Chapter One

 

Finnley

 

I studied the picture on my clipboard and compared it to the man who rested peacefully on the table in front of me. His color wasn’t exactly perfect, and I scrutinized the pallet of foundations on my tray, deciding if I should leave him as he was or try and brighten the tone.

Light footfalls sounded from down the hall as I swiveled on my stool and tossed my clipboard on the counter.

“Finn? Are you down here?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled as I mixed a new combination of colors together to give the concealer a lighter hue.

Maggie entered the room, her soft footsteps stopping behind me. She hovered by my shoulder a moment before giving my arm a rub and pecking a kiss on my cheek.

“Wilbur Morrison?”

“Mm-hmm… Gus brought him in late this afternoon. Just wanted to finish up so we could move him upstairs in the morning. The family wants an open casket viewing.”

“Tuesday and Wednesday, correct?”

I nodded as I nitpicked my pallet.

“I’ve made arrangements for Harriet and Donny to work that evening. I can be here as well,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“Are you almost done? You should call it a night and get some rest. It’s after eight, and you look exhausted.”

She moved to the counter and lifted the clipboard I’d been examining. I glanced over with a smirk. “Not even close to done. I’m trying to make an eighty-six-year-old man look sixty-five again. This is no easy task.”

“No kidding.” Her brow furrowed as she squinted at Wilbur’s image in the photograph the family had given us. “This picture has to be twenty years old.”

“At least.” I’d done what I could, but there was only so much that could be achieved with makeup and cotton. “I’m just going to try and brighten him up a bit. There isn’t much more I can do.”

Maggie replaced the clipboard on the counter, moved to the foot of the table, and crossed her arms over her chest. She was in her late fifties but had tenaciously held onto her youth. The creases and mild wrinkles on her face were minimal but couldn’t be hidden as well as they had been five years before. Her short, feathery blonde hair was curled and freshly colored, hiding her prominent gray, but it was her choice of outfits, jewelry, and perfume that gave her age away.

She wore a burgundy pantsuit with a white and floral blouse underneath, gaudy gold earrings, and a bulky necklace. Her lipstick was bright and matched the color of her suit jacket almost exactly. Despite the fact that she’d been hired by my old man, she was a kind-hearted woman who’d taken me under her wing and mothered me when no one else gave a shit. It was only too bad she hadn’t come into my life when I was a child. Maybe then I wouldn’t have ended up so screwed up.

I worked the new color over Mr. Morrison’s skin, smoothing it evenly, much more satisfied with the outcome.

“Are you all settled in the apartment?”

“Mostly. Still have some unpacking to do.”

After my father’s funeral, I’d spent two weeks cleaning out his belongings and packing up my own apartment. It was another two weeks before I’d officially moved in but unpacking and getting settled required a longer adjustment period than I’d anticipated. Not only did I detest the idea of living in the upstairs of my place of business, but I didn’t have good memories of living at home to draw from at all.

My nights had been especially difficult, hence the reason I’d been drawing out my work days as long as I could.

The weight of Maggie’s gaze pulled my focus from Mr. Morrison, and I glanced over at her frowning face.

“Are you doing okay, Owl? This can’t be easy for you.”

I nodded with a smile I’d perfected throughout my adulthood. A smile I’d been hiding behind for years. “I’m doing well. It’s not like it was unexpected.”

Maggie wasn’t as fooled as most people, but she also knew if she pried, I’d withdraw. “All right. Well, you know I’ll help any way I can. When you were off at school, your father and I worked side by side because it was too much for him alone. Don’t be a hero. I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, Maggie.”

With a warm, motherly smile, she rounded the table and squeezed my shoulder before returning upstairs. Before she reached the end of the hall, she called, “Try to get some sleep, Finn, you need it.”

I swallowed hard and didn’t respond. It wasn’t time to think about my bed yet, I had work to do.

