air, my heart stops beating, and my brain stops thinking. He gives me a small “hello” smile that practically makes me drop my cell.

  “Um, hello? Hannah? Are you there? Please don’t tell me some cute horse just walked by? Am I so boring you’re that easily distracted?”

  I shake my head back and forth to try and break the spell.

  “No, it wasn’t a horse,” I say quickly. Too quickly. Crap. Now she knows I was distracted by something.

  “Oh really?” I can practically hear her smiling over the phone. “So what kind of cute creature did walk by? Hmm? A boy, perhaps?”

  “Okay, okay.” I roll my eyes and slip back into the barn, peeking out at Mr. Gorgeous as he walks toward the arena. He’s a ways away now, but for some reason I still feel like I need to whisper. “Yes, it was a guy. A super tall, super sexy guy. You happy?”

  “No. I can’t see him.” She laughs. “So, why don’t you go talk to him?”

  “And say what? ‘Um, hi, I saw you walk out of the barn and thought you were totally hot. Nice to meet you.’ Yeah, that’ll work. Besides, he’s probably gay anyway.”

  “Oh, and you got that just from watching him walk by?”

  “All guys at horse shows are gay.”

  “You’d think there’d be a bunch of hot, manly cowboys.”

  “Yeah, you might think that, but you’d be wrong. It’s a bunch of gay guys who wear tight hunt pants and like pretty, prancing ponies.”

  I can hear her laughing and snorting. “Knock it off, you almost made milk come out my nose!”

  “Lovely.”

  “When will you be home?” she asks, the laughter out of her voice.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “All right. I’ll see you then. And congratulations again.”