Mourning Routine (The Funeral Fakers Book 1) Page 2

  “Huh,” she muttered to herself. “What did you think of him?”

  I blinked, doe-eyed, plastered on a megawatt smile, and began to sing the praises of Seth Morrow. The southern devil in disguise.

  One of Ruthie’s eyebrows quirked up as I extolled Seth’s virtues. She finally held up a hand. “So, you hated him then?”

  My mouth worked like a fish out of water before I finally managed, “No, oh no. He was -”

  “Save it.” She sighed and removed her glasses. “The other girls already know this, but since you’re new, I’m going to tell you this once and only once. Lying to me will get you thrown out on your keister.”

  I squirmed in my chair praying I wasn’t somehow speaking to one of Seth Morrow’s relatives.

  “Capisce?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Now tell me what you really think of Seth Morrow.”

  I slunk out of Exit Stage Left, defeated and demoralized. I was a terrible liar, but I could usually cover it up by talking people to death and smiling all the while. Ruthie, the old buzzard, was too smart for that. I tried every trick in the book to get out of making my opinions about Seth known, but Ruthie broke me like a twig. The dam finally broke and I belted out with, “he’s the worst man on this entire planet and I hope someone puts poop on his porch and lights it on fire!”

  At that, I’d clapped my hand over my mouth and began to profusely apologize even though she probably couldn’t understand me with my hands over my mouth. It was just as well. Me continuing to speak was only going to keep myself digging a deeper hole. I finally stood, gathered my things, and slowly backed out of her office apologizing for wasting her time.

  To her credit, she didn’t say a word, but I didn’t like the look in her eyes as I scrambled to get away.

  “Aaaaargh,” I groaned as soon as I’d gotten back into the car. “I hate you, Seth Morrow!”

  How could the same person who’d ruined my career in Hollywood do the same thing thousands of miles away without even being in the same room?

  Because he was Seth Morrow. That’s why.

  I allowed myself a moment of weakness and a broken sob, then I sniffed, gathered myself back together like a true Southern woman, and decided one lost job opportunity was not going to defeat me.

  I was going to put on my big girl panties and find something. Anything. Whatever I needed to do to put the pieces of myself back together, I would do.

  I drove out of the parking lot of Exit Stage Left feeling emotionally cleansed.

  But still way embarrassed.

  I took some time to drive around my old hometown before going home. There were few places prettier than Asheville. I never thought LA was pretty at all. I wasn’t the kind of person to be swayed by glitz and glamour when a lot of it only served to cover up bitter personalities and infighting. I’d learned some hard lessons there, especially when I’d gotten tangled up with Seth Morrow, but I thought I’d come out stronger because of it.

  Even though I was back home now with not much to show for it, I’d still lived a full life out in California. Plus, I’d escaped the kind of embarrassment that could ruin careers. I simply hadn’t been a big enough fixture in the acting scene to become more than a blip on someone’s radar.

  Although I hated that I’d come home a failure, I did enjoy the fact I could walk outside with no one the wiser and do my own thing without people following me everywhere.

  When I first got to California, I yearned for the paparazzi to follow me around like they did the bigger celebrities. But as I stayed longer and watched a little closer, I could see the strained expression on the celebrity faces as they just tried to get a smoothie or try to do something normal.

  To be that exposed all the time felt like it would become a chore. Don’t get me wrong. I missed it terribly, but it was the acting that I missed. Not everything else.

  Acting was a job I loved. I didn’t like the shallow veneer of everything else.

  Perhaps I wasn’t completely cut out to be a big name anyhow.

  I groaned as I thought about my conversation with Ruthie. I really needed that job. Plus, I really wanted it, too. It would be the closest I could get to real acting without resorting to community theater. Nothing was wrong with community theater, of course, but I thought I would be able to test my mettle out more as an actress if it was around people who had no idea I was acting. I also wasn’t crazy about Shakespeare or all those older classic plays some of the playhouses put on. The last time I said thee or thou was when the teacher forced me to read aloud in high school English class.