Sitting back on the cushioned stool where I worked, I scanned the room. Concrete walls and tiled flooring, stainless-steel shelving and cupboards, machinery, sterile counter space, and a large double basin sink. On the far wall was a large refrigeration unit. There were two, street-level windows up near the ceiling, but they were both shielded with heavy covers for privacy. It was stark and clinical, nothing like the upstairs rooms where the atmosphere worked to soothe and calm grieving souls.

I shook my thoughts free and got up to turn on the radio my father always kept in the corner. The unit was probably from the eighties, but it worked like new, and I’d since tuned it into a local classic rock station my father would have found cringe-worthy.

With my mind distracted by David Bowie, I finished applying a new foundation to all Mr. Morrison’s exposed skin; face and hands both. By the time I’d finished preparing him for his viewing in two days, it was after nine thirty. He could be situated into his casket the next day and the room prepared for the family.

I tidied my instruments and returned everything to their proper places. With a last glance around, I clicked off my work light and headed to the stairs.

The large funeral home had three parlors on the main level, an office, two smaller grieving rooms for people who needed a private moment, and two washrooms. The back end of the house—the part inaccessible to the public—contained a functional kitchen we used if families wanted to have a small wake in celebration of their loved one’s life. Often a catering service was called in, but having an operable kitchen served a purpose.

At the back entrance off the kitchen, was a secluded staircase that led to the second floor and the large apartment-style living space. There were two separate bedrooms, a fully equipped bathroom, office, and open concept kitchen/dining/living room with oak accents and hardwood floors throughout.

With my more modern leather furniture, tables, and cabinets, it looked far more youthful than before I got rid of my father’s nineteen nineties décor.

I steered directly for the bathroom and stripped down for a shower, hoping it would wake me up some. I wasn’t ready to go to war with the nighttime hour yet, so I planned to try and put it off for a while longer. My three measly hours I’d managed the night before were catching up with me quicker than I liked, and I needed a pick-me-up.

I set the temperature to a shade past freezing and stepped under the flow, gritting against the cold as it rose goosebumps over my skin.

“Motherfucker. That’s cold.”

I shivered and washed, trying not to rush and allowing my blood to freeze a bit longer because it was doing its job. The unwelcome haze of sleep was circling the drain with the water.

After I dried, I wrapped a towel around my waist and went to my bedroom to find something to wear. From my dresser, I pulled out a comfy pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a ratty, Cheers T-shirt that I’d owned since I was in my senior year of high school. I couldn’t find the heart to get rid of it, despite the hole under the left arm and the unraveling hem which required me to constantly trim loose threads.

After I dressed, I headed for the kitchen to heat up the leftover Carne Asada I’d bought at the Mexican restaurant the day before. While it warmed in the microwave, I made a pot of coffee rather than a Keurig, since I planned to have a few mugs and delay bedtime as long as I could.

With my java and food, I retired to the couch and set up Netflix to play Friends. It was my go-to show and worked wonders to keep my mind occupied and prevented my thoughts from traveling down roads I needed to avoid at that late hour.

I finished my plate of food and drank through my first mug of coffee while Ross tried to save his relationship with Rachel.

“Dude, break or not, that was low,” I said to the TV as I shimmied forward and collected my dirty dishes.

I shook my head and laughed as I left my plate in the sink and refilled my mug. When I found my comfy spot again, I pulled my throw around my shoulders and lost myself in my show. When I’d finished my second mug of coffee, I felt a heavy draw, pulling me to lay down. I ignored it, remained sitting, and refused to give in or focus on the Sandman beating down my door.

I rattled my head a few times to shake some clarity back to the surface and flipped to another episode. At some point during the gang’s beach trip vacation, my head bobbed, and I jerked upright in a panic. My heart slammed mercilessly against my ribs when I realized I was falling asleep. I shimmied to the edge of the couch and wiped my hands over my face, intent on physically dislodging the feeling if I could.

“Fuck.”

The accelerated rhythm of my heart and wash of cold fear over my skin had me alert in no time. I worked through a few steady breathing exercises as I turned my attention to the show and held tight control over my straying thoughts.

