The Funeral Singer (23 page)

To all my funeral service friends, who are too numerous to name, and whose dedication too often goes unnoticed.

To the tweens and teens in the Sterling United Methodist Church youth group, whose faith and spirit inspire me week after week.

To my parents, Bea and Ted Acorn, and my siblings, Deb Acorn, Karen Benfield, and Ted Acorn, who are always there for me, and for each other.

To Eris and Sarah, who have taught me more than they will ever know.

To Joe, whom I adore and who built me an awesome website, and who reads my YA romance stories without a word of protest.

And of course, to God, in whom all things are possible.

Linda Budzinski

Linda Acorn Budzinski decided in the second grade that she wanted to be a “Paperback Writer,” just like in the Beatles song. She majored in journalism in college and now works in marketing and communications. She spent 18 years at a trade association in the funeral service industry, where she discovered that funeral directors are some of the bravest and most compassionate people on earth. Linda lives in Northern Virginia with her husband, Joe, and their Chihuahua, Demitria. She has two step-daughters, Eris and Sarah. THE FUNERAL SINGER is her debut novel. She is represented by Andrea Somberg of Harvey Klinger Inc.

PREVIEWS

From the author of SECONDARY CHARACTERS, Rachel Schieffelbein, comes a new novella called RUN FOR THE ROSES. Preview an uncorrected sample chapter below.

RUN FOR THE ROSES

Chapter One

They’re about to call the final trot. I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, setting my hands. I pass my dad on the rail; he nods approvingly. My mom leans against his side and grins as I walk by.

“You’re doing great, honey. She looks great.” She nods toward my mare, Paris to London.

“Aaaaaaand trot please,” the announcer says. I shorten my reins and bump London up with my legs.

“Trot,” I say. She picks it right up, her ears flicking back for only a second at the sound of my voice.

The final trot is my favorite part of the class. Assuming the class went well, that is. My adrenaline pumps as London flies down the rail. They call for the line-up and we take one final pass before pulling into center ring.

I’m panting, my heart races. I reach down and stroke London’s smooth neck. Our first direction trot could have been better, but overall I’m feeling pretty damn good about our class, until Sydney pulls up next to me in line.

Her ginormous bay gelding makes London look itty bitty. But London is so much prettier. Either way, Sydney’s my toughest competition. And not just here at Regionals. In two weeks we head to Youth Nationals in Albuquerque, and I know she’s who I’ll be competing against for the roses.

“How was your ride?” she asks, looking down at her gelding’s mane, patting his shoulder. I’m about to answer her when the judge and ringmaster come walking down the line. Sydney smiles her big fake, stupid smile at them.

Okay, I do, too. But I like to think mine doesn’t look quite as cheesy as hers.

“It was good,” I say once they’ve passed us by. “You?”

She nods, breathing hard. “It was good.”

We don’t look at each other. I mean, I can see her in my peripheral, but I don’t turn to her. We are not friendly. If this were a comic book, she’d be my nemesis.

She’s wearing a beautiful black show suit. No surprise, she always has the best of everything. It must be nice to have parents who can afford to buy you anything you want. I had to work overtime for a month to get my suit, but it was worth it. It’s dark olive green and looks perfect against London’s chestnut coat.

They call out the top five from the class and we line up again at the far end of the arena, waiting to hear who’s champion and who’s reserve.

“And our reserve champion tonight is number 732, Paris to London! Ridden by Hannah Conrad.”

Damn it.

Okay, I know it’s not the proper response, but I can’t help it running through my head. I wanted to win. But I smile, I reach down and pat London’s neck again, and trot over to get my ribbon.

And I
am
happy. Honestly. Reserve is still pretty awesome. It’s just that one moment of, well … whatever.

They call out the champion and of course it’s Sydney. But I already knew that. If it wasn’t me, it was going to be her. That probably sounds totally obnoxious, like I’m just so great I knew I’d be in one of the top two spots. But, unless one of us screws up, Sydney and I are pretty much always the top two in our classes. We both have damn cool horses.

