 Judging
from the heavy pounding on the front door of the Granger Funeral
Home, Wyatt Granger figured either the defensive line of the Oakland
Raiders had come to pay a visit or someone had died. Since Wyatt
did own and operate a funeral home—and
the average member of the Oakland Raiders, along with
most other people in California, had no idea that Sibleyville existed—that
left the latter proposition. Wyatt's luck had run out,
and someone was dead.
Wyatt cursed and slowly set down the newspaper on the nearby
coffee table. It appeared that his late evening ritual of reading
the paper was not going to happen tonight. He suspected that most
funeral directors did not curse when they were faced with the
prospect of potential customers. But, then again, Wyatt was not
like most funeral directors.
Unfortunately for Wyatt though, he was the last Granger left
in Sibleyville and by default that left him to answer the door
and pretend to be like most funeral directors. After all, the
Granger Funeral Home motto was not Burying Your Dead Since 1919
for nothing.
Wyatt forced himself to stand from his father's favorite easy
chair and walked through the foyer to the front door. He took
a deep breath and stood frozen at the front door. He cursed at
himself again. He needed to stop acting like a wuss and open the
door.
Wyatt pasted his best funeral director smile on his face and
opened the door. He was immediately blinded by a bright white
light and the sound of applause. He shielded his eyes with a hand
and squinted into the light. At least ten people stood crowded
on the covered front porch. There were two cameras, one man holding
the blinding light overhead and another guy holding a large microphone.
And in front of the entire circus stood Quinn Sibley.
Wyatt felt the sudden urge to vomit. It was the same reaction
every time he saw her. Like a sledgehammer in his gut. She was
too beautiful, too perfect. And entirely too much out of his league.
His gaze drifted from her perfectly formed, heart-shaped lips
to the deep V of the skintight dark green halter dress that skimmed
every famous and well-photographed curve of her body. Her brown
hair held hints of dark blond and honey and hung like a curtain
of silk down her back. Her honey-brown skin was flawless, and
her hazel eyes flashed more green one moment, then more brown
another. He would have sworn they were contacts if he hadn't spent
so much time studying her to know they were 100% real. And then
there were her breasts.
Men could spend hours writing poems to her breasts. Wyatt had
spent enough time staring at them over the last year to know every
curve by heart. They were a little too perky and round and perfect
to be God-given, but they were absolutely perfect. Any man who
turned up his nose at them was either blind or a complete fool.
And with all things that came in a package that promised to be
too good to be true, Wyatt had stayed far away from her. No, sir.
Not him. Besides, he had other plans for himself this holiday
season, like getting to know Dorrie Diamond better. Dorrie was
petite, cute and most importantly, one of the only single women
in town under the age of sixty and over the age of eighteen. Not
to mention that she was black, this was even rarer in Sibleyville.
She was 28 years old and Wyatt had decided that she was perfect
for his plan. He wanted to start a family and judging from the
longing he saw in her eyes when she saw babies, so did she. Quinn
Sibley was nowhere in that plan. Not one beautiful inch of her.
"Wyatt!" Quinn exclaimed, as if he were a long lost
friend.
When Wyatt only gaped in response, Quinn threw her arms around
him and squeezed her ample breasts against his chest and, God
help him, Wyatt moved closer to her, allowing himself for a moment
to accept that this was not a fantasy.
Ever since he had first met Quinn Sibley in Sibleyville last
year, she had been the name in lights in his daydreams and fantasies.
She and her two sisters had come to Sibleyville to live in their
grandfather's boyhood home for a few weeks in hopes of inheriting
Max Sibley's considerable fortune. There had been no fortune,
but the women had left a mark on Sibleyville. Quinn's sister,
Charlie, had married Wyatt's best friend, Graham, and the two
had spent the last year essentially disgusting everyone with their
lovesick, puppy-dog looks and cuddly exchanges. Thankfully, Charlie
and Graham spent most of their time in Los Angeles.
 The few times Wyatt had seen Quinn since she and her sisters
had left town had been just enough to let him know that it hadn't
been a joke: this woman had a hold on him. She knew it, which
probably explained why she treated him like snail dung on the
bottom of her shoe. And glutton for punishment that he was, Wyatt
still could not stop thinking about her. Or her body and those
lips, to put it more accurately. It was pure lust, and lust could
be controlled. Or so Wyatt had heard.
"You're looking good, Wyatt," Quinn gushed, as she
not so subtly positioned him so that they both faced the camera. "What
has it been? Five, six months? Too long, right? We're practically
family. We shouldn't wait this long to see each other."
