In the truck, I grip the steering wheel and twist the leather. No, Grady. Don’t do it. Don’t. Don’t get involved. She doesn’t want or need me. Otherwise, she would’ve mentioned her life turning into absolute shit.

I start the engine, determined to go home and enact my afternoon plans. Me. The dogs. Fishing.

But then, I hear, “Come away with me, and I’ll never stop loving you,” filling the cab of my truck, the haunting music of Norah Jones—sweet, buttery, soft, and mesmerizing.

And I think of Marina—sweet, buttery, soft, mesmerizing.

Goddamnit!

16. Marnie

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Marnie

My new job is great. Really, really great. I have a sweet little office with a window to the parking lot—not much of a view, but the breezes are nice. I’m thinking of hanging a bird feeder outside for some cheerful, wing-flapping action, if Liam, the funeral director, lets me. He’s a bit of a stickler about things. I’m allowed one plant, for instance. But one is better than none.

The benefits surely outweigh the small sacrifices. It’s a cushy job, much easier than Sunny’s. I get to wear whatever nice clothes I want as long as they’re “subdued.” Liam says I need to practice smiling less—that’s a challenge I’m working on. I practice my ‘sympathy smile’ at home with the cats.

Owen, the mortician, is a quirky fellow obsessed with reality TV. We’ve had interesting talks about turning a funeral home into a reality show. He wants to call it Died, Sealed, and Delivered, which I argue might be insensitive. We’re working on other ideas. Regardless, I love getting to know people.

So, I’m sure it’ll be great.

Marnie Strange—Office Manager for the Dearly Departed. It has a ring to it, I think.

Not that I manage much. The phone. Data entry. Files. Appointments. The front door—it’s visible from my office. Being on light duty has been easy since there’s so little to do. People don’t die very often in rural areas. Not that I’m complaining.

This work meets a definite need for Seagrove. That’s important.

Ridding me of my sudden aversion to heavy floral scents is another perk. My migraine days have made me sensitive. Checking in the floral delivery for Mrs. Johanson’s wake—not pickle-juice Johanson but her grandmother—I take a deep breath and only gag a little.

It takes as long as it takes.

A smile crosses my lips—just a little one—thinking about Grady. The other night, we got into a music discussion that lifted my spirits more than all my AM CDs put together. He’s a music lover, and when I got a little sheepish about loving old-school Phil Collins, he was quick to alleviate my embarrassment.

Never apologize for loving what you love, Marina.