Stranger (6 page)

I sat back in my chair with a laugh. “Uh-huh.”

Even nearly three years later, it still felt wrong to be on the other side of this desk while he sat in the chair meant for clients. I don’t think he liked it much, either, if the way he waved that folder was any indication. I didn’t need my dad to go over the books for me, just like I didn’t need him to ask me if I had enough gas in my car or if I needed someone to come in and fix my sink. I didn’t like feeling second-guessed. He didn’t entirely want to let go. It was half on the verge of ugly.

My dad grunted and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. He spread out the statements and stabbed one with his finger. “See, there? What’s this for?”

Two clicks of the mouse brought up my accounting program, a system my dad had never used. “Office supplies.”

“I know it’s office supplies. The charge is from the office-supply store. I want to know why you spent a hundred bucks!”

“Dad.” I tried to keep calm. “It was for printer ink, computer paper and stuff like that.

Look for yourself.”

He didn’t do more than glance at the monitor before he dived back into the pile of papers.

“And why are we getting a cable bill?”

“
We
aren’t.” I plucked it from his hand. “That’s mine.”

My dad wouldn’t ever come out and accuse me of trying to slip my personal bills into the funeral home’s accounting. He’d hammered hard the idea that the home’s expenses had to be kept separate from family bills enough times that I had no trouble remembering it. Considering the fact I’d be expected to cut my salary should the business require it, I didn’t see any issue with paying for my cable bill out of the same bank account, especially when it was ridiculous to have two separate cable Internet accounts to serve one location. I lived just upstairs. I could share the home’s wireless.

“I’ll have a talk with Shelly. Tell her to make sure the bills don’t get all jumbled up like that.” My dad harrumphed a little. “Maybe give Bob a mention, too, next time I’m at the post office. Make sure he’s putting them in the right slots.”

“Dad. It doesn’t matter.”

He gave me a look guaranteed to make me quake. “Sure it does, Grace. You know that.”

Maybe it had when he was running the business while raising a family, but now it was just me, and I didn’t agree. “I’ll talk to Shelly. You’ll just make her cry.”

Fresh from two years of business college, Shelly’d never worked anywhere else before I’d hired her for the office manager position. She was young, but a hard worker and good with people. My dad huffed again, sitting back in the chair I could tell he still thought of as the wrong one.

“I wouldn’t make her cry.”

It wasn’t too hard to make Shelly cry, but I didn’t argue with him. I tucked the cable bill into the drawer where I kept my private things and looked back at him. “Anything else you have a question about?”

He looked over the bills and statements again, but perfunctorily. “No. I’ll take these home.

Get it all worked out.”

I hadn’t had a problem, but it was almost guaranteed he’d come back with a list of questions about expenses I needed to justify. You’d have thought I was running the place into the ground, sometimes, the way he talked. I shrugged and he closed the folder.

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” my dad said. “About where your head is.”

“I thought it was up my rear.”

My attempt at humor didn’t make him smile. “Don’t be smart, Gracie.”

I raised a brow in a perfect imitation of him. “You want me to be dumb?”

He didn’t smile this time, either. He was really mad. Or upset, I couldn’t tell. “Your sister says you’re seeing somebody. Says you don’t want to bring him around the house. Meet the family.”

I held back the groan. “Hannah talks too much.”

He snorted. “I won’t argue with that, but is she right? You have some fella you don’t want to bring around? You’re ashamed of us, or what?”

“Oh, Dad. No.”

“No, you’re not ashamed,” he said, “or no, you don’t have a fella?”

I should’ve known better than to try to get around my dad by twisting words. “No to both.”

“Huh.” He gave me an eye. “Is it Jared?”

I wanted to laugh, but the sound that came out didn’t quite make it. “What?”

My dad jerked a thumb toward my office door. “Jared.”

“Oh, God. No, Dad.” My head tried to fall into my hands, but I kept it up. “He’s my intern.”

My dad huffed a little more. “People talk, that’s all.”

“People like you?” I folded my hands together on my desk.

My dad didn’t look ashamed. “I’m just saying. You’re a lovely young woman. He’s a young guy.”