  I swung into a little bakery I passed on the way back home. I hadn’t seen this place before, but the sign was bright, pink, and topped with a swirl of plastic icing.

  The first thing to hit me was the smell, and I marveled at it. It felt like everything smelled good in this town. We had BBQ that even the Texans couldn’t turn their nose up at, desserts that would make the Food Network proud, hidden diners that the locals would fiercely protect to keep secret, and even Michelin-starred restaurants scattered around the town.

  But this place smelled like I was cavorting in a bathtub full of the softest vanilla buttercream. Stepping into the place, the look of it was even more wondrous. It was like Willy Wonka himself had gone in and thrown up on the place. Brilliant multicolored walls made me blink in surprise. Black and white tiled floors gave it a strange retro feel, but the ceiling was decorated with what appeared to be chocolate fountains.

  I frowned at that and stepped carefully around them just in case they were real. I’d just done my hair.

  The woman behind the counter wore a hot pink button-down shirt with the name Beatrice stitched in black across the right side of her chest. Her bottle job crimson colored hair was hot rolled into a Rockabilly style and her face was perfectly made up with spot-on cat’s eye eyeliner and deep red lips.

  “What can I get ya, doll?” she drawled.

  I blinked at her and couldn’t help the smile that curled around my lips. This place was amazing.

  “First-timer? We get that look a lot.” She pointed up at the ceiling. “Not real. The owner of this place is an artist. On top of being a killer baker.” She pointed up at the marquee menu. “Special today is our German chocolate cupcake and our lemon scones.” The woman wrinkled her nose. “Personally, I’m not a fan of any scone. Why eat something that tastes like a biscuit when there’s cake right next to it?”

  I was inclined to agree with her. I stepped up and perused the menu. After today’s job interview debacle, I thought I deserved something nice, sweet, and delicious.

  “I’ll try the German chocolate,” I said.

  The woman punched it into the register. “Will that be all?”

  My gaze caught on their cookie selection. I could have never eaten like this when I was still in LA. The disapproving stares would have turned even the most delicious thing into dust in my mouth.

  “I’ll take a dozen crispy chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Nice,” she said with a nod. “They’re a slow seller. Most people like a chewy chocolate chip, but I like mine to have a bit of a crunch.”

  “Me too. Plus my parents like them, too.” I swung back around to look outside, trying to remember the name of the place.

  “Pepper’s,” the woman said as if she knew what I was trying to do. “The decor takes everyone by surprise and they forget everything.”

  “Pepper’s,” I repeated. “I’ll have to tell my mom about this place.”

  She rattled off my total and went to gather up my goodies.

  And that was how for the space of about thirty minutes, I forgot about Seth Morrow and how I probably blew a job interview over him.

  2

  The reprieve didn’t last as long as I wanted, though. After a sleepless night spent moaning my idiocy under the blankets in my childhood bed, I woke to the sound of Abba. I snorted when the strains of Dancing Queen filtered through the room. Mom could never resist switching my r
adio station on me when I was a kid. For my entire high school life, I’d woken up to Steppenwolf, Mozart, sometimes Elvis, and once, even whale sounds. This, of course, was in direct contradiction to the music I’d really wanted to hear: Coolio, Bryan Addams, The Cranberries...all the things your parents cringed at when you’d switch the radio station in their car. I never once told my mother I liked it when she did that. Nor did I tell her I had a secret stash of whale sound mp3’s downloaded on my smartphone.

  I rolled out of bed and was about to brush my teeth when a soft knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” I called, knowing Mom was the only one who knocked like a timid house cat.

  She pushed the door open and smiled at me. Mom was always a beautiful woman, and age hadn’t dimmed her looks any. Soft brown hair curled around her shoulders and the trademark familiar blue eyes glowed. I should know. I saw them every day when I looked in the mirror. Her heart-shaped face grew amused and she laughed out loud as soon as she heard the music. “I couldn’t have chosen a better one if I’d tried!”

