Page 152 of Dirty Grovel

“Sutton, you’re late. You can’t miss the rest of it.”

I jerk upright like a jack in the box, hair splayed across my face, drool crusted onto the side of my mouth.

“Oh, God,” I whisper as reality screams into my consciousness. “Th…the pre-lunch something… the after-funeral breakfast…”

“The pre-funeral lunch,” Faye corrects softly. “I’m afraid you’ve missed that.”

“Oh,God.” I sink my face into my palms. “What time is it?”

“Almost two,” Faye says. “Oksana sent me over here to fetch you.”

“Oksana sent you?” The color drains from my face. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.” I jump out of bed and nearly trip on my own legs. “Isn’t it?”

Faye cringes. “It’s not… the end of the world.”

“I fucked up! I was so damn tired… I thought if I just lay down for a quick cat nap, I’d be able to deal with all the mourners…” I rush over to the chair where Oksana’s hand-picked dress is waiting for me, still in its body bag.

“Whoa there, Sutton, slow down.”

“I can’t slow down. I already missed the luncheon!”

“You’re pregnant.”

“As if she’ll care!”

I try to pull the zipper down, get it stuck, wriggle it free, try again, all while my heartbeat is pounding in my head at a thousand beats per minute and the world is going frayed and fuzzy at the edges with panic.

“I’m here to help,” Faye assures me as she comes to take over. “But panicking is not the best way to?—”

The sound of the harshRIIIIPfeels like a bolt of lightning through the heart.

“No!” I gasp, staring at the zipper that I’ve just pulled on so hard, it’s succeeded in tearing a slit exactly where you don’t want a slit to be.

I stare in horror at Faye, who looks frozen in place for a moment.

“Okay,” she says at last. “Stay calm. Take a deep breath and stay calm.”

“Calm? Calm?! I have nothing to wear now!”

“You have a closet full of clothes!” Faye reminds me. “I’m sure we can find something appropriate. Come on.”

She charges into my walk-in and I follow behind her, still clutching the pathetic remains of what was once a perfect dress.

Leave it to a Palmer woman to destroy something beautiful.

“Okay, let’s see, let’s see…” Faye sings to herself as she starts rifling through the open racks. “No, that won’t work… Too booby… This is for a nun, not a twenty-first century woman… No… No…”

I go down one side of the closet as she combs through the other. We meet at the very end with our hands on the only thing that has an appropriate hem and neckline.

The catch?

It’s pink.

I meet her eyes. “I can’t…”

Faye swallows back a half-wince. “Hey, at least it’s not an in-your-face fuchsia. Or a come-and-get-it hot pink. It’s a subdued, subtle… like, salmon? Yeah. Salmon.”

I cast my gaze around one more time at the closet, hoping that a magical new section full of funeral garb has suddenly appeared like a doorway to Narnia.

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