Page 60 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

The children of Blackthorn Bay ride their scooters to elementary school in saturated coats, helmet lights blinking Morse code at each other in the blue air. An elderly couple bickers in front of the bakery about the politics of scones. A lilac bush, contrary to every published horticultural account, blooms from a crack in the sidewalk, and a pair of robins fights over its territory as though Global Ornithological Consensus is at stake.

These are the observations I catalogue. Five years ago, I would have walked this route unnoticed, a black shape behind the hedge of human preoccupations. Now, they see me.

“Good morning, Mr. Grim!”

It is the little Daprinski girl, hair in two jagged pigtails, shoes on the wrong feet. Around here, I do not have the privilege of a real surname. In Blackthorn Bay, first impressions ossify into local legend. The mysterious undertaker. The giant in the darkcoat. Grim. Not “Mr. Grim,” not “Grimly,” not even “Grimoire.” Just Grim. Apparently the name sounds friendly to children, like a helpful pet or a minor circus act.

“Morning,” I reply, forcing my mouth into a smile. The effect, based on past experiment, is equivalent to a thunderstorm threatening to clear but never quite managing it. She beams.

Past the library, which is now also a “community creative hub” (translation: a place where the elderly attempt to convert everyone to embroidery), I am flagged down by Mrs. Finch. A legend in her own right, three generations deep in town gossip, purple coat year-round, scented with peppermint oil and conspiracy.

She calls out, “Grim, you absolute tower, do you have a moment? I need some brawn.”

She stands beside a planter that appears to have been engineered by the Army Corps of Engineers, its dirt compressed to bedrock, its petunias cowering beneath a layer of frost.

“Of course,” I say, stepping over cracks and root-knuckles, glancing at the angle she has calculated for leverage. She wants the thing precisely thirty centimeters to the left, where it will catch the morning sun. None of this surprises me. What still surprises me is the trust—that she beckons me over in broad daylight, in full view of her fellow townsfolk, with no more self-consciousness than if she were calling the butcher or the plumber.

I lift the planter with a single motion, and she tsks in theatrical amazement.

“Strongest man in town,” she says. “Might as well put you on the tourism website.”

I set the planter exactly where she wants it.

“You could charge admission,” I say, deadpan.

Mrs. Finch’s laugh is acerbic and honest, like the snap of hard candy.

“Don’t tempt me. You’d pack the place. Now come by for breakfast again, all right? I still have questions about the afterlife.”

“I’ll bring pastries,” I say, because this has become part of the arrangement.

She waves me on, satisfied, as though I am a particularly well-adjusted retriever.

I continue down the block. Several storefronts have painted their windows for spring. Flowers, bumblebees, pink rabbits that appear to have been influenced by hallucinogens. I admire the artwork for a moment before catching my own reflection: black coat (designer, not funereal), dark slacks, shirt collar open, boots polished. My hair is longer now, dusted at the temples. The people of Blackthorn Bay have domesticated me, or at least convinced me to look like someone they would willingly invite into their home.

When I was young—meaning the first five or six centuries—solitude was discipline, privacy armor. If you are Death, you learn not to become too comfortable anywhere. You learn not to answer questions. You learn to expect, at any moment, the lashing out of something primitive in the hearts of those who sense your presence before they can name it.

It occurs to me as I cross into the morning rush that I have not only become comfortable here.

I am known.

Belladonna Blooms comes into view at the end of the block. The sign, painted in Lavinia’s hand, brims with brushstrokes and wild color: navy, gold, raspberry, green. The windows are fogged with condensation and wreathed in climbing amaryllis, pansies, and something small and neon blue that I still cannot identify. The sidewalk is an explosion of potted violets and petunias, buckets of daffodils and tulips arranged with themeticulous chaos of a Dutch flower auction. Human voices mingle with birdsong and the steady clack of the cash register.

I duck through the door. The bell above it is no longer a skull-shaped novelty but a perfectly ordinary brass jingle, though I am convinced the sound could wake the dead.

The shop is crowded, as always. Atlas, clad in a saffron windbreaker, is attempting to gift-wrap a potted cactus for his wife and dance partner, Zelda. Cassian stands in the sunniest spot just inside the window, arms crossed and eyes closed, so profoundly relaxed he might be meditating. He is supposed to be on a stakeout, but he insists sitting among potted plants is cheaper than a tropical vacation.

But it is Lavinia’s voice that catches me—the true pulse of the shop.

“—and if you cut the stems at an angle, they last longer! Think of it like giving the flower a little straw so it can drink better.”

She giggles, and her laugh has only grown freer in the years since we met, lighter and richer, as though she is carrying around a private joke she finally feels safe enough to share with the world.

There is a ring light, of course, and a phone perched on a tripod, and a half-dozen bouquets arrayed on the counter. She is wearing a dress the color of apricots, her hair loose around her shoulders, her hands flying as she arranges stems and talks to an unseen audience.

I have a complicated relationship with phones and their cameras. It is not strictly possible for me to appear in certain kinds of digital recordings, but over the years we have discovered that Lavinia’s phone simply refuses to malfunction. It is one of the many mysteries I have elected to leave unexplored.

She senses me before she sees me, as always.