I sighed, heavily and on purpose. “And he’s my intern. That’s it. Drop it, okay?”

My dad just looked at me, up and down. He didn’t say he was sorry, the way my mom would’ve, and he didn’t bug me for answers the way my sister would have. He just shook his head slowly from side to side and left me to wonder what that meant.

“What’s that sign out there say?”

Whatever I’d imagined he might say, it wasn’t that. “Frawley and Sons.”

My dad nodded. He put his glasses away into his breast pocket. He stood, the folder of bills in one hand. “Think about that.”

He turned to go, apparently not planning to say anything else, and I got up. “Dad!”

My dad stopped in the doorway, but didn’t look at me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I cried.

He looked at me then, the same look he’d given when I’d sneaked in after curfew, or brought home a bad grade. The look said he knew I could do better. More than could. Should.

Must. Would.

“I’m sure your sister won’t let her kids come within an arm’s length of this place. Your brother…” He paused, but only for a second. “Craig, if he ever has any, won’t either.”

“So it’s up to me, is that what you’re saying?” I blinked, hard, thinking the sting in my eyes would go away.

“You’re getting older, too, Gracie, that’s all I’m saying.”

If I was getting older, why was he still so good at making me feel like a kid? “Dad! Are you kidding me? You are not actually suggesting I need to get married, are you? Have some sons? Just for a stupid sign?”

He bristled. “There’s nothing stupid about that sign!”

“Right, nothing stupid except for the fact I’m not a son!” My shout shot around the room and hung there for a moment until silence defeated it.

Everyone had assumed my brother would take over from my dad. Everyone but Craig. The news had finally been delivered one Thanksgiving when the inevitable argument erupted between him and our dad about Craig stepping into the shoes of the son in Frawley and Sons.

Craig, eighteen at the time, planned to go to NYU film school instead. Craig had left the table and not come back for a long time. He lived in New York with a series of increasingly younger actresses and made commercials and music videos. One of his documentaries had been nominated for an Emmy.

“I’ll get these back to you in a few days,” he said.

My dad pushed through the door and I watched him go, then sank back into the seat behind the desk. My chair. My place. My fucking desk, if you wanted to get right down to it.

This was my office, and my business now.

Even if I wasn’t a son.

I’d never thought of Jared as anything other than an intern, but knowing that other people were making romantic assumptions about us, I couldn’t stop thinking about him like that. It pissed me off. Until now, we’d had the perfect working relationship. It was as uncomplicated as my dates with Mrs. Smith’s gentlemen.

It wasn’t as if I’d never noticed Jared was attractive or anything. He had a nice face, kept in shape, had an affable personality that made him easy to get along with. We joked a lot, but I’d never had even a hint that he was flirting with me, and I know I never did with him. Why couldn’t men and women just be friends without someone, somewhere, shoehorning sex into it?

On the other hand, why did everyone assume that having sex with someone meant you had to fall in love?

“Hey, Grace. Want me to give Betty a bath while I’m out there?”

“You know, I have noticed you have a serious hearse fetish, Jared.” I took the last pile of brochures from the printer and stacked them neatly on Shelly’s desk for her to fold. “But sure. If you want to.”

“Sweet.” Jared grinned and headed out through the back doors into the parking lot and the fresh April air.

Black Betty was my car. A 1981 Camaro, it had been Craig’s first, purchased with his after-school newspaper-delivery money in honor of his obsession with the punk band The Dead Milkmen. I’d inherited it when he’d moved to New York. I only drove it when I didn’t want to use the funeral home’s minivan emblazoned with the Frawley and Sons logo. It was my sex car.

She didn’t quite run like lightning, but she sure sounded like thunder. Jared lusted after her. I noticed boys did that a lot. Ben had, too.

I followed him to the garage, a converted carriage house barely big enough to fit our hearse, the minivan we used to transport bodies and Betty. Bigger funeral homes had more cars, and someday I hoped to add a flower car or a vehicle mourners could ride in. One thing at a time.

“You coming to help me?” Jared filled a bucket with water from the spigot and grabbed up a big sponge from one of the neatly kept shelves. He’d already pulled the hearse out into the driveway. “I thought you hated washing the hearse.”

