Page 3 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

She smiled at my little boy every Tuesday.

Tiny pieces.

Tiny kindnesses.

It's funny what survives us.

I didn't know Mrs. Fenwick well, but I knew the rhythm of her life. She walked with quick little steps because her sensible shoes were always half a size too small. Every Thursday she bought a single loaf of honey wheat from the bakery before wandering through the square with her hands clasped behind her back. Whenever we passed one another, we'd exchange quiet smiles without feeling the need to fill the silence.

I appreciated that.

Silence is a rare gift when you spend your life hearing everyone else's thoughts.

By the time the arrangement is finished, rain lashes against the shop windows with enough force to rattle the old panes.

So much for waiting.

I tuck the spray carefully into the back of my little delivery van, flip the sign to Out for Delivery, and make my way toward St. Aloysius Church.

The cemetery overlooks the cliffs at the edge of Blackthorn Bay, where the weather always seems just a little more dramatic than the rest of town. Gray waves crash against the rocks below while mist curls lazily between weathered gravestones, giving the whole place an air of quiet reverence rather than gloom.

Father Boldin is already outside wrestling with an umbrella that has clearly surrendered to the wind.

Only a handful of mourners have arrived.

Mrs. Garcia from the bakery.

Two elderly neighbors wearing matching argyle scarves.

The church organist.

No family.

My heart aches a little.

I carry the arrangement beneath the church awning and stop beside the modest casket.

Someone has placed a single wilted carnation on top.

I gently lift it aside, settle my arrangement into place, then return the carnation to the center of the flowers.

"There," I whisper. "That's better."

The spider mums glow softly against the polished wood, their white petals almost luminous beneath the gray afternoon light.

Father Boldin begins the service with all the enthusiasm of a man reading assembly instructions.

I bow my head politely, though concentrating becomes increasingly difficult.

Thoughts drift around me in quiet waves.

Mrs. Garcia is wondering if Clover has enough cinnamon rolls left for the lunch crowd.

One of the neighbors is trying to remember whether she locked the back door.

Someone else regrets never inviting Mrs. Fenwick to Thanksgiving dinner.

I try to let the thoughts pass without holding onto them.