Playing with Fire by Desiree Holt

had to be someone else she could call. She was still more shaken by their encounter than she could admit to herself.
    She was interrupted again when Donald Brandon called to tell her he’d confirmed the memorial service for Tuesday, if that was all right with her.
    Why did everyone ask her that when she had no real choice?
    “Fine, Donald. Thanks.” She rubbed her forehead, where a headache was beginning to build.
    “I spoke to the minister, and he’s agreed to perform the service. He’s also notified the cemetery, and they’ll prepare the grave site, right next to your father.”
    “Thank you,” she repeated. “I appreciate you handling all of this.”
    “I hope everything meets with your approval.” His slippery voice slid over the wires.
    “I’m sure it’s fine, Donald,” she told him again. Did he want her to express undying gratitude? “Whatever you arrange will be all right with me.”
    “I’ve run off some funeral notices,” he continued. “We’ll get them around this weekend.”
    Stoneham’s newspaper published once a week, on Wednesdays. The usual method of notification of events between times was flyers in all the local stores. No high-tech age in this town.
    “Fine, fine. I’ll touch base with you on Monday morning.”
    “I know this must be a trying time for you,” he went on. “Perhaps you’d like to have dinner with me tomorrow night? A little companionship is always nice.”
    Another dinner invitation. What was it with all these men and meals? She’d never had so much as a hamburger with them when she’d lived here before.
    “I don’t think so, Donald.” She bit down on her impatience. “I have a lot of work to get done in the house.”
    “Well, all right. But if you change your mind, just give me a call.”
    Her original plan was to finish most of the downstairs by the end of the afternoon, but all the interruptions had given her a headache that had set up shop behind her right eye.
    Tomorrow. As long as I’m stuck here for a few days, I might as well not kill myself. She pulled her pad of paper across the counter toward her and listed things to check—utilities, mail, the newspapers. Whatever she couldn’t sell, she’d have to arrange for shipping to Tampa. Or give it away, which might be the best solution. There wasn’t anything she wanted, truth be told.
    Then there was the yardwork. Carol Markham was right—the grounds were a mess. The signs of neglect were everywhere. A buyer would be put off by that and the fading trim. She’d ask Neil to recommend someone. Landscaper as well as painter. There had to be someone she could hire besides Griffin Hunter. Having him around would just open the can of worms she was trying to close.
    Monday she’d get copies of the will, the death certificate, and probate papers from Neil and take them to the bank so she could transact her business there.
    She sighed. Why had she ever been so foolish as to think she could accomplish this over the weekend with no problems? Everything, it seemed, conspired to keep her here long past the limit of her endurance.
    The ringing of the phone again startled her.
    Now what?
    “Just checking to make sure you’re doing okay.”
    Harley sounded so steady and soothing, Cassie almost cried at the warm familiarity. “Not great, but okay,” she told him.
    “I spoke to Neil, and he said he’ll do what he can to help you wrap things up here as fast as possible. Time to bury the past, right, Cassie?”
    She sighed. “I thought I’d already done that, but it seems fate dug it up again. Thanks for checking on things. The sooner done the better.”
    “I agree. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
    Life had indeed conspired to tear open the scars of the old wounds, and she wondered now if they’d ever heal.
    On impulse, she picked up the phone and dialed Claire.
    “Oh, Cassie, I’m so glad you called. I just this minute got home and was checking for messages. How’s it going,