  I scratched my head and frowned at her, but we both knew I wasn’t mad. She sat down on the edge of the bed beside me and held out a manila envelope.

  I took it, confused. “What’s this?”

  Mom shrugged. “No idea. It was on the porch this morning when your father went out to grab the paper. We figured you would know what it was.”

  I tore open the package only to gasp in delight when I saw the contents.

  Exit Stage Left hired me. Kitty Crawford! My first gig was included. I waved the envelope around and jumped out of bed to do a little dance.

  Mom stared at me with worry in her eyes.

  “A job!” I crowed. “I got a job!”

  She beamed. “That’s wonderful, honey. What will you be doing?” She wrung her hands together. “If it doesn’t work out, you know Sheila down at the bakery could always use an extra pair of hands.”

  I stopped dancing. “And a wife for her son?” I rolled my eyes. “Nice try, Mom. If it didn’t work when we were kids, do you really think it would work now?”

  Mom grinned. “Well,” she said slyly, “I’m more confident now than I was when you were teens. Tom has grown up to be quite a handsome man.”

  Visions of Seth danced in my head, clouding my vision with a red haze of rage. “Not interested even a little bit, but please tell Miss Sheila thanks for thinking of me.”

  Mom harrumphed and got up from the bed. “Eventually I hope you settle down. I do want some little feet toddling around this house someday soon.”

  I stared at my mother in surprise. “Mom! I’m only 28!”

  She rolled her eyes and I thought she was going to drop the subject until she paused at the door. “When I was 28, I had two children and a mortgage.” She tapped twice on the doorframe and left me standing there with my mouth hanging open.

  Great. I’d come home thinking unemployment was my only problem, only to have my mother pushing me for grandbabies. “Not gonna happen, Mom,” I said to myself as I hurried into the bathroom to get ready. The information in the folder provided told me to check in by two p.m. today.

  Scrubbed, shaven, and moisturized beyond reproach, I slid on a pair of charcoal colored slacks, a soft peach blouse and a pair of nude heels. I pulled my hair up into a neat bun, threw on some mascara, blush, and lip gloss, and breezed out the door in order to make it back to the agency in time. I’d left the unnecessary, though oh-so-stylish, glasses on the nightstand to avoid incurring the wrath of too-perceptive Ruthie.

  Traffic was light, just like my mood, and as I made the short drive, I couldn’t help but check out the scenery Asheville was famous for. The Smoky Mountains loomed ahead of me, the backdrop a beautiful blue sky and clean, crisp air. California was pretty. LA, not so much. Not compared to here. Asheville was downright gorgeous. A twinge of homesickness hit me, even though I was already back. I’d missed this place. More than I’d ever thought possible.

  I wore a smile for the rest of the drive, even as I knew I’d have to stock up on moisturizer for my dry hands. The mountain air was tough on the hands and face, but I was made of stern stuff and knew how to combat it.

  Overall, even though my life had crumbled just a little while ago, it was good to be home.

  It was even better to be employed.

  Several hours later, I was feeling overwhelmed and a little bit shell-shocked. Being a professional mourner was no joke. The assignment I’d been given wasn’t simply sitting in a pew taking up space for someone who hadn’t been so popular during their life. What I’d been given required so much more. I was to pose as the girlfriend of one deceased Chase McCormick, former construction worker and reality television addict. His most recent binge watch was Alaskan Ice Truckers. This was a show I could only imagine involved very brave people doing insane things during the wintertime. According to the file I’d been given, Chase drank too much, worked too much, watched too much tv when he wasn’t working, and also had a heart condition. Diagnosed with a heart defect when he was a teenager, Chase made no changes in his life to prolong his stay here.

  He passed when he was thirty-two years old, in his recliner, watching his favorite show. He was found by his mother. Ruthie included a picture of a pretty silver-haired woman with a nice smile but tired eyes. Pictures of Chase’s sister and father were also included. I flipped to the back and saw she’d also included a picture of the woman I was supposed to pose as. Candy Harper.