It took him a while because he did have the most perfect pair
of breasts pressed against him a few seconds ago, but Wyatt finally
realized that it was not an accident that Quinn and a camera crew
were hogging his porch.
"Quinn," he finally said.
He glanced at the cameras and the men in flannel shirts and khaki
shirts standing around the porch, watching the scene with bored
expressions. One man blew a bubble, then popped it and continued
to chew like a cow.
Wyatt stepped closer to her and turned his back to the cameras.
He asked, flatly, "What is going on?"
"I've got a chance of a lifetime for you, Wyatt," Quinn
continued excitedly, ignoring his question. She flashed a smile
at the camera, then turned back to Wyatt,
"I'm documenting one of the most exciting moments of my
life—my homecoming to Sibleyville—"
"Homecoming?" he repeated, blankly. "You're not
from—"
She squeezed his arm—hard—and continued to smile
at the camera. "I have been picked to star in a Helmut Ledenhault
movie. Yes, that's right, Wyatt, the Helmut Ledenhault. And, even
more, exciting, Helmut has chosen to film the movie here in Sibleyville.
Our little town. And here is the really best part, Wyatt. Are
you ready for this?"
"No."
Like a runaway train, she ignored his distinct lack of enthusiasm
and plodded on. "We want to film the movie here in the Granger
Funeral Home!" Wyatt shook his head in disbelief, and this
time she pinched him on the back of his arm. He flinched in surprise.
Her camera-worthy smile never faltered. "Two weeks, at the
most, Wyatt. What do you stay? Are you ready to be a star?"
Wyatt stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. For the first
time, her bright smile faltered for a second as she nervously
glanced at the camera and then back to him.
Wyatt cleared his throat, then said to the crew, "Can you
guys give us a minute?"
"Cut, cut, cut!" roared an irritated male voice.
Wyatt squinted against the lights as a man walked up the porch
steps from the darkness of the front lawn. The man stood no taller
than Quinn's shoulder, and while Quinn wasn't a short woman at
close to five-foot-eight, that meant the man wasn't exactly tall.
He had a bad hairpiece that sat askew atop his head, and thick
black-rimmed eyeglasses covered beady blue eyes that were perched
above a beady nose and a beady mouth, if a mouth could be beady.
He was dressed in an allkhaki outfit for a day on safari—or
at least how movie stars in the 1940s dressed for a day on safari—with
the white scarf tied around his neck.
"Quinn, what the hell is going on here?" the man shouted
in a thick German accent, jabbing his hands on his hips. "You
said that this wouldn't be a problem. That this was all just a
formality. That you had this cowboy wrapped around your little
finger. It doesn't look like he's wrapped around your little finger.
In fact, it looks to me like he's on the verge of saying no, and
he cannot be saying no when we need to start filming this movie
in one week."
Wyatt stepped in between Quinn and the fuming man. Wyatt kept
his voice even as he pinned the man with a hard glare and said, "I
don't know where exactly you're from, little man, and I don't
care, but around here we don't talk to ladies like that. Comprende?"
Some of the anger drained from the man's expression as he shot
an uncertain glance over his shoulder at the camera crew.
"Were you filming that? I said to cut. Don't you idiots
know the meaning of the word? I'll put it more simple for the
un-evolved around us. Turn! Off! The! Cameras!" Helmut screamed
at the crew, since he realized that screaming at Quinn was no
longer an option.
The other men did a poor show of hiding their smiles and nods
of appreciation at Wyatt. The lights and cameras went out.
"Wyatt, please," Quinn snapped, irritated, stepping
around Wyatt. She sent the man an apologetic smile.
"He's from Sibleyville, Helmut. He doesn't know any better.
He's really sorry for threatening you."
"I did not sign up for amateur hour," Helmut spat at
her. He waved to the enraptured camera crew. "Let's leave
this town before we start to smell like it."
"Helmut, wait," Quinn pleaded, running around the man
to block the porch steps. "Wyatt will let us use the house,
right, Wyatt?" She stared at him imploringly.
Wyatt ignored Quinn and pinned Helmut with another hard glare.
Helmut flinched, then turned to Quinn. "You need me much
more than I need you, Quinn. Remember that. You have one week,
and then I find a new location and a new lead actress. One week."
"One week?" she sputtered in disbelief. "But,
it's Christmas—"
"Merry Christmas, Quinn."
With pat of his proverbial hair, he descended the steps towards
a waiting van. The camera crew mumbled amongst themselves and
slowly followed. There was no sound in the neighborhood as the
two minivans filled up and drove down the oak tree-lined street
toward the highway.
Wyatt glanced down the dark street at the other houses...
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