“No. No.”

I mouthed along with the dialogue since I knew every episode by heart, and when a new episode began, I sang the theme song out loud.

Once the sudden panic began to subside, I was wide awake again and leaned back on the couch. I checked the time on my phone. Three-thirty in the morning. I pushed away from the certainty of where my night was heading. Over the years, I’d learned, eventually, my brain would just power down because it had to for survival. The trick was not allowing my conscious mind to know about it. Otherwise, I’d make myself sick.

I refocused on Friends, and the next thing I knew, the sunlight beaming through the kitchen window woke me up. It was shortly after seven. Less than four hours of sleep, but about all I generally accumulated in one go if I was lucky. My neck was kinked from having slept semi-upright, and I had a terrible headache. All things I was used to.

 

* * *

 

As Margret arranged the room for Mr. Morrison’s viewing the following day, I was pulled back into my office by the phone ringing.

It was shy of eleven in the morning, and Gus had just left after having delivered another body from County Hospital. I stifled a yawn as I reached for the phone, working to push down the heavy haze seeping in around the edges. My body was beginning to feel weighed down, and the accumulated grogginess that had been mounting all morning was slowing my processing skills significantly.

“Hollins Funeral Home, Finnley speaking.”

I smoothed a hand down the front of my dress shirt as Cheryl’s voice came through the line. She worked in the County Hospital’s morgue, and I heard from her frequently.

“Good morning again, Finn.”

I sighed. “Gus just left, do I need to call him and send him back over?”

“This afternoon. Tell him about two. I just got a call from upstairs. The family is saying goodbye, and we should be ready for transport in a couple hours. Name is Dominique Riggs. Someone by the name of Woods should be coming by or calling you with arrangements shortly I’m told.”

I fixed a few papers on my desk and propped myself on its edge, pressing fingers into my tired eyes. “Thanks, sweetheart, it will keep me busy tonight.”

“Is Maggie working for you fulltime again?”

A soft tinkling chime indicated someone had come through the front doors, and I peeked up at the small TV monitor that showed a view of the front foyer. “No, she gives me a hand if I need it. So far, it’s not been too crazy.”

A gentleman stood at the front entrance looking around. He wore a fitted black suit with a coral dress shirt underneath and a dark woolen trench coat. I assumed it was snowing again because he brushed his shoulders as if to rid himself of a few flakes I couldn’t make out on the screen.

“I’m gonna let you go, Cher, I have a man here.”

“All right. Take care, hun. We should grab coffee sometime. It’s been too long.”

“For sure. We’ll talk soon.”

I hung up and kept my eyes on the screen as I straightened my clothes and checked to ensure I didn’t have any wayward strands of hair that needed to be adjusted. Giving my head a shake and washing a hand down my face, I forced alertness back to the surface, so I could handle the new arrival.

As I left my office, the gentleman came around the corner, clearly trying to find someone to talk with or an office of sorts. He startled when his eyes found mine, and he straightened as his gaze swept my person in a not so subtle fashion. As though remembering himself, he pulled off black leather gloves and extended a hand.

“Good morning. Are you who I’m looking for?” He sounded uncertain.

I shook his hand, admiring the firm connection as I smiled gently at his confusion. “Probably. Finnley Hollins. Owner of Hollins Funeral Home. Unless you were looking for someone else or someplace else.”

His pained smile was one I’d seen too many times in my profession. “Nope, you’re it. Name’s Aven Woods, I’m not sure if the hospital told you to expect me.”

“Just got off the phone with them.”

He pulled his hand free and shoved it, along with the other one, in his pockets. His chocolate brown eyes scanned the hallway as his uncertainty and discomfort visibly rose.

“Would you like to come in my office? We can chat, and maybe I can help you sort things out.”

His attention returned to my face as he rocked on his feet. The firm hold he maintained on his composure was slipping, and he could no longer hold onto the fake smile he’d come in with. “Yeah, that’d be great. I really don’t have a clue where to begin.”

