Page 65 of Drop Dead
This would infuriate Hetty. Daniel had been promoted over her to become editor in chief last year, despite the general understanding among staff that Hetty was perfect for the job and Daniel was not.
Grateful the conversation with Lisanne had been limited to a straightforward bit of gossip, Nadine opened the next box to find a collection of obituaries in an unmarked folder. Curious, she sat down in the chair they’d covered with an old sheet. All of them had notes in Dot’s hand or a line or two highlighted. On some, the ink had disintegrated the paper, as if Dot had held the highlighter on the page as she read.
Nadine went through the collection, reading each one to appreciate how they brought people to life for one last hurrah. She’d been reading more obits in her spare time since her talk with Dot and had slowly seen what could have been done with the lives that passed by her desk.
She’d seen what she could have done with Dot Voline.
These obits weren’t limited to the editorial items written by reporters at major news sites. There were also death notices from the back of the paper, usually written by grieving family and focused on the basics: cause of death, family members, appreciation of health careprofessionals, and funeral arrangements. Touching details colored in the small black-and-white photos that headed most of the clippings, such as the woman who had the same pot stewing for thirty years to serve as the first course for every dinner. Dot’s note read,What happened to this perpetual stew?
What did happen? Did the eldest son take it to continue the tradition? Did they eat it at the funeral before covering the pot one last time? The obit, like death, left more questions asked than answered.
Her phone rang. It was her mother. “Where are you?” she demanded.
“What?” Nadine closed the folder. “What’s wrong?”
“Nadine, are you okay? Are you safe?” Her mother sounded upset.
“Yes? What are you talking about?”
“We’re at your apartment. You’re not here, and we were worried. There’s mail piled up in front of the door.”
“I’m out,” she said, confused. “I’m sorry, Mom, did we have plans? I must have missed it in my calendar.”
She could hear her father rumbling in the background, then fading as her mother moved away. “No, no, we wanted to see you because we knew you were on vacation.”
Nadine felt the anger building. She’d answered all her mother’s texts promptly, yet that wasn’t enough. “Are you upset because you came by my apartment without checking to see if I’d be there and I wasn’t?”
“I don’t like that tone, Nadine. We’re looking out for your safety. You’re a young woman living alone, and I don’t feel good about it, not these days. I’m glad you’re coming home.”
“I didn’t say I was moving back, and also I’m not a young woman. I’m thirty.”
“You know it’s the best choice.”
Wes came into the attic and looked at her quizzically. She turned away and lowered her voice. “Mom, I am fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“We always worry about you. Where are you?”
“Enjoying my vacation, and I have to go. Bye, Mom.” She hung up the phone and held her hand palm out to Wes. “Before you ask, it was my mother, and I have zero desire to talk about it.”
“Fine by me,” said Wes. “I came up to tell you dinner was ready early.”
Nadine wouldn’t tell Wes for fear of inflating his ego, but she loved it when he cooked. The food was always stellar, and unlike her, Wes had mastered the complicated art of synchronizing cooking times to make sure the dishes made it to the table when they should. Tonight, he served gazpacho with tomatoes from the garden, followed by a vegetarian paella. Every bite was perfectly seasoned, and once Wes found out she hated green peppers, they’d never reappeared.
“Amazing as always,” she said, seeing him cast her an anxious glance as she ate. He relaxed slightly and smiled when she took another spoonful.
When they were done, Nadine went to the fridge. Alerted by the click of the container top opening, cats swarmed into the kitchen.
She counted them up and frowned.
“Wes, have you seen Erma?”
“Not since lunch.” He looked around the kitchen as if the cat could be hanging from the ceiling, then joined her for a recount. “Only three, and Erma loves eating.”
Erma never missed a meal and had made a habit of slapping Wes in the face with her paw at six thirty in the morning if they hadn’t yet been fed, which he complained about regularly. She’d also learned to open his door, but when Nadine offered to show him one of her mother’s tricks for keeping hotel doors safe, he’d refused. “I don’t want her to feel unwelcome in her own house,” he’d said. “What if she’s lonely and misses Dot?” Nadine had felt bad enough to start leaving her own door open a crack in case a cat needed company.
“Let’s check around.” Wes looked under the table as he spoke.
They did a complete scan, one of them watching a room formovement while shaking a bag of treats as the other checked behind curtains and under furniture.
