Close to Home. Deborah Raney

taking him up on his offer to do set-up in the air-conditioned basement. She easily kept up with him and even took a break to go splash cool water on her face and try to do something with her hair.

      “Hey, looks good in here,” he said as he brought the final load of chairs in. He helped her finish straightening chairs, then they went to stand at the back of the room, admiring their tidy rows of white folding chairs all facing a big-screen TV where the service in the sanctuary would be broadcast to any who didn’t arrive early enough to get a seat upstairs. “You ever wonder if they’ll have to have an overflow for your funeral? I’m thinking I don’t even want a funeral. I mean, what’s the big deal? Just go have a party in my honor or something.”

      “It is kind of a big deal, actually.” She didn’t really want to talk about it, but she couldn’t help but remember Tim’s funeral. She’d forgotten they had to set up chairs in the smaller chapel at his funeral, too. Of course, the family hadn’t been in that room, but she wondered now what it was like, watching a funeral on a TV screen. Had the camera captured her family and Tim’s in their grief? There was a video of his funeral somewhere, but she’d never had the courage to watch it, not wanting to relive an hour that had been excruciating the first time around. But now she wondered: were there others who had seen their grief via that video?

      “Seriously? Not me. Just scatter my ashes over the—” He took in a short breath, then clamped his mouth shut. After a long moment, he spoke quietly. “I’m an idiot. Bree, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of . . . that subject.”

      She waved him off. “It’s okay. No big deal.” She’d practiced saying such words for four and a half years now. Almost five. And sometimes she wondered if she’d ever be able to say them and mean them. But it was a big deal. Even after all this time, every reference to death, funerals, tragedy felt loaded. Even when she knew they weren’t intended to be that way.

      “I’m truly sorry,” he said, hanging his head.

      “Forget about it, Aaron. It’s fine.” She gestured and blinked back an unexpected heat behind her eyes. “Really.”

      “I wish I could take that back. It was stupid of me and—”

      “Do you think any of the chairs need touch-up paint?” She walked along a row of chairs, ostensibly inspecting them for chipped paint. If they didn’t change the subject in about three seconds, she was going to cry.

      Thankfully, Aaron took her cue. “I checked most of them when I loaded and unloaded them. I didn’t see anything that looked too bad. Do you? I’ve got the paint kit in the truck if we need it though.”

      Sallie was a stickler that the event equipment they rented be in top-notch condition. “I didn’t see anything. We can check them better when we pick them up.”

      “Oh, did you ask the office about that? Do we have to do that yet today?”

      She shook her head. “They said we could pick them up in the morning as long as we have everything out of here before noon.”

      “We? So that means you won’t mind coming with me to do this all again.”

      Grateful they’d turned the corner on a depressing subject, she smiled. “I’ll come if we can do it first thing, before it gets hot. And I’m wearing my tennis shoes next time.”

      “Meet you here at eight?”

      “Make it seven-thirty, and you’ve got a deal. In fact, buy me breakfast at seven, and I’ll forget all about the Mohawk.”

      “Wait . . .” A funny gleam came to his eye. “Did you just ask me on a date?”

      “Cut it out, Jakes. It’s breakfast with a coworker.”

      “And friend.”

      “Whatever.” But she couldn’t help smiling. And looking forward to tomorrow morning. Maybe breakfast with Aaron would ease the path to their real date on Saturday.

      Chapter 5

      5

      Drew Brooks ran a hand through his hair and stared at the man on the other side of the desk. If he hadn’t seen the bead of sweat on his boss’s forehead, he might have thought this was some kind of prank.

      “I’m sorry, Drew,” Joseph Critchfield said again.

      Somehow, he didn’t look all that sorry. He looked antsy.

      Drew tried to find the right words. What was protocol for this circumstance? Thanks so much for letting me know that I’m now a jobless loser? “Um . . . When does this start? How long do I have?”

      “I’m sorry . . . I thought I’d made that clear. This is an immediate layoff. We’re making cuts across the board. It’s a budgetary matter. Nothing personal. I hope you understand.”

      It sure felt personal.

      “We’ll be happy to provide a positive reference if you need one,” Critchfield said. “But once you sign everything with HR, you’ll need to clean out your desk and remove any personal belongings. And leave the premises immediately.”

      He swallowed hard. “Now?”

      “I’m sorry,” Critchfield said for at least the fourth time. “HR will explain the severance package to you.”

      Drew could hardly rise, much less make his legs propel him down the hall. Somehow he did, feeling as if he had a fifty-pound sack of cement strapped to his back. He slumped into the chair behind his desk and stared, unseeing, out the window that overlooked the parking lot.

      He couldn’t make it seem real that this was happening. It wasn’t that he loved his job so much, or even that he saw himself at this company three years from now. In the scheme of things, he wasn’t certain he wanted to work for a shipping company the rest of his life. But he’d sure never thought he’d be laid off from a job—any job, at any age, let alone at twenty-seven.

      Now what? The meeting with HR was short and sweet. He came out of the office with the promise of three months’ pay and a good reference should he need it. It took him about ten minutes to box up everything from his desk and bookshelves—in lidded containers conveniently provided by HR. The company’s last gift to him. Nice.

      In the parking lot, he opened the trunk of his Honda Accord and tossed in the boxes. He slammed the trunk shut and blew out a hot breath. He’d probably have to sell the Accord. He couldn’t make the almost four-hundred dollar a month payments without a steady salary.

      Dallas was always telling him he should have an aggressive savings plan. He’d tucked a little away, but nothing close to what he’d need if he didn’t find work right away. He had enough in savings to cover a month’s worth of bills. Maybe two if he was careful. If he cut back. The severance pay would help, but unless he planned to cash out his 401K, he needed to find a job, like, yesterday.

      Out of habit, he dialed his brother and waited to hear the familiar voice, realizing a split second before Dallas answered how much he’d come to depend on his big brother.

      “Hey, Drew, what’s up?”

      “Nothing good.”

      Dallas laughed, then apparently realized Drew was serious. “Hey, what’s going on, man?”

      “I just lost my job.” Hearing himself speak the words aloud, the stark reality of his situation hit him. Hard. Glancing toward the office, he leaned his back against the passenger door of his car. They’d probably send someone out any minute now to escort him out of the parking lot. Well, let them. He kicked at the asphalt surface of the parking lot.

      “What are you talking about?” Dallas said. “You’re not serious?”

      “As a heart attack.”

      “What happened, man? Are you doing okay?”

      “Too soon to tell.”

      “Well, what happened?” Dallas asked