eleven

Unfortunately, I’d all but come to expect attending unexpected funerals for people I’d just met. Somehow though, willing away the rubbery feeling in my legs while we entered the candle-and flower-filled church to view Alejandro in his final resting position was not at all how I’d anticipated spending this particular south-of-the-­border Sunday.

“I feel so awkward being here,” I said, watching Frank wipe away a showy tear while we made our way past the cameraman lurking behind a carved wooden pillar in the simple but stunning local church.

“It’s good public relations all around.”

“I guess,” I said. “Everything feels like it’s happening so fast.”

“Here in Mexico, we bury loved ones as quickly as possible,” Felipe, our ever-informative driver and guide said from behind us. “When someone dies, we gather everyone immediately, and the body goes into the ground within forty-eight hours.”

“I don’t know about this …” Eloise said approaching the open casket. She was initially pleased at the prospect of clandestine screen time in the sexy-yet-somehow-appropriate black cap-sleeved, v-back dress that wardrobe had shown up with for her to wear. But as soon as she neared the body, she squeezed her eyes shut, paid her respects, and disappeared.

I couldn’t say I blamed her. I could barely force myself to look at the ghoulish, gray-skinned remains of the vibrant and handsome man who’d been sending me flirty notes not two days earlier.

More difficult was the idea that my mere presence in his world might have been the cause of his untimely demise.

Thank you for bringing your show down here to our resort, he’d said. If everything continues to go this well, the payoff will be even better than I imagined.

Or so much worse.

“Can you believe people are taking pictures of him?” FJ whispered from beside me.

“It’s our way of remembering the departed,” Felipe explained as a couple other mourners followed suit. “The photographs are considered a tribute to the rite of passage.”

“Kinda cool when you think about it,” Trent said, eyeing the body as well as the rosaries, books, poems, and assorted belongings surrounding him in the casket.

The crowd, already speaking in low tones, fell completely silent as a woman dressed in black appeared in the central doorway of the church sanctuary, her face concealed by a sheer black veil. A moment later, she was joined by Enrique, who was looking more ashen than he had when he’d addressed the wedding guests at yesterday’s brunch.

As they strode together to the front of the church, our eyes met for the briefest of moments. I realized I hadn’t recognized who she also was because her beautiful brown hair tumbled past her shoulders instead of being slicked back in a tight French twist.

Elena, the wedding planner.

I was about to ask Felipe if she and Enrique were a couple when the crowd parted and Elena reached the coffin. She tucked a photo underneath his folded hands, touched his undoubtedly cold, waxy cheek, and her legs buckled beneath her.

Felipe, along with a couple of other mourners, rushed to her aid.

The next thing I knew we were being guided to VIP seats in view of the camera and away from anyone who could have answered my latest in a growing list of questions.

The ceremony was something of a blur as Elena was revived and seated between Enrique and the town mayor in the front row along with family, key members of the Hacienda de la Fortuna staff, and other local dignitaries. The padre made his way toward the front of the sanctuary with the usual pomp and circumstance. I knelt when everyone else knelt, stood when everyone else stood, and said amen when I was supposed to. I even sang along, to the extent I could, with the Spanish versions of some familiar hymns. As the service continued, I noted that everyone I’d met since arriving was in attendance, from the yoga instructor to a doe-eyed Ivan, who kept stealing gazes at Eloise. I also spotted familiar faces from our afternoon in town, including the manager of the cantina and two or three shop owners.

As the padre spoke about the fullness of Alejandro’s life and his success as a sales manager, and quoted beautiful and hopeful passages from the bible in both Spanish and English, the giant lump that was lodged in my throat threatened to choke me. I scanned the pews, trying to make eye contact with the numerous women who matched the description of Sombrero Lady (short, stocky, and of indeterminate age) in the hopes one of them would return my eye contact and meet up with me later for a detailed explanation of her suspicions.

No such luck.

The mass concluded with the sprinkling of holy water on the coffin. Before there was time to get up and stretch our legs, a Mariachi band appeared to accompany us, our ever-discreet camera crew, and the rest of the mourners to the burial site.

It wasn’t until we’d arrived at the cemetery and assorted family members were in the process of saying their final good-byes that I caught a glimpse of the photo tucked under Alejandro’s crossed hands.

A photo of Alejandro and Elena standing together, his arm draped around her shoulder.

I stepped back over to Felipe, who happened to be standing not far from Frank.

“So tragic,” I whispered, my eyes on a once-again sobbing Elena.

“Incredibly,” Felipe agreed.

“Were Alejandro and Elena a couple?” I finally managed to ask.

He nodded. “But it was complicated.”

Somehow, whatever so-called complications there were did nothing to make me feel better about his passes at me. Particularly given the realities of the situation.

Before I could mull that over much, the coffin was closed and the burial got underway. Individual prayers were said, the padre led the group in a communal rosary, and relatives went up to throw handfuls of dirt on the coffin. Even the lead police officer on the case shuffled up and tossed in his own handful of dirt.

“Is it customary for the police to come to the funerals of the victims they investigate?” I asked.

“It’s best not to question these kind of things too much,” Felipe said in the most hushed of tones.

“Because?”

I expected a long-winded response about tradition and small-town life in Mexico.

“A lo hecho, pecho,” Felipe said instead, dabbing a tear from his eye. “What’s done is done.”