Comatose with Benefits

Sunday Bell knew three things about dead people: they kept too many extension cords, somebody in the family always wanted the ugliest piece of furniture, and nobody ever labeled the keys. She stood in the middle of the late Mrs. Wilma Carraway’s bedroom with seven mystery keys in one palm and a price sticker stuck to the back of her wrist. “Of course you don’t have labels,” she muttered. “That would be helpful.”

A glance in the dresser mirror caught her before she turned away. Her dark braids had been twisted into a loose bun that had looked respectable around breakfast, though one had escaped beside her cheek. Black-framed glasses sat low on her nose, and dust streaked one side of her brown face. Sunday rubbed at it with the back of her hand and made it worse. Her faded overalls hugged her soft, curvy frame over a pale yellow T-shirt, practical enough for crawling beneath tables and squeezing between furniture nobody had moved since the Clinton administration. The bedroom had been untouched for nearly a year. Dust softened the mahogany dresser, and a faded chenille bedspread sagged beneath boxes marked KEEP, SELL, and DONATE. Mrs. Carraway had apparently loved porcelain birds, floral perfume, and hiding money in places no reasonable human being would look.

Sunday had already found eighty dollars inside a Christmas card from 2009 and another twenty tucked beneath a ceramic duck. She’d counted both finds twice before sealing them in the family envelope, which was ridiculous. Sunday never counted cash twice. Lately, every number stuck. Eighty dollars, twenty dollars, and what the secretary downstairs might bring. What Bea could get for the silver service. With no estate scheduled after Carraway, price tags had begun turning into groceries, gas, and how many weeks Sunday could survive without touching the Bell & Found account.

She slipped the keys into her pocket and opened the next drawer. “Let’s see what else you’ve been hiding, Wilma.” Talking to deceased clients technically wasn’t part of her job. Beatrice Hollowell had once called it unprofessional. Sunday had pointed out that none of the clients had complained. Handkerchiefs, costume jewelry, two unopened packages of pantyhose and a tiny velvet box. “Well, hello.”

Inside sat a gold wedding band, scratched nearly smooth. Not especially valuable. Maybe fifty dollars, depending on weight. When Sunday lifted it, though, a narrow strip of yellowed paper rested underneath. She unfolded it.

Forty-seven years. Still you.

The price in her head disappeared, there it was. That was the part she loved. Not the expensive china downstairs or the antique secretary the family had nearly fought over. It was finding the small proof that somebody had lived here. Loved here. Had forty-seven years with someone and tucked the evidence beneath a wedding ring. Sunday refolded the note and returned it to the box. Definitely not going on the sale table. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Momma, probably. Retta Bell considered thirty uninterrupted minutes sufficient evidence that something might have happened to her youngest daughter. Sunday pulled out the phone.

BEA.

Well, that couldn’t be good. “I found another wedding ring,” Sunday said when she answered.

Beatrice Hollowell didn’t bother with hello. “Are you finished upstairs?”

“Almost.”

“You said almost forty minutes ago.”

“I’m making this one last.”

Silence.

Sunday immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Bea’s voice softened. “Sunday.”

“I know.”

“Carraway was always going to be our last sale.”

“I said I know.” Sunday picked at the sticker on her wrist. “Knowing something and liking it are two entirely different hobbies.”

“Be downstairs in five minutes,” Bea said.

“Ten.”

“Five.”

The call ended. Sunday looked at the phone. “Retirement has made her mean.”

She photographed the ring for Mrs. Carraway’s daughter, packed the personal items separately, and headed downstairs. Bea waited at the dining table in a cream linen blouse, black trousers, and enough turquoise jewelry to stock a small gift shop. At seventy-two, her silver bob still sat perfectly against her jaw, and tortoiseshell glasses rested low on her nose as she examined a serving spoon. She had taught Sunday how to recognize dovetail joints, read maker’s marks, negotiate with grieving relatives, and never trust anyone who announced something was definitely an original Tiffany. “You took eleven minutes.”

“You’re retired, where do you have to be?”

“Somewhere that isn’t here.”

Sunday placed the velvet box beside her. “Wedding ring and personal note underneath. Daughter needs to decide.”

Bea peered inside. “Good catch.”

Two words, practically a parade. Sunday reached for the clipboard. “Anybody call about next week?”

Bea didn’t answer. Her fingers stopped. “Bea?”

“You know there isn’t a next week.”

“I know what you said. I’m asking if anybody called.”

“No.”

Sunday picked up the silver spoon Bea had been examining. Sterling, seventy-five dollars on a good day. Groceries, a tank of gas, and part of the electric bill. She hated that her brain had started doing that. For four years, she had been saving for Bell & Found, the vintage shop she’d planned so long that her sister May had threatened to throw her a grand-opening party whether a store existed or not. Sunday had the name, the logo, a notebook full of ideas, and a folder on her laptop labeled POSSIBLE LOCATIONS.

She’d gotten closer once. Six months ago, Sunday had stood inside a narrow storefront with exposed brick, crooked wooden floors, and a little brass bell above the door that had made her fall in love before she reached the counter. Then the landlord slid a three-year lease across the desk. Personal guarantee. Rent due whether Bell & Found sold three thousand dollars that month or three. The empty shop had stopped looking charming and started looking hungry. Sunday had handed the pen back.

Bea set down the spoon. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking so loudly I can hear it.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“With you, it is.” Bea reached for her phone. “I sent you something.”

Sunday’s phone chimed.

PRIVATE COMPANION — TEMPORARY

Reading, conversation, music, light personal assistance, private residence, and discretion essential.

Then she reached the compensation. Her fingers tightened around the spoon. “Fifteen hundred dollars a week?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“For talking?”

“Among other things.”

“Bea, I have been giving that away for free.”

“Your entire family knows.”

Sunday ignored that. “Who needs this much companionship?”

“Apply and find out.”

There was no employer name, no company, and applications were being handled through a private staffing agency. “Sounds weird.”

“You like weird.”

“I like old lamps shaped like flamingos, that’s different.”

“Then don’t apply.”

Sunday stared at the listing. Fifteen hundred dollars, every week. Bell & Found flashed through her mind: mismatched shelves, handwritten history cards, the little counter she’d already sketched three different ways. Maybe this wasn’t taking her away from the dream. Maybe it was how she finally got there. Sunday hit APPLY before common sense could catch up. Bea smiled without looking at her. Sunday narrowed her eyes. “What do you know?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“And you’re unemployed.”

Fair.

The confirmation appeared on Sunday’s screen.

Thank you, Ms. Bell. If your experience meets our client’s needs, you will be contacted for a confidential interview.

Sunday slipped the phone into her pocket. Fifteen hundred dollars a week to keep somebody company. How difficult could that possibly be?