3. Talking About Wood

CHAPTER 3

TALKING ABOUT WOOD

MISTY

"So, who will it be this time? A recluse? A morally gray tycoon? Oh, a fashion designer who reigned during the 80s, but a fall from grace left them penniless and friendless as they aged?" Anastasia's eyes dance as she asks this over brunch at a trendy new spot on Melrose. She's the only person in my life who understands my job. My father certainly doesn't.

"High school teacher." I tell her. "The profile in the email from Higgins Funeral Home says the deceased is a retired instructor who lived alone after a painful divorce where the spouse and kids disowned them completely. Very few people are expected to attend."

Poor thing. Which is where I come in. As a member of WAFIT—the Weddings and Funerals Improv Troupe—I'm a professional funeral attendee for hire. And sometimes for weddings. Yes, that's my job. We get hired by families and funeral homes to fill in as guests when needed. I never thought of myself as an actress, but I took a few drama classes in college as part of my major in theater arts with an emphasis on costume design.

Life threw me some curves, though, after graduation, and I haven't been able to put my degree to good use. Another thing Dad isn't crazy about considering what he paid for my education.

"Easy peasy then." Anastasia shoulder shrugs. "You're a former student who loved her dearly. She mentored you in theater club helping you make your decision to work in movies. Someday when you win an Oscar, you'll stand at the podium brandishing your golden trophy and thank Mrs.—?"

" Mr. Wood. And he taught wood shop." I deadpan.

"Semantics. Or should I say schematics." She snickers at her own joke, ever the word smith. I'm not as impressed, with a roll of my eyes. "Okay, so instead of acting, Mr. Wood inspired you to always give back, which is why you volunteer your time on the weekends building for Houses for the Homeless."

"I've never picked up a hammer a day in my life." I arch a brow. She's so good at making up stories on the fly like this. It is sweet and helpful as improv was never my strong suit. But it was only one of two jobs that I landed when I returned to L.A. I also work as a part-time driver for the Big Red Beverly Hills Celebrity Tour Bus company.

"Come on, Misty. Be the girl Mr. Wood inspired to hold that hammer and wield that power, thrusting it on the nailhead like-like…" Her hand jerks in the air, her fingers rounded as if holding something. My mind turns to the gutter.

"Are we still talking about a hammer?" I cast a sly grin and toss a peanut at her. It lands in her lap. She brushes it away, then gets that look in her eyes I know all too well.

"Oh. This inspires me. Hold on." She picks up her phone and taps away like I'm her muse and given her the beginnings of her next great script.

I love her. She's been my bestie since we were college roommates. She, Anastasia Jovovic, the aspiring holiday romcom movie screenwriter, and me, Misty McMichael, the aspiring costume designer. I helped in a few of her early plays on the stage at UCLA. We weren't half bad.

She's made it, too. After a few years of struggle in Hollywood, she finally got a job on the writing staff for a major studio who produces all those cutesy romantic comedies for Christmas. She's at the bottom of the wrung though, fighting to get her voice and ideas heard.

Then there's me. The woman who moved to another country to be with a man only to find out he'd been lying to me the entire time.

"I swear I'm going to write a heroine just like you one day. A Professional Funeral Crasher," she chuckles, shaking her head, as she sets her phone aside.

"Right. Because that's just such a romantic career compared to a floral designer or a wedding planner or a baker like the heroines in most of your studio's movies." I snort with sarcasm. "And my love interest, of course, will be?—"

"A sexy hockey player." She wiggles her eyebrows.

"Ew. No. After what I went through with my ex? I doubt I'll be dating a player ever again. Aren't your heroes usually something more noble, like a fireman? There will be something that prevents the Christmas festival from happening, and the fireman and the florist will save the day by some small miracle. They'll fall in love and kiss at the very end." I giggle. Not knocking her choice of screenplays to write, they can be a little predictable.

I'd love to be in charge of costumes in one of those films.

