Death Benefits

By Sharon Saracino

Max Logan's insecurities have consumed her to the point she has allowed them to skew her perceptions of people and circumstances. She has grown progressively more bitter, sarcastic, and solitary since her divorce and feels as though she has spent a lifetime getting the short end of the stick through no fault of her own; still she trudges on. Things can always get better, right? Of course, it's hard to cultivate optimism when she finds herself dead, the victim of a D.I.E (Death in Error) caused by an overeager Grim Reaper in Training. She brokers a deal to be sent back to Earth as a temporary substitute for the Superintendent of Spiritual Impediment. Can a girl who can't recognize her own problems rectify the issues of the living impaired? Or will she discover that concentrating on their issues gives her a new perspective on her own?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jun 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781509208463

Sharon Saracino

Sharon Saracino, an award winning author of paranormal romance, resides in beautiful Northeastern Pennsylvania. She plans to win the lottery just as soon as she remembers to buy a ticket, fantasizes about moving to Italy, brews limoncello, and believes there's always magic to be found if you take the time to look for it!

Book preview

Inc.

I could not be dead.

I was only thirty-five years old and in excellent health, for a dead chick. I still had things to do, places to go, people to see. And I planned to, just as soon as I got the motivation to leave my apartment. I closed my eyes and clicked my heels three times. I wiggled my nose. I wished on a falling star. If Marvin wasn’t hogging the keyboard, I would have hit Ctrl+Alt+Del. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. Nothing had changed.

That’s impossible, I said in a flat voice that sounded far calmer than you would expect under the circumstances. I’m not in your database. Obviously there’s been a mistake. Just send me back and we’ll call it even. It’ll be our little secret. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross documented five stages of grieving. Other authorities have identified up to seven. But, no matter which theory you subscribe to, all have one thing in common: the first stage is denial. I planned to keep my butt firmly planted in stage one, Denial with a capital D.

Praise for Sharon Saracino

The Max Logan Series—2015 Paranormal Romance Guild Reviewers’ Choice Nominee for Best Paranormal Series

~*~

With tremendous humor and a sharp wit, Sharon Saracino offers a look at what soul searching is all about…

~Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews

~*~

Witty, insightful, and frequently hilarious, Saracino’s writing keeps me up late into the night, chuckling and cheering into my blankets. This series has quickly become one of my favorite reads!

~AJ Nuest, author of She’s Got Dibs

Death Benefits

by

Sharon Saracino

Max Logan Series, Book 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Death Benefits

COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Sharon Saracino

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2016

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0845-6

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0846-3

Max Logan Series, Book 1

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

In Loving Memory

For Mom

No matter how many lessons Max learns in death,

they can’t compare to the lessons you taught me in life.

I miss you every day.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my family and friends for their support and encouragement, especially my sister Kathy Fino and my forever friend Gwen Nakao, both of whom listen endlessly, encourage unconditionally, and still answer the phone every time I call. With equal parts gratitude and admiration, I thank the many fellow writers who gave so generously of their time, talents, and experience, especially John Fraser Williams who inspired me to dust off my pen after years of neglect and Susan Meier who taught me the tools.

Thank you to my son Vincent, who makes me laugh and worry in equal measure, who forces me to think outside the box, and who often leaves me stunned with the realization that I actually gave birth to this bright and talented being.

And finally, thank you to my husband Vince, who takes care of absolutely everything else, so that I can do the things I love. His love and support are infinite and there aren’t enough words to express my gratitude. You are my heart.

Chapter One

Stupid way to die? Been there, done that. Who says death can’t be funny? Even I can admit it isn’t the most auspicious way to start the weekend. Karma is so arbitrary.

The day I died began uneventfully enough, remarkable only for the unprovoked and unexpected attack launched by a slick-faced teen with a slippery façade of moderate acne and purple braces at the SuperSave checkout, of all places. I put my righteous indignation on hold long enough to wonder when good old fashioned tinsel teeth, inducing untold nights of teenage angst and lifelong psychological consequences, had been replaced by a psychedelic fashion statement stretched between misshapen molars.

He eyed me politely over the top of his Coke bottle-thick Buddy Holly specs, one grimy-nailed finger poised over the register key, and fired the opening volley. "Will that be all, ma’am?"

Just like that. I swore I heard a bell toll somewhere. Ma’am: the moniker that had been heretofore reserved for my stepmother and others of her geriatric generation. I surreptitiously eyed the other shoppers waiting in line. Not one of them appeared the least bit outraged on my behalf. Desperately clinging to the coattails of youth with ragged and bloodied fingernails, I felt myself sliding slowly down the slippery slope of a rut, forced to acknowledge perhaps the battle had ended and I was left alone, completely unarmed.

