Drop Dead Gorgeous

“She? Fine? Information?” They’re not questions. They’re puzzle pieces she’s putting together as the words pass over her lips, and I can already see the completed picture she’s going to come up with.

I point a thick finger her way, shaking my head. “Don’t go there. It was a traffic accident. I’ll deal with the county to get the car fixed and never see her again.” Why does a thread of disappointment accompany those words? I mean, yeah, Zoey is beautiful, but a few minutes of conversation, especially one where she made me think she had amnesia, are not something to be smiling like an idiot about. But I am. With a few minutes of distance, that shit was funny.

“County?”

“She works for Williamson County,” I explain. “Coroner.”

The cameraman must be on my side, thinking Amy is more pitbull than should be humanly possible, because he interrupts phase two of her interrogation. “Amy, if you care, your clock’s ticking.”

Buddy, you deserve a Medal of Valor or something for that. It takes balls to interrupt my sister, and yours just got put in jeopardy. But I’m grateful because I don’t have the answers to phase one questions, much less phase two.

“This isn’t over,” she warns me. Instead, she shoves me toward a mustard yellow wing chair that is sitting on the edge of the corn field.

I eye it skeptically. “Amy, why is there a chair that belongs in Grandma’s sitting room out here in the middle of a field?”

“Are you doubting my artistic vision?” she challenges.

The answer is no, unequivocally. The truth is . . . absolutely yes.

Amy is brilliant in her own way. It’s just a very different way from my own analytical smarts, so we don’t often ‘get’ each other, though we can appreciate the other’s talents.

Still, the discordant nature of the fancy furniture and the rustic overgrown weeds is way out of my wheelhouse and seems weird and eccentric, which are two things that do not appeal to the masses. At least, not insurance buying masses.

Especially the ones in this part of the state.

I must give away my thoughts with another one of my tells because Amy crosses her arms, throws a hip out, and looks down her nose at me despite being a foot shorter. “Do not say what you’re thinking or you will be officially uninvited from Sunday brunch.”

Shit, she’s bringing out the big guns.

I grab my chest, wounded. “You wouldn’t. You know how much I look forward to Fernanda’s Sunday brunches.”

That’s the God’s honest truth. If something were to happen to Amy and Fernanda—not that I think it ever would because they’re the real deal—I’d still end up on Fernanda’s doorstep every Sunday. She’s an amazing cook and I just couldn’t give that up.

Plus, I might like her a teeny bit better than my sister, especially when she’s glaring at me like she is now.

“The chair looks fabulous,” I say politely, not meaning it in the slightest but not risking losing Fernanda’s chilaquiles.

Amy pats my chest more than a little too hard. “Thought so. Let’s do this, people.”

The cameraman and I exchange looks because we’re the only other ‘people’ here.

A few minutes later, I’m sitting in the Grandma chair and Amy is sitting in the dirt by my feet holding a reflector with one hand and a tablet with my prompts in the other, while the cameraman is giving me the ‘action’ sign.

“Caring for your loved ones is important in life, and though we don’t like to talk about it, in death.” I pause, staring at the camera earnestly.

“Call me, Blake Hale, today, and together, we can make sure your family knows you care. Smile like you give a shit.” I blink, realizing a moment too late that was supposed to be an actual smile, not one of my spoken lines.

“Cut,” Amy says as the cameraman quickly hides a grin. “Do I need to explain how this works again?”

The answer is no, so I smile like I was supposed to for the take and say, “Yeah, maybe so.”

She offers a long-suffering sigh, like she’s Kubrick herself. “You, dear brother, are a statistical genius and a life insurance salesman. And I am . . .”

She draws it out, making it clear I’m supposed to fill in the blank by singing her praises. I do my best.

“A marketing genius, an advertising savant.” She waves her hand in a circle expectantly. “The best sister I could ever hope for?”

She points at me, placated for now. “That’s right. And you know that my ideas for your previous commercial increased your business . . . by how much?”

“Sixteen percent in sixty days.” Those facts I know like the back of my hand.

If smug were a Mrs. Potato Head expression, I basically just plugged it into Amy’s face. “So now, you want to reach a new demographic. That needs different strategies. Now, say the lines and smile like the hot chunk of cuteness you know you are, get all the guys wanting to be you and all the women wanting to screw you, and then you can be a good Boy Scout and take their money for life insurance.”