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Stanley. Father of four grown daughters—one of whom was a pediatrician in Rockaway Beach. Husband of fifty-two years to Emmaline Louise Stanley, who’d passed away last spring. He’d been the custodian at St. Michael’s for the past twenty-eight years. He’d meant to retire last year (he and Emmaline were going to buy an RV and head for Branson and Dollywood on account of Emma was a huge Dolly Parton fan). But then Em had died and he hadn’t been able to watch a rerun of Best Little Whorehouse in Texas since.
    His oldest girl had been after him to join a bridge club or a senior golfers group or something. She said he needed to get out more and meet people. Maybe a nice woman to share dinner with once in a while, instead of eating TV dinners all by his lonesome. He kept telling Susie he didn’t need a dad-burned dinner date and that he liked Hungry-Mans. Particularly the fried chicken. Sure, he thought it might be nice to have company once in a while, but he couldn’t quite accept the thought of breaking bread with any other woman besides his beloved Emmaline.
    Awwww…
    “You take care now, Miss Lil, and don’t talk to strangers. The city can be mighty unforgiving at night.” He started to turn.
    “Wait.” I touched his arm. “I’d really like to repay your kindness.”
    “Oh, no.” He waved me off. “I couldn’t take any money. It wouldn’t seem right.”
    I was liking this guy more and more. “What about a date?” I handed him a DED card.
    He studied the white vellum for a long moment before he shook his head. “It’s mighty kind of you, but I don’t think so.”
    “I could help you find your soul mate.”
    “Already found her.”
    My chest hitched and an image of Ty popped into my head. Not that he’s my soul mate or anything. Or that we have a connection that goes beyond the physical. He’s a made vamp and I’m a born vamp (oil and water), and the mental connection is simply a byproduct of my drinking from him and him drinking from me. It doesn’t mean anything, certainly not that we’re destined to be together or forever linked or anything silly like that.
    Fughedaboudit.
    “What about a companion?” I asked, eager to ignore the depressing thought. “I could help you find someone to spend your free time with. Someone who likes the same things that you like.” I handed back the card, along with a mental You should call me because Emmaline wouldn’t want you to be lonely. She would want you to have fun and make the most of the years you have left. Really.
    He seemed to think. “But it wouldn’t be a date, right? I’m not looking for romance.”
    “We’re talking companionship only.”
    He gave the card another once-over. “She has to like chicken. And golfing. And poker. I’ve been playing online, but my dream is to go to Atlantic City and break the bank.”
    “No problem.”
    “And Reader’s Digest. I love the funnies—” The loud crackle of his walkie-talkie drowned out the rest of his words.
    “Earl? You there, buddy?”
    He grabbed the receiver and pressed the button. “Right here.”
    “We need you in the sanctuary ASAP. And bring the mop.”
    “Don’t tell me,” I said when he clipped the radio back onto his belt and stuffed my card into his pocket. “Clean up on aisle nine?”
    “It’s a tough job”—he shrugged—“but somebody’s gotta do it.”
    I thought of Dead End Dating, Vinnie’s detailed list, and the all-important fact that I could very well be this close to kissing my afterlife goodbye. I stiffened. “Tell me about it.”

Six

    I hopped a cab back to the office and headed straight for the bathroom and a bottle of antibacterial soap. Clean and barefoot (I stashed the booties until I could get them repaired), I spent the next few hours entering profiles, setting up various client dates, and dodging phone calls from my mother.
    Despite having my afterlife threatened and getting slimed by a stinky demon, it turned out to be just another typical