Chapter Nine
Cassie spotted Harvell’s Funeral Home the moment Margie turned off the main road.
It sat back on a slight rise, two stories of white clapboard and dark shutters, the porch stretching wide across the front.
Fresh paint and a new sign didn’t matter—it was still the same place where she and Connor had sat on the front stoop in silence while Mama and Margie—mostly Margie—haggled with the director over Daddy’s burial costs.
A little over a year later, they’d come back for Mama, unable to afford anything beyond the plainest box and a small graveside service.
And then she saw Nash—leaned back against a porch post, arms crossed, baseball cap pulled low, black T-shirt clinging to the hard, tattooed shape of him.
A cigarette hung from his mouth, smoke curling along the edge of his beard.
Her grip tightened on the bag. Big, arrogant bastard, standing there like he’d rather bulldoze the world than ever admit he’d done a damn thing wrong.
“Ready?” Margie asked, parking the truck.
“No.” Cassie kept glaring at Nash.
Margie patted her arm. “Don’t matter. Let’s get it done.”
Shoving open the door, Cassie turned her attention back to the funeral home and marched up the steps past Nash without so much as a glance.
Inside, the parlor was brighter than she remembered—updated trim, lighter walls—but the burgundy carpet remained. The same ugly oil paintings lined the walls: angels and misty hills trapped inside heavy gold frames that looked more gaudy than holy.
The door chimed as Margie and Nash entered behind her. Cassie’s shoulders stiffened, tension crawling up the back of her neck, but she kept her eyes fixed ahead, determined to pretend he wasn’t there.
A man in his fifties stepped from the hallway into the foyer, his smile polite and practiced. A gold nameplate on his suit lapel read: Edward Harvell, Funeral Director.
“Thank y’all for comin’,” he said gently. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Cassie only nodded, while Margie replied, “Thanks for our business, you mean. Well, hell, let’s get to it—ain’t no good in hoverin’ by the door.”
Harvell blinked, quickly recovering. “Of course. This way, please.” With a small gesture, he led them down a narrow hallway and into a cramped office. A heavy oak desk dominated the room, its surface crowded with neat stacks of leather-bound catalogs.
Cassie and Margie took the chairs across from him. Nash stayed by the door, silent and looming, like the whole room might need intimidating. Because of course he did.
Harvell began, “Now, Ms. Berry, I understand this is for your brother—”
“He needs to be buried with our parents,” Cassie interrupted. “At Ridge Hollow.”
Harvell’s smile faltered. “Ah, yes. I remember you mentioning that on the phone. However, Ridge Hollow is a historic site and technically closed to new burials. There might be exceptions for family plots, but those are handled on a case-by-case basis by the Redwater County Historical Preservation Committee.”
Flipping through a stack of papers, Harvell continued, “I believe there’s one cemetery with available plots over in Bluebend—”
“Where the ground floods every spring?” Margie scoffed. “Might as well toss him in a damn canoe and send him upriver.”
Harvell paled and started rifling through another pile. “Yes, well, there are also newer lots in Rosewood—very beautiful, very peaceful—”
Cassie shook her head, teeth clenched. “No. He has to be with our parents.”
“Well, I can certainly inquire,” Harvell replied. “But I must warn you the outcome will likely not be in your favor. In the meantime, we could discuss other options—”
“No,” Cassie cut in bitingly. “He has to be with our parents. And I’m prepared to pay whatever that costs. I don’t care what hoops you have to jump through or who you have to call. Do you understand me? Whatever that costs.”
Harvell’s hands stilled on his papers. He cleared his throat, a tight smile tugging at his mouth.
“Of course, Ms. Berry. We can certainly explore a…fee option. These things just take time. The council will need to review records, confirm your family’s existing plots, and—well, sometimes there are added costs for use of historic grounds—”
“Nash,” Margie said quietly.
Nash pushed off the wall and stepped forward, wedging himself between Cassie and Margie. He braced his hands on Harvell’s desk, the heavy silver Kings ring on his finger catching Cassie’s eye. Beside it sat another Kings ring, its metal darkened and scuffed.
Connor’s.
Cassie stared at it, mouth flattening. He must’ve taken it that morning in the kitchen, after the coffee spilled and she’d run out of the house.
“She told you he’s goin’ in Ridge Hollow,” Nash said, each word low and slow. “So you’re gonna make that happen. Whatever papers, whatever signatures, you handle it. And there ain’t gonna be no extra fees tacked on. Just the service and burial. We clear?”
Cassie’s eyes flicked up, her skin prickling.
She wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up—that he didn’t get to speak for her—and to hand over her brother’s ring while he was at it.
But the words stayed lodged at the back of her throat, burning and useless.
This wasn’t the time or place to start another battle between them.
Harvell stared up at Nash, even as he shrank in his seat. “I’m not sayin’ it’s impossible—just that it takes time. There’s a process—”
“Then start the fuckin’ process,” Nash cut in darkly, “or I will.”
Harvell went stone-still. “Y-yes, of course,” he stammered. “We’ll start everything right away. I’ll reach out to the council and confirm your family’s plots, Ms. Berry. No extra fees, no trouble.”
