After flinging in the ceremonial shovel full of dirt, he relinquished the tool to Monica, who vouchsafed him by adding her own contribution to Irene’s burial.
The elders stepped up, one by one, saying their good-byes. After each member of the passel had spoken their piece and tossed in dirt, they drifted away, leaving only Dustin, Monica, and the coroner. Dustin placed a stone marker over the grave, to keep other creatures from digging up the remains, and then stood, brushing his hands on his jeans.
A light breeze cooled his sweaty brow and he gazed down at the new grave, kept company by several others. Though gravestones in a cemetery in town bore the names of Seth’s parents, their actual bodies rested here, along with Irene’s brother and his wife, Irene’s father and mother, and an uncle. Dustin had paid for a marker for Irene in town, in keeping with tradition, to preserve shifter ways from the blissfully ignorant.
“It’s peaceful here,” Monica murmured.
“The family chose this spot for a reason,” Dustin replied.
“What do you suppose will happen if Irene’s great-nephew inherits and sells the farm? What will happen to her and the rest buried here?”
“I reckon I’ll have to buy the place.” He’d go in debt up to his eyeballs to keep Irene’s heritage from falling into the wrong hands.
Dustin, Monica, and Ralph stood over the grave, each lost in their own thoughts, sniffles and the occasional sob marking their shared mourning.
PICKINGhis way through tall grass back to his truck, Dustin spotted one of the Johnson boys. “Hey,” he said. “How about you and your brothers clean up Irene’s house before her nephew arrives?”
“Sure,” the boy said. “Let me go find ’em.”
Chapter 2
“MUSTI wear this hideous sack of a dress? I look fat!” A string bean of a woman stood in front of a blue screen in Seth McDaniel’s studio. No way in hell could anything make the chiffon-swathed waif look anything but underfed. As Seth’s Aunt Irene used to say, “Someone give that poor child a biscuit.”
“Jut your hip out a little more, and remember, smile!”
The spoiled rotten brat of a model sneered.
Seth used a threat he’d often employed in the past. “Do you want to make the cover, or wind up buried on page thirty next to an ad for adult diapers?” The model’s overbleached teeth made a strained appearance. “Much better. Now, a bit more to the right….” Seth clicked off a series of shots, weighing the time spent playing nursemaid against money earned for the magazine spread and wishing he’d never taken the assignment.
When a friend first suggested the shoot, photographing high fashion seemed a great way to get his name out to the right people, possibly help him graduate from weddings and bar mitzvahs and take a step up to more serious work. Besides, the friend hadn’t specified male or female models, allowing Seth to indulge in many happy fantasies before the first shrew arrived, tapping high-heeled stilettos and screeching demands. Each model he’d worked with had complained bitterly about everything from his studio being two degrees too chilly to him not supplying a diva’s favorite chocolates. After he’d specialordered the expensive treats for the next day, hisdiva du jourhad spotted the distinctive satin-bowed box and squawked, “What are you trying to do, make me fat?”
He’d bitten his tongue, dreams of advancement reduced to simply hoping his business survived the women’s scathing complaints. In contrast to diva tantrums, providing photographic evidence of bar mitzvahs seemed like a dream job.
Once he’d shot enough pictures to hopefully prevent ever having to deal with the woman again, he dismissed her, poured himself two fingers of tequila, and sank into his favorite chair, grabbing his phone.
For the entire shoot, the damned thing had chirped and vibrated, making Seth antsy to connect with the outside world. He’d received several texts, mostly message board entries, a few e-mail notifications, and a few hits from the social media sites he belonged to—idle chitchat, nothing directly for him. He’d also received two phone calls: one from a number he didn’t recognize, the other from a number he did.
Hitting redial, he prepared for the latest installment of “The Michael and Seth Show,” as he privately called their sporadic relationship; a pattern of on-again-off-again dating with more twists and turns than the Tour de France. A month had passed since they’d even spoken. Seth’s erstwhile love interest picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Seth. How’s it going?” Michael’s voice didn’t quite offer the welcome Seth hoped for.
Seth took a deep breath, trying not to appear overeager. After all, Michael had broken up withhim, not the other way around. “Good. How’re things with you?”
“Better than good, actually. Listen, I have something I’d like to talk to you about. Are you free for dinner?”
A shared dinner sounded promising. “Sure, what do you have in mind?”
“Pick whatever you’re in the mood for.”
“I’ve got the perfect place in mind,” Seth replied, determined to keep an open mind and hear the man out. “I’ll text you after I make reservations.”
“Okay. Any place you choose will be fine.”
“You’ll like this place, I promise.” Seth hung up the phone, already planning to change hisAll About Mestatus from “single” back to “it’s complicated.”
“BACKin black! I hit the sack….” Seth banged on the strings of his air guitar, belting his heart out with the AC/DC tune firing from his stereo speakers.
Rap, rap, rap,came from the wall in his living room. “Okay, okay, I’m turning it down!” he hollered, crossing the floor to reduce the window-rattling volume.
His favorite CD now barely audible, he boogied his way into the kitchen in socked feet, grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and downed the contents in one go. “Ahhh…,” he exclaimed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He tossed the empty bottle in the general direction of the recycling bin, missing completely.
