Chirp(6)

As she backed out of the drive, she eyed the motorcycle. Painted in gold across the saddlebag was the word Outlaw. It also had a faded bumper sticker on the side of the gas tank. She squinted to make out the words.

It only seems kinky the first time.

Something in her chest fluttered, and she recalled how Dessie had described Rance. A good man. He hadn’t thrown her out last night, only threatened to, so maybe that was still true. Once he saw what a helpful housemate she was, he’d want her to stay.

When she wheeled into the funeral home parking lot, Cameron’s truck wasn’t there, so that was a relief. She pulled her sweater tight to ward off the chill and rushed inside.

“Good morning, Mrs. Walters.”

“Good morning, Blaze. Here are the details for Hadley, Morrison, and Caldwell. All of their services are tomorrow with visitations this evening.”

Blaze tucked the list in her jeans pocket. Since the IRS had shut down the only funeral home in the neighboring town of Danvers, business at Over the Rainbow had picked up. Wouldn’t complain. She liked the extra hours.

Miss Caldwell was up first. Age thirty-six. Died during surgery. Blaze blinked, then blinked again. Natalie used to be Nathan. She went back to the office and poked her head inside. “Uh, Mrs. Walters? In room one. Female makeup?”

The secretary cupped her mouth and leaned forward. “Well, unfortunately he—she—didn’t live long enough for the change to happen. They prepped him, but before they removed the appendage, he suffered a massive heart attack. Physically, he’s still male and must be listed that way on the paperwork, but he wished to go out as a woman. Oh, and there shouldn’t be a problem with facial hair. He’d been taking hormones for months.”

“Okay.”

Blaze remembered a TV interview with Billy Graham where he’d described heaven as being whatever made us happy. For him, beautiful golf courses. Blaze didn’t know if that was true, but he knew more about the subject than she did, so she’d take his word. Since the funeral would be Natalie’s debut for a lot of folks, Blaze planned to make her as gorgeous as possible. Figured her heavenly happiness was to arrive at the Pearly Gates as the woman she wanted to be.

“Miss Caldwell, I want to do something special for you.” Blaze chose two bottles of nail polish and shook them. “I’m going to tessellate your nails. That’s my word of the day. It means to form or arrange in a checkered pattern.” Once she completed the manicure, Blaze lined Natalie’s full lips with Peach Petal, then filled them in with Iced Tangerine. She rolled her chair away and eyed the final results. Platinum-tipped blonde hair. Warm Umber blended with Golden Mink eye shadow. Coral Tango blush. As Tiffany would say, holy crapoly. The new female looked hot.

Blaze tore a page from her notebook and slipped it inside the woman’s camisole. “If you meet Miss Dessie, give her this. She’ll be happy to hear her grandson showed up last night. I think he broke out of prison, but don’t tell her that part. Anyway, you have a nice trip, and I hope you like what I’ve done with your makeup.”





Rance


Rance woke to rain pounding on the tin roof. He stretched, then burrowed deep into the down mattress. Best night’s sleep he’d had in years. Even without liquor or sex, there’d been no nightmares. Then he remembered the kid, and his temper flared. Swinging his feet to the floor, he grabbed his watch. First on his agenda: settle the squatter situation. He focused on the dial. Almost noon. Dammit. She’d mentioned a job, but that couldn’t be right. Must have meant school.

He hated passing through her bedroom to use to the john. Her bedroom. Hell no. Couldn’t think of it that way. When he got to the door, he stopped and peeked in. No sign of her, and the bed was made.

After he relieved himself, he searched for his clothes from last night. Nowhere to be found. She must have taken them. But why? Easy answer. From the looks of things, she was a neat-freak. Good. His messiness alone should be enough incentive for her to leave. He grabbed a clean pair of jeans and a knit shirt, pulled them on, and strolled to the kitchen to make coffee, hoping he remembered how. On the counter was a note.

Do not let the cats out of the laundry room.

Do not feed them.

Pancakes on stove. Microwave for 56 seconds. Syrup and honey on table.

Coffee ready. Push start.

Please rinse your dirty dishes and load in dishwasher.

Wipe table off, careful not to get crumbs on floor.

Drape the dishcloth over the faucet to dry.

I’ll run the dishwasher and clean the coffee pot when I get home.

You’re welcome.

Blaze

He stared at the paper. You’re welcome? He needed a cigarette. And something stronger than coffee. But first he’d eat breakfast. No need to waste it.

The microwave dinged. He removed the steaming hotcakes, smothered them in butter, doused them in syrup, then took a second to inhale the aroma before closing his lips around the fork. Sweet Jesus. Whoever she was, she could cook. But that still wasn’t enough reason to let her stay. By the time he’d finished the stack, he wavered on that point.

He pushed back from the table, leaving everything as it was, then wandered down the hall. As owner, it was his right to check her room. He turned first to her closet.

Depressing. Six pairs of jeans. A dozen T-shirts. Three sets of shoes. All black. Hell, she barely had more clothes than he did. He moved to the bureau. Panties and bras. At least they were different colors. He picked up a pair of red bikinis and rubbed the lace between his fingers. Forced a sordid image from his head, then turned his attention to the side table. Next to a lamp sat a framed monogrammed note with a message that read: You’re awesome, loveable, spectacular, and huggable. Good night, Birdie. Love, Dad.