Although I think London is better.

While the other top five are taking their victory passes, Sydney trots over and looks down her probably-fake nose at me. “Congratulations.” She grins a giant I-am-so-much-better-than-you grin.

“Yeah, thanks. You, too,” I say in the sugary-sweet voice I reserve only for the spoiled brats I have to deal with at horse shows. Then I bump London up to a trot and take my victory lap.

That’s it. I am so going to kick her ass at Nationals.

***

“So, how’d the class go?” my sister asks over the phone.

I lean against one of the barns at the show, cooling down after my ride. I always call Emma as soon as I can. She made me promise … and threatened to cut up all my favorite sweaters if I failed to keep said promise.

“Fine. I got reserve.”

“Fine? That’s awesome. Congratulations!” She squeals into my ear and it makes me smile. She’s always impressed with whatever ribbon I get. She totally pretends to give a crap about horses. It’s sweet.

“So, what’s going on there?” I’ve been gone for almost a week. It’s the last day of the show, and we’ll pack up tomorrow and head home. It’s the one thing that sucks about horse shows: I miss Emma.

She’s in the middle of telling me about some drama amongst her and her giant posse of friends when this guy walks out of the barn and struts past me. My mouth almost drops to the ground.

There aren’t a lot of teenage boys at horse shows to begin with; it tends to be a girls’ sport, so that would have been enough for me to notice him. But the thing that causes me to temporarily stop breathing is the fact he is absolutely gorgeous.

He turns, brushing his dark hair off his forehead, and then his green eyes lock with mine. I suck in air, my heart stops beating, and my brain stops thinking. He gives me a small “hello” smile that practically makes me drop my cell.

“Um, hello? Hannah? Are you there? Please don’t tell me some cute horse just walked by? Am I so boring you’re that easily distracted?”

I shake my head back and forth to try and break the spell.

“No, it wasn’t a horse,” I say quickly. Too quickly. Crap. Now she knows I was distracted by
something.

“Oh really?” I can practically hear her smiling over the phone. “So what kind of cute creature did walk by? Hmm? A boy, perhaps?”

“Okay, okay.” I roll my eyes and slip back into the barn, peeking out at Mr. Gorgeous as he walks toward the arena. He’s a ways away now, but for some reason I still feel like I need to whisper. “Yes, it was a guy. A super tall, super sexy guy. You happy?”

“No.
I
can’t see him.” She laughs. “So, why don’t you go talk to him?”

“And say what? ‘Um, hi, I saw you walk out of the barn and thought you were totally hot. Nice to meet you.’ Yeah, that’ll work. Besides, he’s probably gay anyway.”

“Oh, and you got that just from watching him walk by?”

“All guys at horse shows are gay.”

“You’d think there’d be a bunch of hot, manly cowboys.”

“Yeah, you might think that, but you’d be wrong. It’s a bunch of gay guys who wear tight hunt pants and like pretty, prancing ponies.”

I can hear her laughing and snorting. “Knock it off, you almost made milk come out my nose!”

“Lovely.”

“When will you be home?” she asks, the laughter out of her voice.

“Tomorrow night.”

“All right. I’ll see you then. And congratulations again.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I hang up the phone and take a step forward to get a better look at him before he disappears around a corner.

From Stephanie Wardrop, the author of SNARK AND CIRCUMSTANCE and CHARM AND CONSEQUENCE comes the third novella in the series: PRIDE AND PREP SCHOOL. Preview an uncorrected sample chapter below.

PRIDE AND PREP SCHOOL

1 Who’s the Snob?

It’s such a cliché to wake up with a hangover on New Year’s Day. I don’t even open my eyes but focus instead on being grateful that, thanks to Michael Endicott’s well-timed offer of a ride home last night, I woke up in my own house and not Jeremy Wrentham’s. I’ll have to text Michael a “thank you” for that. Just as soon as Bigfoot stops tap-dancing on my head. Maybe in an hour. Maybe tomorrow …

When I finally get one sticky eye fully open I see my older sister Tori sitting on her bed, monitoring me for signs of life.

