Page 28 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

The thought settles over me with surprising certainty.

Not because this is where she works.

Because this is where she chooses to spend the quiet hours no one else ever sees.

For a moment I remain where I am, reluctant to intrude upon whatever small ritual is unfolding before me.

Then she looks up.

She always sees me.

Even through rain.

Even across distance.

The smile that finds her face is effortless.

Not the polite smile reserved for customers.

The smile reserved for someone she had secretly hoped might arrive.

"I had a feeling you'd come by."

She lifts one gloved hand in greeting, pruning shears flashing briefly beneath the gray afternoon sky.

"I stopped by the shop," I tell her as I cross the damp grass. "You left a note."

"Shop was dead."

She winces dramatically before laughing at her own joke.

"This time of year it's either funerals or absolutely nothing. Come here."

I obey before realizing I've done so.

The earth yields beneath my boots, soft with yesterday's rain. She pats the patch of grass beside her without the slightest hesitation. She never asks why I've come. Never questions why I keep appearing wherever she happens to be.

She simply makes room for me.

"This one's my favorite," she says, brushing damp moss from the stone. "Nobody visits anymore. Not on birthdays. Not on All Saints'. Not ever."

She smiles softly.

"So I do."

Her gloved fingertips trace the worn edge of the marker.

"Someone ought to."

I lower my gaze to the weathered stone.

Time has claimed nearly everything except the initials.

S.J.H.

1883–1901

Not quite eighteen.