A Rose From the Dead Read Free Page A

the few examinations I’d passed with flying colors. I was blotto after two and a half glasses.
    So it was a standoff: Gina or me. Considering what a close-knit family the Salvares were, and that Marco’s younger sister had him on a short leash, I was bound to lose this contest. After all, Marco and I weren’t engaged, pre-engaged, or thinking about considering being pre-engaged. We’d known each other for five months, had dated for four, and were nowhere near being ready for the picket fence–diaper routine. So what chance did I have against his sister? Unless…
    “Okay. I understand. Family comes first.”
    He studied me apprehensively. “You’re fine with me not going tonight?”
    “Hey, it’s no big deal.”
    “So, you’re not angry?”
    “No, but if you keep asking me if I’m angry, that will make me angry. Forget about it, okay? I don’t mind if you miss the banquet. Have a great time with your family.”
    “All right, Sunshine. What’s going on?”
    “Marco, what don’t you understand about the phrase I don’t mind ?”
    He let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I’ll go to the banquet. What time should I pick you up?”
    “Six o’clock.”
    It was an old strategy, but it had always worked with my father. “I saw a Starbucks at the food court. Let’s get some coffee.”
    He checked his watch. “I really need to get back to Down the Hatch.”
    “ Pfft. It’s early yet. Besides, we’ve got one more load of flowers coming, and we need a pack mule.” My attention was drawn to a glassblower creating beautiful vases at a nearby booth. The sign above the booth read: FROM ASHES TO ART — THE ULTIMATE BURIAL EXPERIENCE .
    “Is she using what I think she’s using to make those vases?” I asked Marco as he escorted me around a group of curious people who had gathered to watch her shape the glass.
    “I need to get out of here,” he muttered. “This convention gives me the creeps.”
    “It’s just business, Marco.”
    He pointed out two mannequins on display—a male in a gray pinstripe suit and a female in a navy blue dress. On a folding screen behind them were enlarged photos of the outfits in different colors. “See? That’s what I mean. Who would buy their clothes here?”
    “That’s burial clothing. Funeral homes sometimes offer a selection in case the deceased has nothing appropriate to wear.”
    “Nothing appropriate? So did the person walk around in a bath towel? And then there’s the angel music. Is that really necessary?”
    “Angel music?” I paused to listen. “Oh, that’s harp music. Remember the girl setting up the harp at the booth across from ours—that new age-y–type place?”
    “The chalk-faced chick in a black lace nightgown?”
    “It was a black dress, but yes, that’s the one. I think her business is called Music of the Soul.”
    “She gave me the creeps, too. And what the hell is this booth about? A souvenir shop? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    We stopped to inspect a glass jewelry case where hearse-shaped tie clasps, coffin cuff links, and tombstone paperweights were on display. Okay, that was creepy. I saw a rack filled with T-shirts and picked one up, laughing. It read GOT FORMALDEHYDE ?
    “Look, Marco. Like the advertisement ‘Got Milk?’!”
    He didn’t seem to find it as amusing as I did, so I tried another one. “Okay, this one will definitely make you laugh.” I showed him a shirt that read YOUR HEARSE OR MINE ?
    But Marco had found something more to his liking: a whoopee cushion. “This would ratchet up a funeral service a few notches.”
    I took it out of his hands and put it back. Some things were just not funny.
    “Now, that’s more my style,” Marco said happily, and veered toward another booth where a big-screen TV was playing a video that had lots of loud engines revving. Then he realized the video was about hearses and limousines, not Jeeps and motorcycles, and he veered back, scowling. “How long until that load of flowers