She's not listening, though, intent with her gaze directed over my shoulder. Of course, I twist my head to look, and there are indeed a few hockey players from the Los Angeles Vipers being seated for lunch. I can tell only because of the Vipers logos on their shirts.

One of them waves and grins at me. I think I met him one day when I met Dad for lunch at the arena. I don't recall his name and couldn't care less, and I don't return the greeting. I'm done with players. There's no way Dad would let me date another hockey player, anyway, after the fiasco with my ex. I'm Coach McMichael's daughter, and it wouldn't surprise me if he put out a warning in the locker room that I'm strictly off-limits. Suits me fine.

Anastasia has a thing for hockey. A huge thing. For the players, mainly, not the game. Dad can get us prime seats against the glass, the ones he usually saves for more important people in the world of hockey. But occasionally the seats are empty so he offers the tickets to us.

Thanks to me, Anastasia can get her fill of eye candy watching the guys stretch out pre-game on the ice. Thanks to her, she keeps me informed of when there are rare positions open in the costume department at the studio.

I'd love to land a job working on one, but so far, nothing has happened there. She'd love to land a hockey player, but so far, my quirky, curvy friend hasn't caught one.

Of course, it doesn't help that I'm like player repellent. I've tried to explain to her that I'm her worst possible wing man, er lady, because none of the guys on the team will come near me. I'm surprised this one at brunch even dares wave at me.

"No thanks." I turn back to Anastasia and snap my fingers to get her attention. "Eyes on me please."

"Sorry. What were we talking about?" Her face tilts toward me but her eyes are still raking over the guys.

"Wood." After a brief pause, we both snort and get the giggles. I pick up my champagne flute and finish off my mimosa. I love brunch with her, and I missed these the year I was away, wasting my life with a man who didn't deserve me. "Your obsession with men who hold big sticks needs to be brought under control."

"I can't help it. I love them. And I'm sorry you had such a rotten time with one that it now clouds your vision from seeing the true gift these men are from God to women." With stars in her eyes, she finishes her drink, too, and fishes in her bag for something.

"Uh, I think my asshole ex did more than cloud it, more like obliterate my interest in men who play games for a living forever."

I watch her produce a compact and red lipstick from her purse—a shade she never wears unless she's trying to catch a guys' eye. Honestly, though, with her dark hair, her creamy skin, and her light chocolate eyes behind thick black frames, the red gives her a va-va-voom, and I wish she'd wear it more often, even for herself, not just for attention.

"I know you went through so much with the-man-we-shall-not-name, but I hate how jaded it's made you."

"Jaded? Am I really?" Who am I kidding? I am.

"Yes. It's not just hockey players, but against men in general."

I shake my head to disagree, but our server drops the bill for our meal and it's my turn to pay. Now I'm the one digging into my purse, hoping I find enough money.

Anastasia takes her glasses off and cleans them, and I know what's coming next—her sincere opinion and concern.

"Look, I've been saying these daily affirmations to bring the right man into my life. I think you should say them, too."

"No thanks." I plop enough cash for the bill and tip on the table.

"Someday soon I'm going to find my true love, I know it. But I worry about you, Misty. You'll be my only single girlfriend left."

"What's wrong with that?" I fully admire her determination, but I don't mind being an independent woman.

"In the writing room, we have certain types we assign for side characters as we write them. There's always that one friend who never finds love, and it's sad. When I'm married, I'll want to fix you up with my husband's friends, and you'll be the one always alone at the holidays playing third wheel to us. My kids will call you Auntie Misty when you're not related by blood. I can't stand the thought of you being all alone. We need to find you a man so you can forget your ex and be filled with hope again."

I'm ready to retort but her words suddenly hit me like Mr. Wood's hammer on the nail head. It's more than the idea of spending my nights and holidays alone. What if I die alone? Mom did. The people at the funerals do. That's why this job appeals to me, being able to be there for people who have no one.

It's a very disturbing possibility that I never gave consideration before, that I could end up one of them. Not that I'm about to rush right out and get me the next man who crosses my path.