I guided him into the office and motioned for him to have a seat in one of the cushioned chairs that sat around a low table on the opposite side of the room from my desk. It was less formal and generally worked better to help people relax rather than hard office furniture.

My office was decorated in the same soft beiges and warm earth tones that were found throughout the funeral home. The wooden furniture was all solid maple and custom designed years ago by a man my father had known well. As was the case in almost every room in the building, a hint of burning incense hung in the air.

I closed the door and joined Aven on the chair opposite the one he chose. His attention was penetrating as I got comfortable and pulled a notepad onto my lap. For a moment, I was drawn to examine his dark features. His lashes were long and framed two glassy irises, brimming with unshed tears. Perfectly groomed eyebrows and full lips stood out against olive-colored skin. He was utterly flawless. Gorgeous. The definition of perfection, and I struggled to order my thoughts.

His tall, sinewy frame balanced uncomfortably at the edge of the seat as he twisted his fingers together and looked around. For a brief moment, I forgot where I was and what I was doing as I watched him. His attention wandered back to me, and for the second time, he made a subtle assessment of my person. I wasn’t about to complain.

“My step-father passed away this morning,” he said abruptly. “He had a massive heart attack during the night and was taken by ambulance to the hospital, but there was nothing they could do. It was too late. I wasn’t really close to him… I didn’t hate him,” he corrected quickly as though I might judge him. “I just… we didn’t see eye to eye. Anyhow, my mother is devastated. God, she’s a mess. It breaks my heart seeing her like that.” His eyes pooled as he spoke. “I’m trying to take the stress off her, so I told her I’d sort all this out.” He sucked in a deep breath and adjusted himself on the chair, smoothing his hands down his perfectly pressed pants. “So, where do I begin?”

I kept my features soft as I responded with trained delicacy. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your mother is lucky to have a son willing to take care of all the planning that goes into a funeral. It will take a lot of the strain off her, and hopefully, I can take as much of the strain off you as I can.”

His eyes found mine and held, his gratitude swimming at the surface along with something I couldn’t quite identify.

“Has your mother shared any of her wishes with you? If not, I can give you a list of questions you might want to discuss with her before we get started.”

Aven traced fingers along his bottom lip as he nodded and stared off into space. “No, no, she gave me enough to go on. The rest she is leaving in my capable hands and trusts my judgment.”

It sounded like a direct quote and one he didn’t feel confident about.

“Aven.” His dark eyes found mine, clinging and almost begging for help. “We’ll get through this. I’ll help you.”

He nodded, and a wash of relief flooded his entire body as his tension released ever so slightly. “Thank you.”

“Let’s get a few of the important questions out of the way and then we can begin planning a service that meets yours and your mother’s needs.” I clicked my pen as he adjusted an ankle across his knee and made an effort to relax. “Your step-father’s name?”

I knew Cheryl had mentioned it when we’d spoken earlier and that I’d receive all that in his documentation when he arrived, but I also knew a few easy questions would work to ease Aven’s stress level.

“Dominique Riggs. He was sixty-one, does that matter?”

I smiled warmly. “It will when I write up the obituary. Do you know if your mother wanted him cremated?”

He shook his head, and his hand returned to his mouth where he played once again with his lower lip. I recognized it instantly as a nervous habit. Something inside me wanted to draw his hand down and hold it to give him strength, but that wasn’t professional or appropriate, so I shook the thought away and continued with questions.

“Will she want an open casket viewing? I only ask because it makes a difference for preparation on my end.”

“Yes. He… umm… Yes.”

I made a few notes as Aven’s knee bounced with excess energy. “Will your mother be okay with you choosing a casket for your father?”

“Step-father,” he enunciated. “Yes, she asked me to take care of it.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and reprimanded myself for the slip-up. It was evident Aven did not want the man categorized any other way. The pain he radiated seemed more for his grieving mother than for the man he’d lost.

“Before I take you to choose one, I have some standard information I need to collect.”