It should not have been an epiphany.

Oh sure, I’d noticed the stranger staring back at me in the mirror over my toothbrush every morning. She had slowly been acquiring fine lines, a few extra pounds, and an insidiously increasing reliance on foundation garments. Most days, I refused to acknowledge she bore any resemblance to me. Each morning, I rejoiced when I stepped on the scale and weighed exactly the same as I did in high school, until she put my other foot on the scale. She and I existed in two different decades. The decades were not consecutive.

In case you were wondering, rationalization is an acquired talent. I could probably give workshops.

I lifted my chin and stared down my nose at ‘Buddy,’ the cashier, in what I hoped was a mature and intimidating manner. What I really wanted to do was, well…slap him. Hard. My bifocals were buried in the lost world of my handbag, and squinting to read the name embroidered in white on his red polyester vest might have ruined the menacing effect I intended. As far as I could tell, Buddy remained totally oblivious to the implied threat. He simply regarded me with a sad and thoughtful look as I attempted to unobtrusively rearrange a loaf of whole wheat bread on the top of my eco-friendly tote, the better to camouflage my moisturizer, chocolate sandwich cookies with double stuff, and the box of rich brown number 57A hair coloring, because, damn it, I am worth it.

I haughtily stalked past the bag boy after swiping my debit card, punching in my PIN, and poking the accept button with a little more force than may have been strictly necessary. My irritation was totally wasted on Brace Face and Bag Boy who had already refocused their hormone induced adolescent attention on the three barely pubescent titterers—pun intended—who were racking brains even smaller than their short shorts over the monumental decision of whether to buy cinnamon or spearmint breath mints. Ah, kids…our hope for the future. It gave me the warm fuzzies, especially when I theorized someone of my apparently advanced years would be unlikely to reap the benefit of their questionably mature wisdom, if and when they ever acquired any.

As for me, I felt as though Scotty had already flicked the switch to beam-me-up, and left me helplessly cavorting in space somewhere between the Starship Thirty-something and the planet Middle Age. Whoever coined the catchphrase that fifty is the new thirty did so while blowing out forty-nine birthday candles and scrambling desperately away from the precipice of the half-century abyss.

I schlepped listlessly through the parking lot, vaguely annoyed at the way my lime green flip-flops kept sticking to the half melted tar lines dissecting the broiling asphalt. I loaded my bags into the trunk, my body enveloped in an intimate embrace of thick, humid, air. I tried to enjoy it, as it was the closest thing I’d had to an intimate embrace in quite a while.

I’d left the car windows open, but the impact was negligible, and I winced at the hot sting of burning vinyl sticking to my thighs when I climbed in, hoping it might magically melt some of the unsightly cellulite I’d noticed of late. I concentrated on taking shallow breaths, the better to avoid asphyxiation in the overheated interior of the car, and cranked the fan up to the highest speed. The vents blasted air as stale and refreshing as something channeled straight from the furnaces of hell, accompanied by a faint tang of stale nicotine, my own personal brimstone.

I knew it would be at least ten minutes before the AC kicked in enough to make my ride tolerable. Of course, by then I would be home. I pressed a hand to my chest irritably, drowning the front of my already moist, blue tank top in the river running wild between my breasts.

Have I mentioned I don’t do temperature extremes?

My mood had no cause to improve on the drive home as I considered the vacuum that had become my everyday existence: divorced, depressed, unemployed, but according to my former therapist, only slightly delusional. Yay, me! Some days I was okay with my life. I mean, things could always get better, right? Other days the perceived injustice of it all kicked my butt. Guess which way I was swinging today? Flight FU2 to my happy place took a fatal nosedive as I started to pull into the gravel drive of my apartment, which coincidentally was situated on the second story of my father’s detached garage.

Location, location, location. I know, right?

I wrenched the wheel back toward the street, narrowly avoiding the sparkling, cobalt blue X5 luxury SUV blocking the entrance to the drive. The gleaming, chrome grill positively leered at me as I parked at the curb and awkwardly heaved my bags across the yard and up the stairs from the street. The Golden Child, aka my half-sister Denise, was apparently in residence. I suppose when you are the axis around which the world revolves, it doesn’t enter your mind someone else might need a place to park. Catty? Maybe. But, these days, if it weren’t for mood swings, I’m not sure I would get any exercise at all.

Denise is a tall, willowy blonde with the face of an angel, the fashion sense of a supermodel, and a shoe collection to rival Imelda Marcos’. Me? Not so much. Next to Denise, I usually came off feeling like a small, dark troll. Is it any wonder I preferred to revel in the joys of my solitary apartment? People say I’m insecure. I prefer to think I’m just realistic about my limitations. My steer-clear-of-the-family plan bit the dust as soon as my stepmother spotted me leaning on the banister, panting. I immediately regretted I hadn’t simply soldiered on instead of stopping on the landing to catch my breath and pray for deliverance from heatstroke.

