Undertaking Love

Chapter Eight




Gabe flipped the front door key over in his hand and looked at the clock. 8.55 a.m. He was officially opening for business in five minutes time.

Melanie perched behind the reception desk. The sunshine-yellow tulips Gabe had given her this morning had been awarded pride of place beside her books. In actual fact he’d bought them to make the reception area more welcoming, rather than for Melanie in particular, but it would have been embarrassing for both of them if he’d corrected her innocent assumption. She’d blushed pink with pleasure when she’d found them on the desk earlier, and flustered off to make coffee.

‘Ready?’ he turned and smiled at her, key poised by the lock.

She nodded.

‘You?’

‘I sure am. Let’s do this thing.’

He winked at her and turned the key. He swung the door back on its hinges once or twice to make sure it was definitely unlocked. He turned the little black and silver sign on the door over to declare them open, and almost felt the warmth of his Da’s hand of encouragement on his shoulder.

‘Time to grow up, Gabe.’

It was all quiet on the street outside, still sleepy apart from the odd pensioner pulling a trolley and a young mum pushing a pram. Not that he’d expected a stampede. It wasn’t the kind of business that attracted a queue.

He glanced at the chapel. Earlier, Marla had dashed by as usual, robbed of her opportunity to snarl at his bike because he’d parked it out of sight around the back. It was hardly a suitable advert for the funeral parlour. Just as he was an unsuitable advert for the wedding chapel, he acknowledged with a flicker of a frown.

He hadn’t had a chance to speak to her since the public meeting. Just thinking about that evening made him wince. He hadn’t actually intended to stand up and speak, but he’d been so incensed by the injustice of it all that he’d found himself on his feet before he’d had a chance to think it through.

The Shropshire Herald had ripped him to shreds as a result, and the battle lines between the chapel and the funeral parlour were now marked out as clearly as if they’d been painted in bold white lines across the pavement.



From behind the blind of her office window, Marla watched Gabe swing his freshly painted black door open, then stand still and cast his eyes skywards for a few seconds. Was he weather watching, or praying, even? If he needed a sign, he should have said. She would have hurled a bucket of cold water over him.

It was the first time she’d seen him out of jeans and leathers, and, although if quizzed she would have hotly denied the thought had even entered her head, the sight of him in a close-fitting suit did something strange to her insides. Of course it could be the ill effects of the omelette that Rupert had attempted to cook for breakfast …

Whichever. It was immaterial. The grim fact was that the funeral parlour was now officially open for business, which meant that the chapel was officially a step closer to closing down.

Marla huffed, and kicked the desk leg with frustration. Jonny had assured her that the petition was going great guns, and that in no time at all they’d have enough signatures to present the council with a dossier fatter than the Oxford dictionary. He’d better hurry up about it, because every day with the funeral parlour as a neighbour was a day closer to bankruptcy.

For now though, they had a frantic couple of months booked and Gabe had successfully backed her into a corner. She sagged down into the chair and opened the desk diary. Much as she hated the idea, she needed to pull on her big girl pants and take him up on his offer of a civilised discussion, because damage limitation was about as good as it was going to get for the foreseeable future. She twisted her hair into a bun, pushed a pencil through the knot, then grabbed the diary and headed to the door.

Nerves made her hesitate as she approached the funeral parlour door. She gave herself a mental shake and pushed the door open, to find herself pleasantly surprised by the tasteful, welcoming decor. Not that she was sure what she’d been expecting. Cobwebs? A rattling skeleton in the corner, maybe? The reception desk looked empty apart from a bright jug of tulips, but then a slender, dark-haired girl straightened up from behind it and smiled.

‘Hi there, come on in.’

Marla smiled back. Her fight wasn’t with Gabe’s pretty young receptionist.

‘Hi. Is Gabriel around, please?’

The girl’s smile dimmed from mega watt to energy saver at Marla’s use of Gabe’s first name. She glanced quickly over her shoulder. ‘I can certainly check if he’s free. Who should I say is here?’

