“Why’d you need an acting job?”
I explained my situation to Atticus.
He raised one eyebrow, and the left side of his mouth curled upward. “You really fell through the floor?”
“I did. And they didn’t even have a mattress or anything to soften my landing.”
“Well, I’ll be dang. The least they could do was spread out a bale of hay for you or something. Ease the fall. You could of broke your butt falling like that.”
“Exactly.”
“How far did you fall?”
I shrugged. “Couple feet, maybe four at the most. Didn’t have a basement. Just a crawl space.”
He pressed his lips together and raised both of his eyebrows.
I held my palms up. “It’s an old theater in New York City. Those buildings don’t really have basements. And besides, the floor had a lot of damage. That spot was obviously in need of repair.”
His entire mouth widened into a full-blown smile. He nodded. “Must have been, but if you ask, me, I’d say you went down in a blaze of glory.”
I smiled too. Actually, it was the first time I’d smiled at all about the incident. It was the first time I’d talked about it, and it didn’t matter. My stomach didn’t burn. I didn’t have an overwhelming sense of dread, a desire to run and hide, to bury my head in the sand or to bawl my eyes out. I just flat out didn’t care. It was honest to goodness funny. I laughed. I genuinely laughed, a strong, solid laugh. When I snorted, I held my hand over my mouth and laughed even harder, tears streaming down my face.
Atticus laughed too. “You’re not doing that thing again are you?”
I shook my head but waited to speak until the giggled subsided. “I’m okay. No, actually I’m better than I’ve been in a long time, Atticus. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“You just made me realize what happened to me doesn’t matter anymore. I’m over it.”
He nodded. “Well, I guess we both helped each other, didn’t we?”
“I guess in a strange way, we kind of did.”
“You know what’s nice?”
“What?”
“Buford had a life insurance policy, and he made Momma the beneficiary. Now she can get the medicine she needs, and hospice can take care of her at my house instead of in the hospital. She can spend her last days with me instead of in a hospital room, and that’s because of you, Mayme, so don’t you feel bad about doing what you did.”
I couldn’t argue that.
“Momma, I am not wearing that.” I reverted right back to the girl I was before I’d moved to the city. A whiny, bratty teenager and it worked just fine for Momma and me.
My mother laughed. “But Meme, it’s perfect for you.” She held up a yellow and green tea-length skirt and a matching yellow sweater. It was uglier than Momma’s kitchen window curtain, the one Daddy accidentally on purpose lit on fire with a pan full of bacon grease he’d dumped in the sink one Christmas morning. The smoke alarms went off in a crazy beeping frenzy, and the fire trucks came hauling in. Daddy had already put out the fire, but the poor ugly curtains didn’t survive. We did have a lovely little brunch ready for the firemen, and they ate it up but good.
I’m pretty sure Daddy planned the whole thing. He never did like those curtains, and it had to be planned because who makes six pounds of bacon, two dozen scrambled eggs and twenty-four biscuits for a family of three?
“Christopher will love it. We got three of them at the thrift shop today, and two of them sold right quick. I had to sneak this one under the cash register for you.” She made a funny huff sound. “You’d think you’d be thankful for it.”
I grunted. “Thankful that you want me to dress like a Sunday supper tablecloth? Are you trying to make me become a nun? Because last I checked, we weren’t Catholic.”
“Might do you some good to go back to church. Learn to respect your elders some.” She tried to stop her lip from twitching up into a smile, but I caught it.
“I saw that.”
She laughed, and I did, too.
“Momma?” I sat on my bed, my head sulking and my shoulders slumped. My momma and I didn’t have the most fabulous relationship, and she wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, that was for sure, but I knew she loved me, though maybe with a strict hand, but when I needed her, she was always there. Whatever was going on, it concerned me, and I didn’t want to lose her.
“Yes, Meme?” She sat next to me and patted my knee. “I know what you’re worried about, but don’t be. Everything is fine. Like I said, I got the all clear.”
