Chapter 2

I pulled into the garage and cut the engine. A door to the left went into the funeral home itself. The door to the right led to the cooler, the crematory, and the embalming room. I situated Mr. Hankins on the gurney, wheeled him to the cooler, and deposited him safely inside where Charlie could fetch him in the morning for embalming.

As the light was on the embalming room, I went to the door and opened it, thinking Charlie might have left it on accidentally.

Inside the embalming room was a shower my father had installed in days gone by. Early on in their marriage, Mama had told Daddy not to be tracking “God knows what” through the house, so he had the shower put in so he could do his work, shower, change into fresh clothes, and be done with it—and not have to deal with Mama’s fussing. I can tell you from experience that Mama fusses with the best of them. She can fuss you right into a nervous breakdown, and the easiest thing to do is just let her have her way. She’ll worry you like a dog worries a bone.

The shower Daddy had installed was in the corner off to the right, and currently water was splashing down on the tiled floor. Standing beneath the shower, buck naked and beautiful, was my new embalmer, Charlie.

I tried to withdraw as quickly and quietly as I could, my face suddenly hot, my hormones raging, but Charlie called out to me.

“Hey, boss!” he said.

I hesitantly moved into the embalming room, pretending to look around while Charlie Soder stood there, naked and lithe and glorious, water dripping down his pale skin, a fog of steam surrounding him.

“It’s pretty late,” I offered.

“I wanted to get Miss Sheba done,” he said, nodding at the woman on the embalming table. “I know the family will be coming in the afternoon for a private viewing.”

I couldn’t fault him for diligence. I had made it clear to him that as long as his work was done, I wasn’t going to be looking over his shoulder and keeping track of every minute of his time. If he wanted to stay up late embalming, he was welcome to it.

He turned around to switch off the water. With his back to me, I couldn’t help but stare. And lust. There was no nice word for it.

I was reminded I have a thing for butts. Charlie’s ass was…

Stop it!I told myself.

Thing is, Charlie is a nice guy. He’s only twenty-three and I guess he feels like a little brother to me. He’s earnest. He worked hard to get himself through school and earn his degree. When I interviewed him, I could tell he was serious-minded and willing to work hard to make a life for himself. I did not want to cross any lines or get involved in some way or other that would mess up his life, and bosses who dip their pens in company ink have a way of doing that.

He walked slowly to the bench to fetch his towel. He spent a rather long time drying his hair and face, and all the while I stared at his body, feeling like a disgusting old pervert, but unable to tear my eyes away. He was pretty. A stupid word, pretty, but it was the right word. He had a runner’s body, and a graceful way about himself. He wasn’t just pretty. He was God-like. Young, in his prime, and oh, so fine.

“It gets quiet in that apartment,” he said at length, pausing to dry off his chest. He seemed unaware of his nudity. Unconcerned.

“There’s a shower in the apartment,” I pointed out.

“It’s not as fun as this one,” he said, lips curling into a small smile as he looked at me. “And it’s certainly not as fun as watching you turn all red and shit.”

“Me?”

“I saw you looking.”

“I was not!”

He smiled as if to suggest the matter made little difference to him. His face was wonderfully expressive, seemed capable of suggesting a half dozen different motives and emotions with a raising of an eyebrow.

“So what do you do for fun in this town?” he asked, setting the towel aside and staring at me in a frank, unembarrassed fashion.

I tried to answer, but my mouth was suddenly dry.

“You’ve probably got somebody,” he offered after a moment. Was that a hint of disappointment in his voice?

“No,” I blurted out. “I—”

And then I said nothing.

“Maybe I should get dressed,” he said. “Boss, you all right?”

“You don’t have to call me boss,” I said. “Yeah, maybe you should get dressed because you’re an employee and…”

“And?”

“Okay,” I said, finding my courage, “you’re a very attractive employee, but you’re still an employee and it wouldn’t be fair to you if we—”

“It’s not like we’re getting married, boss,” he replied easily.