Her eyes flicked up and down Marla’s red spotted tea-dress and high heels.

‘Marla Jacobs. From the chapel.’ Marla noticed the flash of recognition in the receptionist’s eyes and the energy saver smile disappeared altogether.

‘Ah. I see.’ She shook her head. ‘Well, I’m sorry. No. I’m afraid Gabe isn’t here right now.’

The obvious way she shortened his name to stamp her position of authority infuriated Marla. ‘But you just said you’d check if he was free.’

The girl shrugged. ‘I can tell him you called by, if you like?’

That smile was back, this time simpering with saccharin instead of sugar.

They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Short of yelling for him, there was nothing Marla could do.

‘Make sure you do that.’ Marla shot back through gritted teeth and turned on her heel.



Gabe stuck his head through into reception. ‘Did I hear the door?’

He looked up just in time to recognize Marla’s familiar red hair through the window as she stomped away.

‘That woman from the chapel, yeah.’ Melanie rolled incredulous eyes. ‘Some nerve, coming over here to cause trouble on our first day, eh?’

‘What did you say to her?’

‘Just that you were busy.’

Gabe shook his head and tried not to sound as irritated as he was. ‘Ask me. Always ask me, okay?’ He opened the door and broke into a jog to catch up with Marla before she disappeared into the chapel.

She stopped and slowly turned when he called her name.

‘Well, well, well. Did your receptionist give you permission to talk to me after all?’

‘Sorry, crossed wires. Did you, err … did you need something?’

He glanced down at the diary clutched against her chest, and noticed the pale gold freckles on her throat as his eyes made their way back up to her face.

She nodded. ‘We need to talk.’

Gabe’s heart tripped a beat. You’re telling me lady, you’re telling me. ‘I’m a bit tied up over there right now.’ He jerked his head back towards the funeral parlour, where he’d been in the middle of a practice session with his new pallbearers. ‘How about tonight?’

Marla shook her head so hard that the pencil fell out of her hair and rolled along the pavement towards Gabe. ‘Tonight? God, no. I can’t. I’m, erm, I’m busy.’

Gabe retrieved the pencil and handed it back to her, thinking how gorgeous she looked with her red waves released around her face. Why, Ms Jacobs, you’re beautiful! He thought it, but somehow managed to keep the cheesy line inside his head.

‘Tomorrow maybe?’

‘No, I’m busy tomorrow night too. In fact, I’m busy every night. With my boyfriend.’

Boyfriend. The word made Marla’s tongue feel too big in her mouth.

‘Your boyfriend?’

‘Yes, Gabriel, my boyfriend. You know – a man I actually enjoy spending time with, as opposed to one who is trying to ruin me?’

Okay. So perhaps that came out a little more caustic than was strictly necessary, but Jesus, Gabe riled her something rotten. Why had he instructed his jumped up secretary to lie to her? And God knows he had no business looking so effortlessly cool in a suit, with his barely tamed curls kissing his collar like a flirty Sunday morning lover.

‘I meant tomorrow afternoon, Marla. Your personal life is of none of my business.’

His markedly clipped tone told her that she’d scored a direct hit. Good, he deserved it.

‘Fine.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Come over after lunch tomorrow.’

He nodded. ‘As long as your boyfriend can spare you.’

Marla narrowed her eyes at his sarcasm, and had to clamp her teeth together to stop herself from sticking her tongue out.

‘You know what? I’m not so sure he can, actually. I guess I’ll just have to think of a really special way to make it up to him afterwards, won’t I?’



Jonny was torn between pride and unease at quite how effective his online campaign was turning out to be. He’d posted strategic links all over the net on wedding forums, and people had responded to his battle cry with aplomb.

Over two thousand people had signed the petition since he’d posted it on the chapel website last week, and their web stats had shot through the roof. Not to mention the messages of support that were flooding into his in-box on a daily basis – everything from well wishers to a couple of much darker, sinister offers to ‘eliminate the threat’ for them.

He’d struck a match, and he’d started an inferno.

And amidst all of this, he still hadn’t found time to mention it to Marla.