I raised my head. “You sure?”
She nodded. “You ever hear me lie? ‘Course I’m sure. Doctor said I got to cut back on the caffeine. Did you know if you drink too much coffee it can cause lumps in your breasts? Lord works in mysterious ways, don’t he?” She poked me in the right boob. “You drink a lot of that fancy stuff at those expensive coffee shops, best you stop that now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Besides, it’ll save you a lot of money when you move back to the city.”
I’m not so sure I’m going back to the city, Momma.”
She blinked. “’Course you’re goin’ back to the city. It’s where all the acting jobs are.”
“That’s the thing. I’m not sure I want to continue acting. I’m not sure what I want to do anymore, Momma.” I hadn’t said that out loud before. Truth was, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I leaned my head onto her shoulder, and she leaned her head onto mine.
“It’s okay honey, you’ll figure it out. You’ve got time. And whatever you decide, you can do it right here. This is your home.” She raised her head and glanced around my room. “And you know what? I think it’s about time we gave your room an update. I’m thinking gray and yellow. What do you think?”
I sighed. “I’m thinking I need a job that pays me enough to get my own place.”
“Now, that’s just crazy talk. You just got home.”
Daddy walked in then and chuckled.
Christopher and I sat outside on the wood slat deck of the Grove Park Inn, sipping hot cocoa, and watching the orange sunset in the crisp autumn, October sky. The evening breeze calmed my nerves, but I still couldn’t help but feel excited. The high school Mayme beamed with pride to be sitting in a beautifully romantic spot with Christopher Lacy, the star of just-about-everything, whose eyes hadn’t even once glanced at the sun setting in the October sky because they were glued on her. Well, the adult her. Mayme Buckley, a fallen Off-Broadway, once rising star. Literally, dropped, through a floor, and she flat out didn’t care one bit.
“It’s just stunning, isn’t it? I’d forgotten how gorgeous fall is here in Asheville.”
He smiled. “You are.”
I blushed. “Christopher, I’m talking about that.” I pointed to the sunset. “Stop trying to win points. You saved me from certain death. You’ve already won all the points you need.”
He laughed. “I’m a guy. I’m sure I’ll screw something up sooner or later. I need back up points just in case.”
I leaned back in my wicker chair. “I don’t think so. I have a feeling you’ll do just fine.”
“So, what’s next for you? Another job with the mourning people?”
“I think I’m done with that for now.” I sipped my hot cocoa. “Actually, I think I’m done with acting for a while. Maybe even permanently.”
He pulled his right knee up and placed that foot under his left leg. “Really? I thought that was your life’s dream?”
“Yeah, so did I, but things change. You know, I spent most of my life wanting to get out of this place, wanting to make something of myself, and here I am again, right back where I started. Only now, it’s different.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m not the same person I was a few weeks ago. I did something that made a difference, something that mattered, and that felt real, important. It meant something.”
“So, what are you going to
do about it?”
“I’m not sure yet, but whatever it is, I think I’m doing it here, in Asheville.”
“I like that idea.” He leaned over and put his hand on my knee. “I like that idea a lot.”
I did, too.
“Any jobs lined up?”
“No, but I can always work at Daddy’s shop or go back to the temp agency.”
“The department’s hiring recruits.”
I perked up at the idea. “You think I could be a police officer?”
“Why not? You have an eye for it, Mayme.”
I straightened my shoulders. “I kind of do, don’t I?”
“And with training, maybe you’d be an excellent traffic officer one day.”
He’d knocked the wind out of my sails with that blow. “Traffic officer?”
“Don’t want you getting too big of an ego. You might go crashing through the department floor if you do.”
“I see what you did there.”
“I figured you would.”
