the rest.
“The Nightmare Before Christmas?” Whitney shakes her head as she continues pulling items from bags once we’ve finished stuffing ourselves into a food coma. “I don’t even need to ask whose idea this was.”
“It was mine,” Prissy beams.
“You don’t say?” Whit runs a hand through her daughter’s hair before pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Hey,” I interrupt, feeling left out. “I picked the topper.”
“Well, let’s see it,” Whitney urges.
I finish tightening the last screw in the base of the tree’s trunk before getting up and dusting the needles and dirt from my pants.
“Here,” Prissy says, passing me the white box the clerk carefully packaged it in.
“Where did y’all even find this stuff?” Whit’s eyes light up when she sees the ornate black velvet top hat with Jack’s face front and center. His bowtie is made of purple, teal, and orange ribbon, and there are glittery swirls around the hat in the same colors. It’s bright and festive. And so Prissy.
“The girl said she wanted a Nightmare Before Christmas tree, so I went online and found a little boutique in the French Quarter that carried it.” I shrug. “That’s where we found most of this stuff.”
“I love these!” Whit’s face lights up when she finds the balls, some hand painted with Jack’s face and some with Sally’s. There are others made of handblown glass in the shape of the characters. “You must’ve spent a fortune on all this.”
“He let me run wild,” Prissy says. “We even found a Jack outfit for Sprinkles.”
“Sprinkles?” Her brow furrows. “Who’s that?”
“Come here, Sprinkles,” I call, luring the big lug from his bed. “Whitney, I’d like to introduce you to Sprinkles, the beast formerly known as Rufus.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “I am so confused.”
“Wyatt let me change his name!”
“Wha—?” She looks from her daughter to me—back and forth a few times. “Prissy, he’s just being nice. You can’t just change a dog’s name.”
“That’s what I said.”
Whit releases a relieved sigh. “Thank you. Finally, someone’s speaking some sense.”
“And then she proved me wrong.” I hold my hands out, palms up in surrender.
“You don’t have to give her everything she wants, Wyatt.” The concern on her face is adorable.
“Can I show her?” The little girl is bursting at the seams with pride.
When I nod, she runs off to the kitchen, returning with a handful of treats from one of the boxes we just purchased. Then proceeds to demonstrate all the new things she’s managed to teach the big galoot.
“Turns out he’s not simple-minded after all,” I say. “Just needed the right teacher.”
“And name,” Prissy adds. “Don’t forget the name.”
“That too.”
Whitney shakes her head at the both of us. “I still think it’s confusing as hell for the poor animal, but what do I know?”
“Nothin’, Momma. You don’t even like animals.”
“This one’s not so bad,” she says, seeming surprised by her own admission. “Look at him.” She points to the dog, who’s just curled up on his bed in front of the fireplace, resting his head on his favorite stuffed bear. “He’s even a little cute when he’s not jumping and slobbering on people.”
Well, I’ve just mentally checked off another box. Get her on board with the idea of having a horse-sized dog…check. Although she might not know that he’s not full-grown yet. We’ll save that conversation for another day.
With only two weeks remaining until Christmas, the funeral home has been a complete mad house. In the last week alone, we’ve had two suicides and a group of three high school seniors who smashed into a tree after a night of partying. There were no survivors.
That one shook me to my core. I’ve still not gotten over it. Daddy fixed them up beautifully, and I spent an entire night in the prep room with those girls, fussing over their makeup as if they were my own.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a normal profession. To be able to go to work and return home without having the weight of grief resting on my shoulders. As tempting as that idea can be at times, I know I’ll never actually leave. Too much of who I am I owe to this place. And, as silly as it may sound, I don’t want to entrust the job to anyone else.
“Mornin’, gorgeous.” The deep baritone greeting is accompanied by a light rap to the door frame.
Drawing in a deep breath, I look up from my planner to find the most welcome sight there is, Wyatt Landry in a toolbelt.
Yum.