  I held the picture up and studied the woman’s face trying to see if we had any real similarities. We were both dark-haired and blue-eyed, but according to the sheet of papers in front of me, Candy was only 5’1”. While I was no statuesque beauty, I came in at 5’4”. Quite a difference from Ms. Candy. I skimmed down to read more. There was no job listed anywhere, though the suspicion was that she was a consultant. She traveled often. Chase’s mother remarked that no one in the family believed he actually had a girlfriend, so she wanted someone at his funeral to pose as her. I think it was mainly for the believability factor, though it was a strange request, in my opinion.

  This sounded like a terrible idea, but if Candy hadn’t been seen by anyone other than immediate family, it might not be that hard to pull off. I blew an errant strand of hair out of my face, closed the file, and waved at Ruthie as I sailed out the door. She didn’t wave back but she did give me a long stare.

  I sighed. This felt like a horrible test. Sink or swim, baby.

  Good thing I still held the state record for fastest 100-yard butterfly at my high school. I was a champion swimmer.

  3

  When I came home, Mom and Dad were already sitting at the table, eating dinner with their nightly glass of wine, and talking about their day. It was a ritual I’d grown used to. My parents were creatures of habit. I hung my purse on the coat rack by the front door, kicked off my shoes, and grabbed a plate from the kitchen before I sat down to join them.

  My father, older than my mom by about ten years and funnier than her by miles, beamed at me. “Kitty! Your mom told me you got a new job today. Congrats!”

  I ladled an embarrassing amount of mashed potatoes onto my plate. “Thanks, Dad. It’s something brand new, but I’m looking forward to it.”

  “What is it?” He sipped his wine and watched as I scooped out food like a hungry hippo.

  I held up a finger as I finished grabbing the last of the asparagus. When I’d gotten situated and laid the napkin across my lap, I thought for a moment about what I was going to tell them. Considering they’d caught me every single time I lied to them growing up, I opted for the only thing I could: the truth.

  “I’m working at Exit Stage Left.”

  My mother choked on her potatoes.

  Dad gave her a funny look. “Oh? And what’s that?”

  I eyeballed my mom who was trying to play off her surprise, but she knew something. “It’s a firm that hires out of work actresses. I’m working in the professional mourning area.” I wasn’t sure how much I should e
laborate.

  My mom swallowed hard, tears shimmering in her eyes from her choking attack. “You’re working with that Ruthie woman?” She said Ruthie like she wanted to spit on the name.

  I tilted my head. “Mom? You know her?”

  My mother harrumphed and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Ruthie?” my father inquired. His gaze drifted to my mom. “Not that Ruthie, eh?”

  “What Ruthie?” I asked, exasperated.

  At my mother’s nod, my dad’s face paled a little bit. Silence fell over the table like a shroud. “Ah. Yes. Right. Go on. Tell me what a professional mourner does.”

  When I’d finished, both of my parents looked a little ill. “So, people hire you to attend their funerals and pretend they were liked?” My mom looked positively appalled by this.

  Even my father wasn’t looking so jovial anymore. He cleared his throat, then took off his glasses and cleaned them - a nervous gesture I recognized early on. I’d seen it often during my teenage years. “Do you think this is a good use of your time, Kitty Cat?”

  I sighed at the use of my nickname. “I have all the time in the world and no money, Dad. I came back from LA with no job prospects and an unusable, overpriced wardrobe!” I shook my head and shoved a bite of potatoes in my mouth.

  Mom reached over and patted my hand. “I’m just concerned, Kitty. That’s all. We just want the best for you. This Ruthie woman…”

  I interrupted her. “Gave me a job where I can still practice acting. It offers insurance after the probationary period and all the benefits of a regular corporate job. I’m trying my best to be responsible, Mom. I don’t want to keep taking advantage of your hospitality.”

  My dad’s expression fell. “We’re your parents, honey. Not a hotel. You’re welcome here for as long as you want or need to be here.”