Chapter 6 Sedona #2
Like something unresolved just stepped back into the room and knows exactly where to find me.
If that was my reaction to Tex, I’m scared of how awkward it’s going to be running into Billy.
Clara and I pull into the funeral home’s gravel lot with a few minutes to spare, though it feels like time moves strangely today, stretched thin in some places and bunched up in others.
The building looks the same as it did when I was nineteen and came here with my father after a ranch hand passed away. A strange memory, too sharp and too distant at the same time.
My body feels sluggish, but my mind is wired enough to keep pushing forward.
Elvis Randall should have been waiting for us by now, but the lobby is empty. A scattering of polished chairs lines the walls, and a table holds a stack of pamphlets with soft clouds on the cover. The air carries a faint mix of lilies and dust.
Clara takes my hand and squeezes gently. Her expression softens, and I lean toward her almost without meaning to, grateful for the grounding she brings simply by being here.
She stayed beside me the entire walk from the car to the front door, and she stays beside me now as if she can sense how thin the air feels in my lungs.
A door opens down the hall. Elvis walks in with a quick shuffle, wiping his palms against his slacks. His thin silver hair has been gelled into perfect rows, and the collar of his shirt sits slightly crooked.
He gives us a wide, apologetic smile.
“Terribly sorry. I was helping the Daltons out back,” he says, gesturing toward a side room before motioning us to follow him. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
We step into his office, and the worn carpet muffles the sound of our footsteps. Framed certificates line the far wall, all of them slightly tilted. A small fan clicks softly on the edge of his desk, pushing stale air around.
He waves us into the two chairs facing him, and Clara stays close enough that our knees almost touch.
He settles behind the desk with a soft grunt and opens a thick folder. Papers spill across the top, all of them neatly clipped and stamped.
He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat, his features shifting to something more earnest.
“I know this isn’t easy,” he says, voice low. “Before anything else, I want to tell you how sorry I am. Your father was well known here, even when he was keeping to himself.”
My throat tightens. I nod because anything else might break me open.
Elvis glances at a form near the top. “Sheriff Riley notified me the moment he reached you. He said you took the call with strength. Most folks don’t when the news comes like that.”
Strength doesn’t feel like the word. My voice had cracked. My knees had buckled. I learned my father died in his sleep from the sheriff’s voice on the line, and everything inside me had bucked and stung and spun.
But I nod again because there’s no benefit to explaining any of that now.
Elvis folds his hands together. “I want to reassure you that your father didn’t suffer. Natural causes, peaceful. We did a preliminary postmortem since he passed alone. Everything points to a gentle passing. Nothing alarming at all.”
Clara’s fingers wrap around mine, warm and steadying in a way I lean into without shame. My chest loosens a fraction.
Elvis continues. “Since word got out, we’ve had quite a few calls. Folks asking about service times, burial details, the works. People cared about him more than he may have realized.”
A strange ache stirs at his words. My father spent so many years keeping everyone out, shutting blinds, turning away neighbors. Yet people still noticed he was gone. People still asked.
I lift my chin slightly. “I want the burial at the town cemetery. Sunday morning.”
Elvis writes that down in clean, looping handwriting. “Sunrise or after the morning prayer?”
“After the prayer. And a priest. He may not have gone to church in the end, but he was raised Catholic.”
“Of course,” Elvis says with a soft nod. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
Clara shifts closer, her thumb moving across the back of my hand in slow circles. The gesture soothes something raw inside me.
Elvis flips through another set of papers. “I know this is none of my business, but the clinic is part of the estate. Some folks have already asked if you plan to keep it open.”
My chest draws tight. “I haven’t decided. I need to go through everything with the estate worker first.”
He nods quickly. “Completely understandable. Just thought I’d mention it since folks often ask me things they shouldn’t.”
That earns a faint breath of a laugh from Clara. It’s not humor exactly. More recognition. She grew up in places like this, where gossip travels faster than weather fronts.
Elvis closes the folder. “Everything is set on my end. We can finalize service details tomorrow if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Clara rises when I do, still clasping my hand as though she won’t let go until she’s certain I’m upright. We step back into the hallway, and the soft thud of the office door behind us brings a strange relief, as if the air shifts ever so slightly.
Outside, the breeze carries a mix of pine and distant barbecue smoke from the festival tents on Main Street. Clara turns to face me, her expression full of concern.
“You doing alright?” she asks gently.
I straighten my shoulders and nod. “Yeah. As alright as I can be.”
She studies me for a second before linking her arm through mine. “Then let’s get something to eat so you don’t pass out on me.”
The thought of food normally wouldn’t hold my attention today, but my stomach gives a faint, grumbling reminder that it hasn’t had anything real in too long.
