here with me tonight, dear heart?” he says to Lovie. “The death of a friend is hard. You could use the company and I could, too.”
“I think I will if Cal doesn’t mind.”
“Of course not.” I tamp down on my enthusiasm. It won’t do to let Lovie see how excited I am that she’s finally dropping her tough girl attitude and letting her real feelings show. “Besides, I need to stop by the funeral home to make sure Bobby doesn’t need help getting ready for Steve Boone’s wake tonight.”
“He called to say he has everything under control, but I’d feel better if you’d check, dear heart.”
I hug Lovie and Uncle Charlie, tell them to call if they need anything, then hurry through the parking lot. I spot my truck, but no Elvis. If he’s gone missing again I’m going to scream. I barrel toward the Dodge Ram, resisting the urge to scream, “Elvis!” I’ve had enough drama today without everybody in the parking lot thinking I’ve gone stark raving crazy.
Yelling that famous name in Tupelo can cause a stampede. Half the folks here think somebody else is buried at Graceland while the King leads a simple life in the hills, venturing out only once in a blue moon. Some even declare to have spotted him at the Piggly Wiggly.
I say a little prayer, then jerk open my truck door. Elvis stands up, stretches, yawns, then gives me a slobbery dog kiss. I know this is not George Clooney—or for that matter, Jack Jones—but I was never so glad to see anybody in my life.
“Elvis! You obeyed!”
He twirls around and takes a bow. I swear, he looks like somebody on center stage, which in a way he is. I’ve spoiled him into thinking everything in my life is all about him.
Still, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with animals and people you love? I give Elvis one last cuddle, then hop into my truck and turn the keys in the ignition.
But suddenly everything that has happened in the last few days crashes around me. I can’t go another step. Leaning my head on the steering wheel, I just breathe.
Elvis nuzzles my arm, but I still don’t move. When he whines, I say, “This has been a long day, boy. And it’s not over yet.”
Satisfied, he flops onto the passenger side, while I take another deep breath before heading to Eternal Rest. It’s a wonderful old Victorian house on Jefferson Street in the heart of downtown Tupelo. When Uncle Charlie converted it into a funeral home, he used a Graceland theme minus the shag carpet. Mama’s influence, no doubt. Still, the bereaved take a great deal of comfort in knowing Uncle Charlie sends their loved ones off in grand style.
Thankfully, the parking lot is empty because nobody has died this week except Santa and his reindeer.
Holy cow, I sound like Mama. I must finally be coming undone.
After doing another deep-breathing exercise, I let myself in the front door, then take Elvis off his leash. This is a second home to him. He has the run of the place unless there’s a funeral or a viewing in progress. Of course, there have been a few times when Elvis escaped our vigilance and showed up in the chapel to howl “Amazing Grace” along with Mama. She does the music for all Uncle Charlie’s funerals, though she’s usually not howling.
Today I don’t have to worry, though. Eternal Rest is empty except for Steve Boone, who is lying in state in the blue parlor on my left. I don’t have to check to know that he looks good. When I make up the dead they look like they could pose for the cover of Harper’s Bazaar .
Leaving Elvis to wander toward the kitchen, probably looking for crumbs, I head toward Bobby’s office. It’s downstairs, near the embalming room and across the hall from the room I use to work my makeup magic on the deceased.
Bobby’s door is ajar, so I don’t knock. Instantly, I regret that decision. Bobby’s standing with his back to the door and his arm around the waist of a curvaceous blond. Will wonders never cease? Both of them are bent over
“I think I will if Cal doesn’t mind.”
“Of course not.” I tamp down on my enthusiasm. It won’t do to let Lovie see how excited I am that she’s finally dropping her tough girl attitude and letting her real feelings show. “Besides, I need to stop by the funeral home to make sure Bobby doesn’t need help getting ready for Steve Boone’s wake tonight.”
“He called to say he has everything under control, but I’d feel better if you’d check, dear heart.”
I hug Lovie and Uncle Charlie, tell them to call if they need anything, then hurry through the parking lot. I spot my truck, but no Elvis. If he’s gone missing again I’m going to scream. I barrel toward the Dodge Ram, resisting the urge to scream, “Elvis!” I’ve had enough drama today without everybody in the parking lot thinking I’ve gone stark raving crazy.
Yelling that famous name in Tupelo can cause a stampede. Half the folks here think somebody else is buried at Graceland while the King leads a simple life in the hills, venturing out only once in a blue moon. Some even declare to have spotted him at the Piggly Wiggly.
I say a little prayer, then jerk open my truck door. Elvis stands up, stretches, yawns, then gives me a slobbery dog kiss. I know this is not George Clooney—or for that matter, Jack Jones—but I was never so glad to see anybody in my life.
“Elvis! You obeyed!”
He twirls around and takes a bow. I swear, he looks like somebody on center stage, which in a way he is. I’ve spoiled him into thinking everything in my life is all about him.
Still, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with animals and people you love? I give Elvis one last cuddle, then hop into my truck and turn the keys in the ignition.
But suddenly everything that has happened in the last few days crashes around me. I can’t go another step. Leaning my head on the steering wheel, I just breathe.
Elvis nuzzles my arm, but I still don’t move. When he whines, I say, “This has been a long day, boy. And it’s not over yet.”
Satisfied, he flops onto the passenger side, while I take another deep breath before heading to Eternal Rest. It’s a wonderful old Victorian house on Jefferson Street in the heart of downtown Tupelo. When Uncle Charlie converted it into a funeral home, he used a Graceland theme minus the shag carpet. Mama’s influence, no doubt. Still, the bereaved take a great deal of comfort in knowing Uncle Charlie sends their loved ones off in grand style.
Thankfully, the parking lot is empty because nobody has died this week except Santa and his reindeer.
Holy cow, I sound like Mama. I must finally be coming undone.
After doing another deep-breathing exercise, I let myself in the front door, then take Elvis off his leash. This is a second home to him. He has the run of the place unless there’s a funeral or a viewing in progress. Of course, there have been a few times when Elvis escaped our vigilance and showed up in the chapel to howl “Amazing Grace” along with Mama. She does the music for all Uncle Charlie’s funerals, though she’s usually not howling.
Today I don’t have to worry, though. Eternal Rest is empty except for Steve Boone, who is lying in state in the blue parlor on my left. I don’t have to check to know that he looks good. When I make up the dead they look like they could pose for the cover of Harper’s Bazaar .
Leaving Elvis to wander toward the kitchen, probably looking for crumbs, I head toward Bobby’s office. It’s downstairs, near the embalming room and across the hall from the room I use to work my makeup magic on the deceased.
Bobby’s door is ajar, so I don’t knock. Instantly, I regret that decision. Bobby’s standing with his back to the door and his arm around the waist of a curvaceous blond. Will wonders never cease? Both of them are bent over
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