Yoo-hoo, Maxine! Denise is here, she called with her usual uncanny flair for redundancy.

As if anyone could miss the two thousand pound display of sparkling soccer mom extravagance crouched like a gargoyle at the end of the drive? Lacking adequate oxygen to verbalize a response, I briefly considered waving to Captain Obvious in recognition of her pointless announcement before realizing my arms had, in fact, gone numb from the weight of the bags, compounded by the distance of my hike from the street. Thank God I’d only needed a couple of things. I settled for jerking my chin in some spasmodic seizure-like acknowledgment and hoped Gail was able to see it from the window. Bracing myself against the inevitable leg cramps sure to assault me when I finally reached the top, I huffed up the remaining stairs and stepped inside with a groan, kicking the door closed behind me. It was a religious experience. There is a God, and thou shall call him Central Air.

I dumped the bags onto the black, marble-topped island alternately serving as my kitchen counter-office-fine dining area, depending upon the occasion. My galley kitchen, a modern, sleek, state of the art affair of stainless steel efficiency, occupied the right wall. At least I assumed it would be efficient, if I used it.

The main room was spacious and airy with a bank of windows along the back, and French doors which opened onto a small deck covered with a red striped awning. Very French bistro. At least it had been until I replaced the dainty iron chairs with old, hulking Adirondacks. They’re really more my style. There was a separate, but equally spacious bedroom with an attached bath, in addition to a compact, but tastefully decorated guest powder room off of the living area.

Guests? Hey, it could happen.

The bathroom fixtures and kitchen appliances were new, but the furniture was not. I estimated it was produced somewhere in the era between truly antique and fashionably dumpster worthy. Not that I’d expected Gail to spend a fortune refurbishing the place.

After all, I was only the inconvenient stepdaughter, turning up again like a bad penny, right? But even with the older stuff, I had to admit the woman had flair, and while I’d never admit it to her, the decor suited me. There was something familiar and comforting about it at a time when I needed comfort and familiarity more than almost anything. Sure, the apartment was an OBOG (one bedroom over garage), but when that garage was a five bay, it made for over a thousand square feet of airy, bachelorette breathing room, and it was all mine. Sort of. Well, for as long as I needed it, anyway. Luckily for me, my father is a car junkie.

I absently marched in place, slapping at my thighs and kneading my calves until the circulation in my legs resumed a normal, relatively pain-free flow. Maybe Denise’s husband, Brad-The-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon, was right and my leg cramps were a result of intermittent claudication. Brad-The-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon never missed an opportunity to explain my discomfort on stairs was due, no doubt, to peripheral arterial disease, implying significant atherosclerotic blockages in the blood vessels of my legs, the only outcome a woman of my advancing age, questionable diet, and the half a pack a day habit I periodically tried to kick, could realistically expect.

Yeah, those were his exact words. Such a charmer, is our Brad—assuming you are using a thesaurus listing charmer and pompous ass as synonyms. But he does put up with my high maintenance sister, so maybe he does have some redeeming quality buried beneath his argyle sweaters and cashmere socks. The socks are black. He wears them every day, all year long. Even in the summer. With sandals.

It is not an attractive look. Just saying.

My sister and her husband are an oddly mismatched couple, but despite my opinion, which no one asked for, as usual, they seem surprisingly happy together. At least I could look forward to a family discount on the fem-pop bypass he so clearly envisioned in my future. Denise’s marriage to Brad-The-Famous-Vascular-Surgeon was Stepmother Gail’s claim to Red Hat Society celebrity.

Of course, as a dutiful step-daughter, I’d done my part to help Gail attain her elevated status by first marrying a doctor, myself. We’re divorced now. The last time I checked, he was dating Barbara-The-Blonde-Bimbo-With-Implants. Body like a goddess, brain like a brick—at least that’s my theory. Sure, I’d noticed Roger had become a little distant, but I figured it was one of those phases a marriage goes through.

Until the fateful night at Alberto’s when I walked in and found the two of them huddled in a booth. Business meeting, yeah right. For a while, I worried I might become bitter, but thank God I managed to nip it in the bud. I’ve since decided it’s only right to pass along my playthings to the less fortunate when I have no further use for them. I will admit that beyond the obvious draw, which I like to call Thing One and Thing Two, I’ve never understood Roger’s interest in Barbie. Even I can admit Roger is brilliant. I have to wonder what they talk about. Of course, maybe they’ve found something to do that doesn’t involve intelligent conversation, but I’d rather not