“The town’s packed for the Fall Festival,” I say. “But I’m sure we can find pies at the diner.”
Clara’s mouth curves slowly. “Daisy Mae’s diner?”
I blink at her, surprised she still remembers the name. “You remember that place?”
“My dad loved her huckleberry pie. I think everyone in this town is obsessed with that pie. I have missed it so much.”
A soft ache threads through me. “Me too.”
We climb into the sedan, and the engine hums to life. The drive toward the diner pulls familiar landmarks into view, each one stirring memories I haven’t let myself touch in years.
The old thrift shop with its faded sign. The gas station with a mural of horses running across the side. A cluster of festival tents bright with hand-painted banners.
People wander between booths carrying bags of caramel corn and steaming mugs of cider. Children run with painted cheeks and sparkler sticks. Music drifts from a stage near the grassy center of town.
The diner sits at the end of the block like a landmark carved into the street. The red neon sign hums, and the wide windows glow with warm light. Cars fill the lot, and both of us brace ourselves for a crowd.
Inside, the place hums with conversation and movement. Boots scrape against tile. Tables crammed with locals overflow with pies and plates of chicken-fried steak. The air tastes like sugar and coffee, a scent that feels stitched into my upbringing.
We step in, and the entire room goes still. Heads tilt. Spoons halt. Faces turn toward me. I can almost hear my pulse in my ears as the attention sweeps over us like a spotlight.
Then a warm, spirited voice cuts through the pause.
“C’mon now, she’s not a zoo attraction.”
Mayor Ruth Holloway emerges from a corner booth, hand on her hip, eyes carrying a blend of mischief and kindness.
Her salt-and-pepper curls bounce as she crosses the room. She must be in her fifties now, though she wears the years like a badge of honor.
She reaches me first and wraps me in a hug that smells like cinnamon lotion and hand sanitizer. Her grip is firm, almost motherly.
“I heard you were back,” she says against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
She releases me with a small pat on my cheek and turns to Clara with a friendly nod. “Who’s your friend?”
“Clara Finch.” My best friend smiles. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, dear. Your pies are on me today. And don’t fight me on it.”
“We wouldn’t dare,” Clara says.
Mayor Holloway flashes us a grin and returns to her booth. The din of conversation resumes, but the glances follow us as we weave our way toward a free booth near the window.
Clara slides into one side, her eyes roaming the space with open curiosity. “The place looks exactly the same,” she says. “Like it hasn’t changed at all.”
“It hasn’t,” I say, and there’s something strangely comforting in that.
When Daisy spots me, her whole face lights up. She rushes over, wiping her hands on her apron, and pulls me out of the booth for a hug.
She squeezes me with a strength that could rival a linebacker’s, then grabs Clara and hugs her too, even though she’s technically a stranger.
“Sit, sit,” she says, waving her towel like she’s herding us. “Let me get you girls something good.”
We order huckleberry pie for both of us and a pot of tea to share.
When Daisy returns with the plates, the smell alone wraps around me in a wave of nostalgia. The crust is golden and flaky, and the berries glisten under the diner lights.
Daisy sets everything down and folds her arms. “Not to stick my nose where it shouldn’t go, but I hope you aren’t planning on selling the clinic.
Especially not in the fall. The festival brings in more business than the rest of the year combined.
And with the Prairie Pine Rodeo and Stampede coming up next summer, folks will need a reliable place for their animals. ”
Clara’s brows rise, and she waits until Daisy heads back to the kitchen before leaning toward me. “How does she even know what you told Elvis? Isn’t that some kind of breach?”
A surprised laugh bursts out of me. “That’s small town for you. Information travels faster than texts here.”
Clara snorts and stirs her tea. “Fair point.”
We dig into our pies, and the first bite melts on my tongue in a rush of berry sweetness. The taste knocks me sideways with memory and grief and something softer that feels almost comforting.
Clara watches me for a moment before asking, “Heard from Cole yet?”
I shake my head and take another bite. “Not a word.”
She nods slowly and lets the subject drop. I’m grateful for that. The last thing I need today is to peel open another wound.
The diner hums around us. People eat, talk, laugh in pockets of sound. It feels like the town hasn’t changed at all, and maybe that’s the strangest part.
Everything looks the same, but I feel completely different. Like someone who left her old life on a porch step five years ago and has no idea how to carry any of this now.
I take another sip of tea. Clara reaches across the table and touches my hand. Her eyes soften, steady and warm, and something inside me relaxes.
We sit together in that booth, two women trying to navigate grief, small-town memories, and pie that tastes exactly like it did when I was young. The air feels full, and my chest doesn’t feel as hollow as it did this morning.
Outside, festival music swells in the distance. Inside, the warmth of the diner settles around us and holds steady, anchoring me to a town I thought I had left behind for good.