from Marla. Pin tucks of anxiety folded across her forehead as she twisted her rings around on her slender wedding finger. She couldn’t think of a single useful counter argument – as new neighbours went, a funeral parlour was just about as bad as it got for a wedding chapel. She clutched at the only available straw. ‘Maybe this Gabriel guy will be a bit more approachable tomorrow.’
Marla snorted. ‘You reckon? If he’s anything like his henchman, then I seriously doubt it.’ Her heart was hurting, as if someone had grabbed hold of it and given it a Chinese burn. The chapel wasn’t just her business. It was her everything. She might not believe in marriage for herself, but she sure as heck believed in it for other people, especially those who chose her quirky American-style wedding chapel as the venue for their big day. She’d poured her heart and soul into the business from the first moment she’d laid eyes on the vacant little chapel. The ‘for sale’ sign had stopped her in her tracks, and she’d known without doubt that Beckleberry was the perfect village for her business and her big fresh start. And she’d been right, up to now at least. It had proved the perfect distraction from her own shambolic love-life, and she was far too business savvy to allow her personal feelings towards marriage to stop her from turning the empty, unloved little building into one of the most in-demand wedding venues in the UK. She glanced up at the clock. 12.30 p.m. Past the yardarm. Thank God.
‘I need a stiff drink. Does Dora still stash brandy in the kitchen drawer?’
Emily nodded, then stood up and held out her hand. ‘Come on. I’ll make us some coffee with a nip of the hard stuff and we can make ourselves a plan.’
They both jumped as the back door of the chapel banged open.
‘Did someone mention a plan? Faaaabulous! For what? When? Tell me everything.’
Jonny’s made-for-the-West-End voice rang out around the chapel as he unclipped the lead from around the neck of Bluey, Marla’s impractically huge and lovable Great Dane.
Decked out in a black shirt that clung lovingly to each perfectly sculpted ab, Jonny looked every inch the gay icon he was – in their sedate corner of Shropshire, anyway. He also happened to be the best wedding celebrant and creative director Marla could ever have dared wish for. She’d known the moment that he arrived for his job interview in full Elvis garb that he was the ideal man for the job, but she hadn’t realised at the time that he’d also come to be one of her closest friends too. They were each other’s perfect foil; she loved him for his exuberance and joie de vivre, whilst he adored her understated sense of humour and determination. He’d moved his life lock, stock and barrel from Brighton to sleepy Beckleberry on the strength of Marla’s job offer, leaving behind a string of broken hearts and empty karaoke spots in his wake. In truth he’d been ready for the move, because he’d reached a stage in his life when the footloose-and-fancy-free lifestyle had run its course and left him wanting a little substance with his sex.
Emily decided to go for shock tactics and shepherded him to the window to judge the scale of their problem for himself.
‘A plan to get rid of this bunch of jokers,’ she whispered, gripping his muscled arm so hard that her knuckles popped out white against her skin.
Jonny gasped in horror as he took in their new neighbours’ sombre signs, while Bluey loped over to sit beside his beloved mistress. Marla leaned her head against his and counted backwards from ten while she waited for the inevitable explosion. Jonny was nothing if not predictable, and liked nothing better than a good strop. He was the only person she knew who was desperate for a slot on Jeremy Kyle.
‘A fucking Funeral Directors?? Next door to us? Errr, helloooo?’ Jonny snapped his fingers in the air, diva style. ‘I don’t fucking think so!’
Marla sighed as he strutted off towards the front doors. Much as she’d like to unleash Jonny on Guinness Guts, he would probably only make the situation worse.
‘Hang on, hang on. I’ve already tried that. There’s nobody in charge over there until tomorrow.’
‘Hmmph.’ Jonny’s broad shoulders slumped. ‘Well, when they do get here, they’ll wish they hadn’t bothered, because I’m going to kill them with my bare hands.’ He made a throttling gesture with his hands, his eyebrows lost somewhere in his hairline.
Marla threw her shoulders back and painted on a determined smile. She was the boss, and her troops needed rallying. ‘Come on, guys. Let’s go and put the kettle on and get cracking on that plan.’
When the going gets tough, the tough put the kettle on. Marla might have spent her formative years in America, but after almost a decade in England, tea was a tradition she had well and truly taken to heart. Weddings permitting, the small staff of the chapel took a well-earned break most afternoons to drink tea and swap gossip. They’d been rather looking forward to adding cupcakes to that ritual, too.
Somehow, tea with a side order of formaldehyde didn’t hold quite the same appeal.
Gabriel Ryan stilled the growling engine of his Kawasaki Z1300, restoring the sleepy early morning peace to Beckleberry High Street. The pavements still glittered with the dawn frost of early spring, and his breath hung on the icy air as he slid his helmet off. He sat stock still for a couple of seconds and drank in the sight of his perfectly hung shop signs for the first time.
Gabriel Ryan, Funeral Director. One thought consumed all of the others in his head. Mine. It’s my name over the door.
Time to grow up, Gabe.
His father’s last words had become his mantra over the last few months. If he’d ever needed to feel the warmth of his beloved Da’s approval, it was now. He kicked the bike stand down and fished around in the pocket of his battered leather jacket for the front door key. To his own front door. This was it. Elated and scared witless all at the same time, he felt for his mobile as it buzzed against his chest. He didn’t need to glance at the screen to know who would be on the other end of the line.
‘Hey, Rory.’ He slipped the key into the lock and turned it.
‘You there yet, little brother?’
At forty-five, Gabe’s eldest brother Rory’s voice sounded heart-wrenchingly similar to their Da’s. He’d appointed himself patriarch of the family after their father’s heart attack last summer – a role he took very seriously.
‘Sure am. Just arrived.’
Gabe cast a last glance up at his name as he passed underneath the sign and stepped inside.
‘And?’
He looked around at the haphazard clutter of stepladders and paint pots that littered the reception area.
‘And, yeah. It’s looking pretty good.’
‘Only Phil the Drill said it’s an almighty mess.’
Phil the Drill has a big mouth, Gabe thought, but refrained from saying it, because he knew that Rory meant well, and would no doubt relay everything he said back to their mother and three other brothers. He brushed off Rory’s concerns.
‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’
Besides, it wasn’t a lie. He’d handle any amount of mess rather than go home and take his place in the family firm. He loved the bones of his family, but being back there had just been too hard on his heart since last summer. His dad was everywhere,
