Disposition of Remains Read Online Free PDF Page A

reached out to shake my hand, and I almost fainted. Wilbur was tall, muscular, and tan, with dark, wavy hair and striking brown eyes. I had wound up marrying the last man I’d encountered who was that devastatingly handsome. Wilbur made me instantly uncomfortable.
    “You really don’t look like a Wilbur,” I remarked, a little disgusted.
    “What do I look like?”
    Misty interrupted, “Grab your backpack , Stacia. We’re standing on the side of the road!”
    I complied, and we all climbed into the truck. Inevitably, I sat in the back of the crew cab with Wilbur. While we waited for a tow truck to take Misty’s car to the closest repair shop, Paul glanced back at me.
    “I live just a few miles from here.”
    I nodded, relieved to be close to somewhere…anywhere. I’d had enough of the road trip.
    When we finally drove off, Misty and Paul became engrossed in their own conversation that involved a significant amount of laughing and playful touching. They obviously had a strong connection. One of those rare couples, I thought—the ones I couldn’t relate to at all.
    “You didn’t answer the question,” Wilbur prompted as we drove over a bump in the road, his pretty face hovering a little too close to mine.
    “Sorry. What was the question?”
    “You said I don’t look like a Wilbur, so what do I look like?”
    I wished I had kept my big mouth shut, because he clearly wasn’t going to let it go.
    “It’s really more a matter of what you don’t look like,” I told him. Wilbur is the name of your grandfather or your dog, or that pig from Charlotte’s Web. ”
    “You think I’m a pig?” he asked, amused.
    “Well,” I stammered, “I don’t know you. Your name makes me think pig…not this,”
    I waved my arms up and down Wilbur’s entire splendor. As if he didn’t know.
    “I was named after my grandfather,” he explained, “although I’m much more interested in your heritage. What exactly are you?”
    “Pardon me?”
    “What is your heritage?”
    “Guess.”
    This was always a fun game. People usually pegged me for a Latina or an Arab or some exotic islander. But it was my eyes that always threw them off.
    “Hmm…” Wilbur purred as he rubbed his chin.
    “I’m Russian.”
    “I was going to guess Native American.”
    This guy was both good-looking and bright—how incredibly annoying.
    “Good guess. My mother was Havasupai.”
    “Was?”
    “Yes, unfortunately, past tense.”
    “And your father was/is Russian?”
    “Was. Also past tense. He died when I was a baby. The only contributions he made to my life were blue eyes and my ridiculous name.”
    “Stacia?”
    “Anastasia,” I said in my best faux Russian accent. “He named me after a dead Russian princess, and I turned out looking more like Pocahontas.”
    “Do you visit the reservation very often?”
    “No, I’ve actually never been there. My mother’s family wasn’t very happy with her for leaving, and she never had any desire to go back.”
    “That’s too bad,” he said. “I think it’s important to hang onto our history. At least some part of it.”
    I shrugged. I had much bigger things to worry about than whatever dusty piece of land the “white man” left my kin. I think Wilbur got the hint that a change of subject was in order.
    “Hmm. So how do you know the great, gregarious Misty?”
    “She rescued my face from a slot machine, and insisted Sedona was this magical place I simply must see.”
    “O kay, I won’t ask about the slot machine,” Wilbur said. “I take it you’ve never been to Sedona?”
    I shook my head.
    Misty turned to face Wilbur with a smile that crinkled her pretty nose, and chimed in “She’s not very spiritual for a Native.”
    I had to laugh. Even though I had been the butt of Misty’s humor thus far, I knew her jokes weren’t intended to be malicious. Native Americans were all about spirituality a s were most people who visited Sedona. The honesty of it put me much more at ease, as