Because sometimes the dead need a life coach, too.
Driven out of Chicago by a spiteful heiress, life coach Charly Redbird is ready for a change. She moves to Florida to be closer to her family and vows to be more selective about future clients.
With the help of Dylan Graham, a hunky real estate agent, Charly finds a perfect home across the street from a cemetery. When he shows up with a plant and two tiny balls of fluff as a housewarming present, Charly thinks she might be smitten with more than the kittens.
A new client appears at her door and asks for Charly's help, but the woman happens to be a permanent resident of the cemetery. Can Charly convince the restless spirit to move to another neighborhood—or will she take on a new role: Life Coach for the Dead?
Excerpt:
A year ago, had someone told Charly she’d be looking forward to a meal in a retirement home, she would have doubled over in laughter. Never say never. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror on the way out. Puffy-eyes, chapped lips, hair falling out of her ponytail. Oh well, she supposed the one thing she was grateful for was that most of the residents were too old to even see her well. No one else her age would be in the room. She sighed. I can be myself.
The dining room buzzed with conversations and laughter. Grandma introduced her to a table of four gray-haired women in assorted shapes and sizes, all wearing large flowered print dresses. “The Flower Girls,” Grandma whispered. “They don’t own any clothes without floral patterns.”
Another table of women, one with long, bright red hair, was intent on a game of cards. “The Players, exceptionally serious about their games. They eat and play at the same time.”
At a table in the center of the room, three Asian women and a balding Asian man worked at a jigsaw puzzle. “The Puzzlers. Keeps the brain fit. They finish a puzzle a day and like to speak in riddles.”
A long table beneath a large window bore an assortment of holiday decorations in miniature, along with a doll’s house. When she drew closer, Charly realized it was a made to scale model of the retirement home. A group of women fussed around the decorations and the tiny Victorian model, placing wee decorations with precision. “The Decorators. I dare not interrupt them. They need to focus. This is a busy time of year for them.”
Over in the corner, a group greeted them with loud shouts of hello. “The Debaters. They can argue over the best kind of bread, peanut butter, or orange juice. You name a topic, and they’ll give you a debate.”
A rotund man with a bad toupee proffered a bright white grin. “Would you like an argument?”
“Not today, Frank, but thanks.” Her grandmother urged her along. “We could be here all night arguing with him.” She pointed her cane at a table in a cozy corner of the dining room. “Here’s our table. Darla, this is my granddaughter, Charly.”
Like a deer in the headlights, Charly froze in place. An attractive seventy-something blonde woman clung to the arm of a large man who looked to be just a tad older than herself—twenty-nine or thirty years old. He looked up at her with dark, mischievous eyes, and smiled. The dimples made the flock of butterflies take off in her stomach—that plus the fact he was movie star handsome. He looked as surprised as she felt. Face hot with embarrassment, the idea that homeless people looked better than she did kept looping through her mind. When he spoke, she knew the rumbling tenor sent shivers down to her toes. She’d spent hours on the phone with him discussing houses, listings, and prices.
Smile broadening, he rose, towering above her now, and extended his large hand. “Big D. Delighted to meet you.”