He leaned in then, and high school Mayme pushed mature adult Mayme off the seat and took control. She leaned in too, ready and willing for the kiss of her lifetime—she’d prepared with an extra dose of mouthwash in case another situation of circumstantial halitosis popped up, which it hadn’t—and let me tell you, the kiss of a lifetime was precisely what she got.
THE END
Sneak Peek
Read the first chapter of MOURNING ROUTINE book 1 of The Funeral Fakers…
My acting career died as suddenly as it had begun, much like the life of one of those thrill-seeking selfie-takers. One moment I was on top of the world thinking how grand life was, the next I was metaphorical mincemeat on the pavement and people walking by couldn’t decide if they should feel sorry for me or shake their heads at my rampant stupidity.
Of course, I liked to pretend all of that is in the distant past and when asked why I wasn’t still in Los Angeles pursuing the dream, I lightly laughed it off and pretended I’d wanted to come home. Meanwhile, every time I had to talk about it meant a piece of me died inside.
So here I was. Back home in Asheville desperately trying to find a job so I could move out of my old bedroom in my parent’s home. It wasn’t easy. You’d think a popular city like Asheville would have a lot of jobs available. It was a trendy place with a lot of tourists milling in and out. This would be true, but considering I’d barely finished high school and hightailed it out of North Carolina with half a tank of gas and my head full of lofty dreams, my qualifications were...lacking.
My resume skills were crying on demand and acting as a hand model for a lotion company that later got shut down by the government. So maybe I wasn’t on top of the world quite yet, but it was a good start especially since prior to my career implosion, I’d just landed a recurring role on a soap opera as a guest star to a man who shall not be named.
To say that gig ended abruptly was an understatement.
Shaking off the doldrums, I cleared my throat and pushed my resume over to the woman behind the desk. The smell of rancid coffee and cheap perfume lingering in the air made me want to wrinkle my nose, and it ensured I continued to silently lament the series of events that had brought me here.
I’d stumbled onto this position quite by accident. My morning coffee was non-negotiable and I’d slid into a table where the person had left the classified sheet open to the Odd Jobs section.
No one actually read them, but I was desperate. I could no longer afford my three-dollar-a-day coffee if I stayed unemployed. No one wanted to see me uncaffeinated. Some things should never be revealed.
The woman pushed her drugstore glasses up the bridge of her nose, made a hocking noise in her throat that made me want to politely suggest a doctor visit, and perused my resume.
“Los Angeles?” Her voice sounded like she’d never met a cigarette she didn’t like.
I nodded.
“And you’re back here, why?”
Upon pain of death, I’d vowed to myself never to reveal the reasons I was back home living with my parents. “Illness in the family,” I said instead.
She made a noncommittal noise and pierced me with her bright green gaze. It was the only thing lively about her. The woman’s faded blonde hair was done up in a topknot on her head that was pulled so tight it stretched the sides of her face making her look like an elderly, exhausted Joker. Her cardigan was a faded blue and worn over a dress that had seen better days. I couldn’t see her shoes, but I had no doubt they were sneakers. White ones. And they probably squeaked when she deigned to walk.
The bane of American fashion. I shuddered.
Her glasses were a faded and ill-fitting remnant of 1960’s style. A few of the rhinestones on the sides had fallen out and met whatever fate rhinestones had when they were confronted with someone who didn’t appreciate them as I much as I did.
I cherished my BeDazzler like some people cherished puppies, but I only brought it out on special occasions. If I got this job, I’d eventually offer to fix those for her.
“Listen,” she rasped, “we got a good gig going here, but we need extra help. Despite your lack of life experience, you have some qualities here we could use. Do you know anything about the personal mourning business?”
An internet search prior to my arrival had ended in me being super disturbed and unsure about this job, but money was money, and I, Kitty Crawford, was smart enough to realize that beggars could not be choosers.
Considering the state of my scuffed high heels and unraveling skirt hem, I was a beggar.
I nodded. “Some. People hire mourners to show up to their loved one’s funerals and pretend they know them. And maybe act really sad?”
