When you lose your mom when you’re little, it’s hard. But you miss her even more when your dad has to buy you your first bra.
I’m so excited! The Mortician’s Daughter: One Foot in the Grave will be out Oct. 31st. I think you’ll love Riley Smith as much as you loved Kylie Galen. Yup, they have a lot in common. One thing is that they both see ghosts—but both girls also have a lot of baggage to deal with. Riley lost her mom when she was young, and that’s bee difficult, especially when her dad had to be both her dad and mom.
EXCERPT FROM THE MORTICIAN’S DAUGHTER
I’d always gotten a feeling Dad didn’t know how to parent a daughter. My first bra and the whole starting-my-period experience almost killed him. And not once has he said the word “sex.”
Working on that Mustang gave us something in common.
“Speaking of cars,” Dad says, smiling, “I’m about to make your day.”
“Yup. I got your insurance card in the mail.”
“Yes!” I do a little victory dance in my chair. When he lost his last job, he had to cut the insurance on my car, so I haven’t been able to drive it for almost two months.
“So I can drive it to school tomorrow?” I ask and squeal a little.
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “You and that car.”
Thrilled I don’t have to walk to school anymore, I dish a big bite of stew into my mouth and taste it for the first time. It’s good. “You sure you don’t want a bowl?”
“No.” He sips his water. I eat.
The almost empty echo in the house reminds me how big it is. All our houses in the past have been small, older. They seemed to fit us better.
“Have you made any friends at school?” Dad asks.
I almost lie, then decide against it. “Not really.” A sudden puff of steam rises from my bowl. A chill runs down my spine. I continue to eat and ignore it. Pumpkin hauls ass out from under the table and darts under the sofa. Dad frowns.
“You should put yourself out there more. Make some friends.”
I point my spoon at him and force my eyes to stay on him. Just him. “Says the man who never puts himself out there.”
“I’m around people all the time.”
“Dead people don’t count.” I lift a brow and take another bite.
“Not just dead people.” He turns the water bottle in his hand. “Did you get into the honors classes you wanted for next semester?”
I think so,” I say. Good grades mean a possible scholarship. I’m going to need one. My next intake of air brings with it a hint of jasmine. I remember smelling it earlier. Dad leans back in his chair.
“There’s an antique car show going on downtown this weekend. I thought we’d go. Hang out. Talk cars with people.”
“Great idea.” I finish my last bite of stew and go rinse out the bowl and put it in the dishwasher. Then I pull out containers to store the leftovers.
This week I’m giving away a signed copy of The Mortician’s Daughter to one person who leaves a comment. (Sorry, but this giveaway is for U.S. residents only. If you’re reading this on Goodreads, you must leave your comment on my blog to enter this giveaway.)
The winner of last week’s giveaway of a USB with The Mortician’s Daughter on it, is Fiona Sutton. Congratulations! Please email me with your postal address at firstname.lastname@example.org.