“Yeah. My dad used to make me and Craig do it every Saturday.” I didn’t take a sponge and stayed well away from the splash zone. I was still dressed for work and had an appointment in an hour.

Jared gave me a curious look. “You worried I’m going to hurt Betty or something?”

“No.” I looked fondly at the car that had seen me through two proms, college and numerous other escapades. “She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

Jared snorted and dipped his sponge into the soapy water, then knelt next to the hearse and started working on the wheels. “Just as long as she doesn’t come to life and start killing people.

Hey. That would be a good twist, huh? The car goes around knocking people off to bring more business.”

“Ha, ha.” I shook my head. “Don’t ever say anything like that to my dad.”

“I won’t. Your dad’s scary enough.” Jared scrubbed, then gave me a glance over his shoulder. “Boss, you’ve got something to talk to me about?”

I didn’t, really. I couldn’t exactly tell him my dad and maybe half the town thought we were schtupping. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re doing good work. That’s all.”

Jared stopped washing the tires and stood, his hands covered in foam. “Thanks, Grace.”

His smile was nice enough but didn’t send sparkles through me, and the fact I was even trying to see if it did pissed me off. “You’re welcome.”

He was still looking at me curiously. “Anything else?”

“No. Carry on.” I shooed him with my hands and went back inside, where Shelly was busy folding brochures and answering the phone.

I went to my office, where I sat in my chair and surveyed my realm without the satisfaction it usually brought me. No matter how hard I worked, there were always going to be people, my dad and sister among them, who measured my success by their standards. I didn’t want to let their view of what my life should be affect me.

Unfortunately, it did.

Jack’s self-description had not been incorrect. He waited for me where I’d told him to, and though I knew he was a smoker I couldn’t smell it on him. God, he was young. He looked no older than twenty-two or twenty-three, and that was being generous. Young but pretty, even with the metal in his face. More than pretty. Jack was downright gorgeous.

He’d said his hair was dark, but it was impossible to see that under the ball cap he wore pulled low over his eyes. I didn’t recognize the name of the punk-rock band on the black T-shirt he wore over a long-sleeved white Henley pushed up on his elbows to show off an intricate design of tattoos beginning at his left wrist and covering all the skin I could see on his arm. He wore faded jeans low on his hips and held in place with a black leather belt.

“Jack?” I held out my hand.

He shook it firmly and didn’t squeeze too tight or hold it for too long. “Yes.”

“I’m Miss Underfire. But you can call me Grace.”

Jack smiled. “Pretty name.”

If my name were Esther or Hepzibah he’d have said the same thing. As if a name matters.

And again, I was thinking of Sam.

“Thanks. So’s Jack.”

Jack smiled, and I stared, dumbfounded at the transformation in his face. Without a smile he was gorgeous. With one…incandescent.

Either he didn’t understand this or he’d long ago learned to deal with gape-mouthed women, because he didn’t look taken aback. “Sure, if you don’t mind the nicknames.”

I burbled something incoherent, unable to manage much more than that, at least until the superpower of his smile released me.

“Nicknames?”

He hung back a little, letting me lead. I turned left out of the parking garage’s small driveway. The street was crowded and would only get more so as the night went on. Listening to Jack laugh was like sipping premium hot chocolate. Warm and decadent. Delicious.

“Jackrabbit,” he said. “Jackhammer. Jack of all trades. Jack Sprat. Jackass.”

I joined his laughter. We headed toward the Pharmacy. Someone had bought the original drugstore on the ground floor and turned it into a hot spot for up-and-coming bands. There was dancing upstairs, where the walls were painted silver and cages were set onto the dance floor.

“I won’t call you Jackass. I promise.”

Jack turned a half-wattage grin on me, for which I was grateful. I didn’t want to be struck dumb again. “Thanks. I’ll try not to act like one.”

This early we didn’t have to wait in much of a line. I thought of sneaking a peek at Jack’s driver’s license when he pulled it out to show the bouncer at the door, but I could only catch a glimpse of his photo. He was old enough to get into the club, at least.

“Jacko,” said the bouncer, barely looking at the license as he slid it into the nifty little machine that scanned it for legality. “You still over at the Lamb?”