Aven’s gaze never left my face as I gathered the pertinent information I required—type of service, obituary information, cemetery and lot number, pallbearers, music, scripture readings, and more. All the while, he hung on my every comforting word, and by the end of our discussion, he had relaxed significantly.

“Shall we take a walk? I can show you some options for caskets.”

“Sure.” We stood, and Aven fixed his clothes and peered up from under dark lashes, genuinely smiling for the first time since he’d arrived. “Thank you so much for everything. I was so lost walking in here, but you’ve really made this easy on me.”

“It’s my job.” I guided him out into the hallway and to a staircase leading downstairs to a separate room where we kept the various caskets we offered for sale.

It was the only room in the basement that displayed any warmth since it was frequented by the public and we didn’t want to scare them off. Aven scanned the large space, instantly looking overwhelmed.

“There is no rush,” I explained. “Each tag will give you information about the type of wood and its construction. The prices are listed on the bottom. If you have any—”

“You seem really young to be doing this job,” he interrupted. His attention was on me and not on the available selections. It was almost as though he’d dismissed the reason we were down there or needed to step away from it all for a minute to gather himself, so he’d changed the subject.

I chuckled and inadvertently dropped my gaze to the carpeted floor at my feet. “Family business, you know. I didn’t honestly think I’d be in charge so soon either, but you know how it is.”

When he didn’t speak, I rose my head and met his chocolate brown eyes again. They studied me closely, almost as though he could see things I hadn’t explained. “How long ago?”

“Umm… just over a month. I was my dad’s sidekick for a long time, but now it’s all me. My mother died when I was just a kid, I…”

Why was I sharing so much? I clamped my mouth shut and inhaled a deep breath, forcing a trained smile on my face.

Aven didn’t waver. His eyes bore into me with a depth that made it hard not to look away. “How old are you?”

His voice was barely audible, and the look of sympathy in his eyes stung. No one ever had sympathy for Finnley Hollins—except maybe Margret—my father would never allow it. Sympathy made his boy weak, and he wouldn’t allow me to be anything of the sort. Sadly, weak was all I’d managed to be my entire life.

“I’m sorry,” Aven stammered when I didn’t answer. “That was really unprofessional. I shouldn’t be asking you things like that, I umm… forgive me.” He blew out a breath and turned to the rows of caskets against the wall. “Is there one you recommend?”

I stared at his averted face, his cheeks tinged slightly pink with embarrassment which I found a little endearing. He seemed put-together and proper in his normal, everyday life—based on appearances—but he was floundering at that moment. I would have liked to believe it was for other reasons, but I knew he was under a lot of stress considering he’d probably received news about his step-father that morning and hadn’t had much time to process.

“Well,” I worked to pull my own shit together and turned to the caskets, “do you have a specific budget?”

“No, she said to get whatever I liked.”

We spent the following half-hour choosing an appropriate casket for Aven’s step-father before returning upstairs. With all matters taken care of, I took Aven’s phone number in case random questions came up I needed answered, and we wandered to the front foyer to say goodbye.

“If you’d like to bring your mother by on Thursday around five, we can make sure everything is as she wants it and then open the doors for family and friends at six.”

“Sounds good.” Aven offered his hand to shake, and unless I imagined it, he clung a little tighter and held on a little longer than when we first shook earlier. “Thank you for everything.”

“Anytime. That’s why I’m here.”

He released our hold, and his gaze lingered longer as he studied my face. His smile gleamed in his eyes before he dipped his head and indicated to the door. “I’ll umm… take care, Mr. Hollins.”

“Finn. It’s Finn.”

His smile grew a fraction as he back toward the door. “Finn. Take care, Finn.”

After the door closed behind him, I stared at the wooden surface, wondering at the exchange we’d just shared. A tiny seed of warmth seeped through my blood, and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. It was stupid. I was stupid. Why I thought there was anything more than business in that look he’d given me boggled my mind. I laughed at myself and gave my head a good shake as I went to check on Margret. I had a busy day ahead of me.