The woman set my resume down and sighed deeply. “There is no pretending. This job requires research, lots of it. You need to know the habits of the deceased, any odd proclivities, coworkers, family members, favorite sayings. Everything. If someone asks you to remember the name of the person’s high school boyfriend, it had better be on the tip of your tongue. If the person liked puns, you’d better have a memorized list in your pocket of the best ones. If they played squash on Wednesdays, you’d better know their winning record or at least who their partner was.” She pushed up her glasses again. “We. Know. Everything.” She punctuated this with a jab at my sorry resume. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “It’s like researching for a role?”
Her head dipped as she studied me. “Honey, every role here is the role of a lifetime.”
My thoughts spun at the implications. I was no longer an actress in the broadest sense of the word and living it up in LA, but I still had the opportunity to keep honing my skills just in case something else came along. Squaring my shoulders, I came to an internal decision.
“What do I need to do?” I asked the woman.
Her gaze narrowed. “The name’s Ruthie. Come back after lunch and I’ll have a packet ready for you.” She looked me up and down and I suddenly felt self-conscious at being overly dressed up. In LA you either dressed to the nines or you didn’t leave your house. But I was back in my hometown and glittery pink heels weren’t going to cut it.
“And wear something a little more North Carolina, would you?”
I nodded. “Yes. Sorry.”
Ruthie flicked her hand at me, effectively dismissing me and my too-high heels.
I pushed through the door and out into the cool Asheville air. Every single time I came back here I couldn’t help but inhale the air as soon as I stepped outside. It smelled clean. Innocent. Purged from the atmosphere of out of work actress desperation and the hungry competition, coming home felt like a gift at times. Even if I had come back here with only ten dollars in my pocket and my name on a Hollywood blacklist. I opened the door of my little black Honda and slid inside, thankful for the small opportunity that had just come my way.
Ruthie hadn’t said what time to come back. “Afternoon” could mean a million different things. To my family, it
meant not before 12, but definitely not after 2. I picked one o’clock as a good time. Smack in the middle. Still considered afternoon. I pulled out of the parking lot, a smile slowly forming on my face. I hadn’t done much since I’d gotten back home, but this was a good start.
I opened the door to my parent’s mountain home and barked a quick hello before pounding up the stairs and into the bedroom my mother had hastily fixed up for me. When my parents learned I was coming home, they were surprised. I think this had less to do with my acting abilities and more to do with the long, drawn-out speech I’d made when I snubbed their college dreams and announced I was going to Hollywood. This included an Oscar-worthy soliloquy about never returning home again until I had a star on the Walk of Fame. Looking back, I realized what a selfish and spoiled thing I had done. But my parents, amazing people that they were, merely paused for a second when I broke the news, then told me I’d have a room ready when I got back.
They’ve never said a word about my overly dramatic, ungrateful speech or how I had crushed their dreams of me becoming the first Crawford surgeon. If I ever had children, I could only hope I’d be as gracious as they’d been to me.
I tossed my purse onto the full-size bed, slung my heels off and groaned with relief, then padded barefoot to my closet to rummage around. My mother hadn’t tossed out a single item of the clothing I’d left behind. As my fingers flicked through hanger after hanger, nostalgia hit me square in the solar plexus. I’d grown up in the acreage behind this home, running through the woods and at the bottom of a mountain peak since I’d barely been knee-high. I could name every scar on my body, and ninety-nine percent of them had come from getting into something I shouldn’t have right on this very land.
My fingers stilled when I landed on a soft floral blouse I’d worn the last night I’d been home. A deep maroon set off by small white flowers, it was feminine without being ostentatious and just enough me to work. I pulled it off the hanger and tossed it onto the bed and went back to flipping until I’d found a pair of black cigarette pants. Tossing those onto the bed also, I bent down to the bottom of my closet and searched until I found a pair of black kitten heels.
Mourning Crisis Page 17