J. Robb - Bump in The Night

She was silent a moment, imagining the possibilities. Her breath came out in a long, deep sigh. „With all these responsibilities, where does that leave us?“

He could hear the director shouting orders, and the voices of the crew drawing closer, and knew that there was precious little time left.

„If you’re willing, why not meet back here when we both complete our assignments? We’ll plan our future.“

„Our future.“ At a sudden thought she glanced at the dog drowsing by the fire. „And Barnaby?“

„You heard Wyatt. He’ll make a boon companion on my journey. And when you and I are married, he’ll make a boon companion on our journey together.“

„Our journey together.“ She sighed and wrapped her arms around his waist. „Oh, Josh. I never thought I’d welcome those words. But it’s what I want.“

Josh could hear Marty shouting for him. He gave her a quick, hard kiss. „You’ll be here when Barnaby and I return? No matter what?“

„No matter what. Count on it.“

„I love you, Grace Marin. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.“

Against his mouth she whispered, „And I love you, too, Josh Cramer. Forever and always. Please take care of yourself. I’ll worry about you until we’re together again.“

„Don’t worry. We have angels watching out for us, remember?“

After one final kiss he whistled up the dog, and the two of them walked out the door.

Grace stood staring at the closed door, her head spinning. There was so much she didn’t understand and probably never would. But this much she knew without question. Through a series of events far stranger than anything she’d ever imagined, whether by magic, or mysticism, or simply the power of love, she’d just been granted her fondest wish. Now it would be up to her to write her own happy ending.

It would be a challenge. The world would do its best to intrude on paradise. But Grace didn’t have a doubt in the world that she and Josh would be up to the task. After all, they had some pretty amazing ancestors showing them the way. Best of all, they had love. As her mother had made perfectly clear, true love could overcome any obstacle, even death.

Feeling as strong as any warrior woman, she picked up her camera. Time to complete her assignment. No more would she be just passing through this world. She intended to get down to the business of living her life to the fullest. With Josh’s love as the beacon, the journey ahead was bright with promise.

She didn’t see him enter the room or hear his steps as he walked up the aisle to the coffin. She simply glanced up and there he was, weeping silentf y as he gazed down at the pasty white face with the brightly rouged cheeks – her father in his final slumber.

She sat in the first row of padded folding chairs and tried to look away again, uncomfortable with public displays of raw emotion. But not staring at him proved to be impossible.

Charlotte had no flare for fashion of her own, and she didn’t like to judge… but the man was wearing sparkling, ruby-red sequined shoes – large ones – with squat heels and red bows across the toes just like… well, just like Dorothy’s in the Wizard of Oz. With white sport socks. They hugged his ankles and climbed halfway up his thick, well-shaped, hairy calves – which were bare from there to his knees. His muscled thighs looked laminated in a pair of silver-gray football pants that disappeared beneath a baggy black overcoat with white piping around the collar and the large kangaroo-like pouches that took the place of normal pockets.

How could she not stare?

But who was he? Surely, not a friend of her father’s and certainly no one she knew. Though after a quick second peek at his face he did look, somehow, almost vaguely familiar to her… sort of.

Aside from the clothes, he was a nice-looking man, clean shaven, his dark hair clipped short. He stood in partial profile to her, his head bent low, the strong angles of his face draped in sadness. He had the kind of square chin she always thought denoted a strong character – a hero’s chin, with a nice straight nose, and his full lips curved downward at the corners, making his sorrow seem as real to her as her own.

But who was he?

She hated situations like this. What if he spoke to her? She was better with numbers than names and there was never a right thing to say, on either end, when someone died. What had she been thinking?

The funeral director, Mr. Robins, was a client of her father’s – now officially her client, since she planned to continue the family bookkeeping and accounting business. He’d been kind and helpful over the last couple of days… though he’d still managed to take her to the cleaners with the funeral arrangements. It was her fault really. She knew better. He’d cut her a great deal on a two-hour viewing, even after she’d explained that her father had outlived all of his family but her, and all but a handful of friends. Ten minutes after signing the agreement and walking out the door, she realized that she’d let her grief overcompensate on a ritual she didn’t need and her father would never know about, that she should have stuck to her guns about the simple, respectful grave side service she had originally asked for.

But men, she wasn’t good at sticking to her guns, either.

The man reached up to wipe a stream of tears from his cheek with the loose sleeve of his jacket, and sniffled, loudly. She turned to look behind her, hoping to catch Mr. Robin’s eye as she was beginning to suspect that Mr. Ruby Shoes may have wandered in off the streets by accident and didn’t quite understand where he was or what he was doing.

Three older gentlemen sat together, all accountants like her father, who played poker with him every other Saturday night, except during tax season. Sidney Clark and Sue Butterfield were old friends of hers from high school. The CPA who specialized in tax preparation, Kendall Watson, who they sometimes used for overflow, sat alone several rows ahead of Mrs. Kludinski and Joe and Martha White, and their young daughter, Ruth – neighbors from their building, who had apparently come together.

The rest of the chairs in the large elegant room were empty. There was no sign of the funeral director, and oddly enough, no one else seemed to have even noticed the strangely dressed man at the front of the room.

Several of them nodded and sent her sympathetic smiles. But none of them looked concerned when the man turned and started toward her.

This is it then, she thought, drawing a deep breath and squirming in her chair. She was truly on her own now – in every sense – and would have to handle him herself.

Should she ask him to leave? Maybe he’d just say he was sorry for her loss and go. No harm done, no fuss necessary. But if she didn’t look at him, maybe he’d just leave – even better.

His crimson shoes twinkled into her field of vision and stopped in front of her. She couldn’t pretend to not see them. Her gaze lifted in stages from the athletic socks to the V of a rainbow-colored Grateful Dead T-shirt beneath the baggy jacket, to his face.

Her breath caught in her hyper-extended throat and she emitted a nervous nasal-choking noise when she tried to breathe again.