Chapter Seven #2
“Shit,” Cassie whispered, swiping at her eyes and abruptly turning away. She stalked hard through the overgrowth, not caring what scraped at her feet, unsure why she’d even come here at all—when motion at the gate caught her eye—Margie slipping through, a clutch of wildflowers in hand.
Margie brushed past her, giving her arm a light touch. “Thought maybe you’d come this way.”
Cassie, saying nothing, reluctantly followed as the older woman went on ahead, crouching before the Berrys’ stones. Lifting the mason jar, she dumped the murky water and set the fresh bundle inside.
“Brought ya a little somethin’ to cheer you up, Birdie,” Margie murmured, fussing with the stems till they sat just so. “Your favorites—black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace. Picked ’em fresh outta the garden this mornin’.”
Cassie blinked hard, turning away. Turning to where—
Mama sat at the kitchen table, her hair greasy, dressed in week-old pajamas, a cigarette burning down in one hand, wearing that same vacant stare she’d carried since Daddy died. Margie sat beside her, sliding a bundle of wildflowers across the table.
“Brought ya a little somethin’ to cheer you up, Birdie.”
Mama never replied.
The memory dissolved, leaving Cassie’s throat tight and quiet tears running down her cheeks.
“You just rest easy now,” Margie went on behind her. “You and Malachy and…Connor—lord knows how happy you must be to have your boy back. Meantime, I’ll keep an eye on your girl.”
Cassie stiffened, heat rushing her face. She wanted to argue, to tell Margie she didn’t need anyone watching her—but the words stuck like burrs in her throat.
Margie pushed herself up with a groan. “Lord, these bones. Mill work left me feelin’ eighty-two, not sixty-two.” She passed Cassie, muttering, then raised her voice over her shoulder. “You look just like she did when you’re holdin’ it all in—like you’re fixin’ to take a shit.”
Cassie flinched. “I’m nothin’ like her."
Margie kept moving, her voice drifting back. “Stubborn like her, too. Got her temper. Got that pretty face. And oh, them eyes of hers—you an’ Con both lucked out there. Same sweet laugh, too, though you never let it out near enough.”
She glanced back, gaze softening. “Hell, when I saw you at the clubhouse, half of me thought it was her. That fire in your eyes, Cassie-girl? Birdie had it, too. Didn’t back down from nobody—not your daddy, not the men at the mill, not even me.”
This time, when Margie walked on, Cassie blew out a shaky breath and trailed after.
“And you don’t just look like her,” Margie added.
“You play like her. Birdie had this way…” She tilted her head, eyes far-off.
“She’d lean into that fiddle like she was whisperin’ secrets to it.
Close her eyes, tip her chin up, lettin’ the music burn straight through her.
I seen you do the same—not when you was a little thing, but when you was grown, playin’ them big fancy concert halls. ”
“What?” Cassie’s steps faltered. “You…saw me?”
“Plain as day. Back when you was still sendin’ Con them videos. He’d show me every chance he got.” She snapped her fingers, frowning. “What was that one place? You was standin’ in front of a big ol’ palace—looked like a damn weddin’ cake all lit up in gold.”
“Vienna.” Cassie could barely form the word. “Schonbrunn Palace.”
“Yes!” Margie clapped. “That’s it! You in that glittery dress, half your titties hangin’ out, hair all wild. I swear, I saw your mama playin’ right through you.”
“He showed you?” Cassie whispered.
“Oh, that brother of yours.” Margie shook her head. “Back when he was still thinkin’ straight, he’d show anybody who’d watch. Proud as punch, he was.”
Cassie stopped cold, knees weak, more tears breaking loose before she could choke them back.
When she’d first left for New York, when she’d begun traveling the world, she’d sent Connor everything—hundreds—maybe thousands—of photos, recordings, videos.
Lucky if she got a full sentence back. And, like everything else between them, it had all tapered off.
“Aw, Cassie.” Margie turned and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close. She buried her face in Margie’s shoulder, breathing in wildflowers and stale smoke—achingly familiar.
“That boy was damn proud of you,” Margie whispered, still holding her tight. “Didn’t matter how far you went or how long you was gone, he always had somethin’ to brag on when it came to you. You were a bright spot in his world. Don’t you ever doubt that.”
Cassie gasped a broken breath. “But I wasn’t here. I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”
Margie pulled back, her grip firm on Cassie’s arms. “Now you listen to me, Cassandra Berry. You was barely grown when you left this place. Connor was already a man, makin’ his own choices—and one of them choices was makin’ sure you got the hell out and did somethin’ with that gift of yours.
He wouldn’t want you standin’ here blamin’ yourself for his mistakes. Would he?”
Cassie managed a small shake of her head, tears still slipping free. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next,” she whispered. “Margie, I don’t even know where to start. Everything feels so…” Her breath shuddered. “…I don’t even know.”
Margie smoothed her hair back from her damp face, her eyes fierce but kind. “Well, hell, you don’t gotta haul the whole mountain at once. You just take a stone at a time, you hear? How about we start with callin’ the funeral home and gettin’ him outta that goddamn morgue.”
Cassie’s eyes burned again, but she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered, then firmer, “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Good girl. Now, c’mon back to the house.” Margie slipped an arm around her shoulders and turned them toward the path. “We’ll finish watchin’ the sun rise. Maybe I’ll make us some Irish coffees too, hm?”