Mourning Wood - Heather M. Orgeron Page 0,1
can turn on the charm and professionalism when needed, but one look at this crazy clan behind the scenes would send our customers running for the hills.
Suddenly feeling lightheaded, I take the seat my child just vacated. “You’re sure?”
“Cashed the check three days ago and they haven’t been back since.” Mom’s hand goes to her chest, rising and falling with her labored breaths. “I tried Phillip’s cell phone and it’s no longer in service. Went by the hotel they was stayin’ at and they’re gone. Just gone, Whitney!”
“Fuck.” I smooth a thumb over the vein pulsating in the center of my forehead.
“Fuck is right,” the tiny, explosive woman shouts. “I knew. I knew that deal you struck with them people was just too damn good to be true. Now they done hauled off with our money and we got ourselves a mess, Whitney Jean. Just a big ol’ mess!” She’s gonna work herself into a coronary one of these days.
“I’ll fix it,” I promise, without a single clue how the hell I’ll manage such a feat. “Don’t worry.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” she shouts back. “It’s only our livelihoods at stake.”
“Nothing about this is easy!” I counter, leaping to my feet. I’m a perfectionist by nature—having to admit I screwed up is about the hardest thing in the world for me, and she knows it. “Just give me a few minutes to figure out how to make this right before you start jumping down my throat.”
She sends me a hard look as she heads back toward the door, muttering a string of profanity along the way before slamming it behind her.
With no clue where to even begin, I do what I always do and call my bestie, Kate. She’s the most level-headed person in my life. Surely she’ll know where to start.
“Hey,” she answers on the second ring. The sound of my goddaughter Lucy babbling brings a brief smile to my face. “What’s up, Morticia?”
“I fucked up.” Vomit climbs in the back of my throat.
“Wait,” she says, before hollering at her husband Beau to lower the music. “Can you say that for me one more time? I thought I just heard you say—”
“Cut the shit.” My voice cracks. “I’m in real trouble this time.”
“I’m listenin’,” she drawls.
“Okay, so you know those guys I hired to redo the chapel a few weeks ago?”
“Uh-huh… The ones I warned you not to pay until the job was complete?” I hear her pass the baby off to her husband. “Those ones?”
“Yeah… those ones.”
“Uh-huh. What about ’em?”
I gulp hard. “They uh—they finished the demo a couple days ago, and I gave them the final payment.”
“Made out to cash, right?” she inquires. Her condescending tone has me feeling even more ridiculous.
A lone tear trickles out from the corner of my eye, scorching a path of shame along my cheek. “They said it had to be cash for the cash price…so they didn’t have to claim it on their taxes.” It sounded totally reasonable at the time.
I can practically see the “I told ya so” fighting to escape her lips through the phone. “Well…what are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know,” I cry. “Why do you think I called you? It’s a complete disaster. All the old woodwork is in pieces in the back yard. We only have the one tiny makeshift chapel set up in the smaller viewing area. This is gonna kill our business.” I don’t have to tell her that the upcoming holiday season is always our busiest. It’s a sad reality that suicides and car accidents spike this time of year, and she’s been in my life since kindergarten—long enough to know the ins and outs.
“Wait a second…” she muses, an idea already taking shape. Kate is a problem solver and has saved my ass more times than I can count. “You remember Beau’s cousin, Wyatt?”
“From your wedding?” I ask—as if there’s any way I could forget him fucking me up against a dumpster in an alley on Bourbon Street the night of her and Beau’s joint bachelor/bachelorette party.
“Mmmhmm,” she singsongs. “That’s the one. Well, he’s actually just moved to town and is lookin’ to get his construction business started here. I bet he’d be willing to—”
“No,” I blurt, cutting her off. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on, Whit, that was years ago. He probably doesn’t even remember you.”
“Good! And we’re gonna keep it that way.” My cheeks radiate enough heat to melt the makeup I just applied to poor Mrs. Thibodaux’s face. I’ve been