“I’m so glad you’re okay! I knew you were still alive because you were snoring so loudly.”

I groan and roll over away from her.

“So what happened? Beth Evans said you puked and Tommy Gage said Michael had to pull Jeremy off of you and then they got into a fistfight!”

“No! No.” I turn to her and as I roll I feel something sloshing in my guts and amend, “Well, the puking happened. Unfortunately.”

Tori laughs and stretches her legs out like a cat waking up. “Well, that won’t stop people from texting about it all day.”

“At least all is well with you and Trey?” I ask, because the only reason I had gone to the party in the first place was to get Tori out of the house to stop worrying about the fact that her perfect boyfriend, Trey Billingsley III, had been incommunicado through the whole holiday break.

“He lost his phone.” She shrugs sheepishly, and I can tell that any lingering irritation with Trey is gone. “And it was
so
nice of Michael to tell him I was at Jason’s. Michael came back to the party to tell me you’d gone, by the way. And it was
very
nice of him to bring you home.” She gives me a pointed look.

“Oh. My. God!” Our younger sister Cassie bursts into the room, new Android in hand, and jumps on my bed. “I just heard that you were
totally
scamming with Jeremy Wrentham last night!”

“Cass,” Tori admonishes, “give George a break. She has a hangover.”

Cassie laughs herself off the bed at this information and I try to distract her by saying, “We should go see how Leigh’s night went. My New Year’s Eve was nothing to be proud of … though kissing Jeremy was
not
unpleasant.”

Cassie squeals at this and follows me to the staircase, even though she does not want to hear about her twin’s purity ring and vow celebration at her church. She grabs my arm, pleading, “Tell me about Jeremy! What kind of kisser is he? I would dump Brick for him, I really would.”

I shake my head and lead them to the kitchen to see Leigh, who is happy to share her night with us. She describes the way everyone managed to make the cinderblock church basement look pretty with swags of evergreens and big red velvet bows and gold and white candles and ribbons. A Christian rock band played and she says dancing with Alistair had been “magical,” which I can only assume is a gross exaggeration. She shows us her ring, a simple silver band on her left hand.

Cassie launches into Beyonce’s routine from the “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)” video and then cuts herself off to inform Leigh, “You don’t know what you’re missing.” At least Mom’s arrival in the kitchen prevents her from discoursing on the sordid details of her New Year’s Eve with the Brick. When Cassie departs, I ask Mom, “Do you worry about her? I do.”

Mom sits at the table next to Leigh and says, “I worry about all you girls in different ways. I don’t like that Michael Endicott brought you home drunk last night, for instance.”

“He didn’t
get
me drunk, Mom. I did that all on my own.” I sigh and consider picking up the bagel in front of me, but I’m not sure I should trust my stomach yet. “You can still think of him as the Prince of Longmeadow and me as your problem child.”

She nods and sips her coffee. “You know, the Endicott house is going to be on the Historic Homes Tour in a few weeks. I’m dying to see it. Bunny Billingsley says it’s so authentic, a real showpiece.”

I shrug, saying, “I wouldn’t want to live in the eighteenth century,” and decide to chance the effects of one bite of the bagel on my bubbling cauldron of a stomach. “That trip to Sturbridge Village was enough for me.”

“I’m sure Michael’s house isn’t like that!” Tori laughs. “He has electricity, right?”

“Of course they do,” Mom assures me. “And they have very impressive antiques and maintain the original part of the home in the Federal style. It’s a piece of local history. The home will be on the spring garden tour, too. I hear the grounds are gorgeous.”

I get up then, willing to leave the bagel behind to get away from my mom’s rhapsodies about Michael’s house; they seem kind of tacky, and they also underscore our canyon-sized differences—the ones between Mom and me
and
between Michael and me.