The Secret Obituary Writer by Amy Martinsen

Author:Amy Martinsen [Martinsen, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781734314823
Publisher: Walnut Springs Press
Published: 2020-02-26T16:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

As I opened the shed door to grab the lawn mower and weed eater, I heard Jackson’s truck pull up on the street out front. Under the overcast sky, the humid air smelled spicy, thanks to the fig tree in our back yard. I had on my work clothes—cutoffs, an old T-shirt, and tennis shoes. My messy hair was thrown into a ponytail.

Jackson walked around the corner of the house, wearing jeans, T-shirt, baseball cap, and the determined gaze of a man ready to work. I could almost see him making a mental check list of things to do, something I’d experienced a hundred times with my dad and brothers.

When Jackson spotted me, he smiled and hurried over. “Morning, gorgeous,” he said as he took the gas can out of my hands. I winced at his compliment, knowing I looked dramatically different than the evening before. He must not have cared, because he took my arms and wrapped them around his neck, then drew me close and said softly in my ear, “How’s my Lizzy Girl this morning?”

Parts of me melted at the simple words. I kissed him soundly, then pulled away. “I’m good. It’s so sweet of you to help me.”

He flashed his dimples. “How about you start on the weed eater and I’ll get the mower going?”

He checked the weed eater for line and fuel, then started it and handed it to me. I moved to the edge of the lawn. Jackson started the mower with one pull and began a systematic pattern across the grass. I liked doing the lawn work by myself, but this was even better, moving in a comfortable rhythm alongside a person who knew how to work.

Before I knew it we were done, and the lawn looked great. I’d set my alarm extra early to cut up fresh fruit and make pancake batter, and when Jackson started spraying off the walks, I told him I’d go make breakfast. When he came into the kitchen, his hands and face were dripping with water, so I handed him a towel before I flipped the last few pancakes.

“Thanks. I washed off with the hose,” Jackson said. “This smells great, Lizzy. You’ve gone to some extra trouble.” He leaned against the stove and dried his neck with the towel. He looked so good I almost dropped the spatula.

“You didn’t have to help with the yard,” I managed.

He reached over and pulled a leaf from my hair. “It was fun.”

I handed him the plate of pancakes, then went to the fridge for the fruit. “These are special pancakes, from Ida Sue’s cookbook. Did I ever tell you about that obituary?”

“No. Is it funny?” Jackson asked.

“Yeah, although the way she died sounds pretty awful.” The daisies were still perky, so I had put them on the table in their vase. Jackson set the pancakes down and waited by my side of the table. I smiled and allowed him to pull out the chair for me.

After I said a blessing on the food, we ate our breakfast.

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