Nash straightened, glancing sideways—not quite at Cassie, but close enough that she felt it.
Her grip on the bag tightened further, her nails biting through the plastic until it tore.
She wanted to throw it at him, shove him, anything to break that calm, immovable, infuriating stance of his.
Instead, she remained silent and simmering.
Harvell cleared his throat again. Pulling a thick leather-bound catalog from the stack, he slid it cautiously toward Cassie. “If you’d like,” he began, forcing a small smile, “we can start by lookin’ at casket options. Traditional styles—mahogany, walnut, very elegant…”
Cassie scanned the glossy photos. They all looked the same—shiny, human-sized boxes trussed up in frills only to be buried and forgotten.
Her mama’s plain pine box suddenly didn’t seem cheap anymore.
In fact, it seemed right. Honest, even. Like it hadn’t tried to dress death up as something it wasn’t.
“Connor wasn’t elegant,” she said at last.
“Not an elegant bone in that boy’s body,” Margie gruffly agreed. “He lived and died in denim and flannel. Always covered in grease. He wouldn’t be wantin’ fancy. No satin pillows—no way, no how.”
Harvell nodded and flipped open another catalog. “We do have simpler models—solid pine, unvarnished, very understated.”
Cassie leaned forward, turning the pages slowly, waiting for something to feel right, until one casket—a pale pine box with matte black handles—finally held her gaze.
To most, it probably looked plain. But Cassie saw the same spirit she’d always loved in a well-made instrument—the grain running wild, the wood imperfect but alive. The kind of thing that didn’t need polish.
Just like Connor.
“This one,” she said, tapping the page. “This is the one.”
Nash stared at the casket Cassie was pointing at—pale and raw, nothing to it—his temper kicking up. Connor deserved more than some flimsy piece of shit. He stabbed a finger at the next page—at an oak casket, darker-stained, cleaner lines, still simple but more solid.
“What about this one?”
Cassie’s head snapped toward him. “You don’t get to make decisions here. We agreed on that.”
“I never agreed to shit,” he shot back. “An’ Con deserves better than the cheapest thing on the page.”
Cassie shoved her chair back, springing to her feet. “Cheapest thing? Are you seriously calling me cheap?”
His eyes flicked to the secondhand-store bag in her hands. “You bought him someone else’s shit to wear—and now you wanna bury him in the bargain-bin box—what the fuck would you call it?”
Her mouth fell open. “You think this is about fucking money? You think I picked it because it’s cheap? You have no idea why I chose it. None.”
“You’re right,” he said with a bitter laugh. “I don’t have a single fuckin’ clue why you don’t think Con’s worth more than plywood.”
Cassie’s eyes flared. She dropped the bag at her feet with a thud. “Say that again,” she whispered, voice low and shaking, “and I swear to God, Nash, I’ll bury you right next to him.”
“I’m already there,” Nash spat back. “Jesus Christ, woman, you’re so fuckin’ full of yourself you can’t see what anyone else is feeling. You think you’re his only kin—well, you ain’t. He was my brother, too—” His fist slammed against his chest. “My fuckin’ brother.”
“Lord have mercy,” Margie muttered. “Are y’all seriously fixin’ to brawl in a funeral parlor?”
“We, uh…” Harvell cleared his throat nervously. “We do offer grief-counseling referrals, if that’s something you would be interested in…”
Still glaring at Nash, Cassie pointed at the pale pine box again. “That’s. The. One.”
Nash’s breath hissed between his teeth. “No, it ain’t. He deserves better.”
“It isn’t about better!” Cassie shrieked, practically jumping into his space, chin up. Nash felt his pulse spike, every muscle tightening.
“It’s about Connor—my brother. Not yours—mine. He wouldn’t want better; he’d want simple; he’d want—”
“He put up with simple for you!” Nash roared, closing the remaining space between them until their chests met.
He could feel her breath, see the angry quiver of her lips, feel the way her whole body trembled like she was two seconds from swinging at him—and, God help him, he wanted her to.
Wanted any excuse to grab her and shake the ever-loving shit out of her.
“He lived with nothin’ so you could have somethin’—and now you can’t give him one goddamn nice thing. Not even in death!”
Cassie’s breath hitched; she shoved both hands against his chest, harder than he’d prepared for, knocking him back a step. “Don’t you dare put that on me!”
Nash lunged, hands closing on her arms and hauling her flush against him. His voice dropped, rough and dangerous. “Push me again, Cassie, and see what fucking happens.”
“Enough!” Margie barked, grabbing the back of Nash’s cut and Cassie by the elbow with her other hand. “You let her go, Nathanial,” she growled, “’fore I smack you upside the head. And you”—she snapped at Cassie—“you lay hands on him again and I’m gonna shake you silly myself.”
Nash released her roughly; both of them stepping back at once. For a moment they only glared at each other, locked in a moment that still felt cocked and ready to strike. Cassie’s hands remained balled at her sides, white-knuckled while his flexed and curled, still itching for something to hit.
Margie, who’d planted herself between them, continued, “I’m done playin’ referee for the two-a-you—you hear me? Done. We’re here for Con and nothin’ else. You wanna tear each other to shreds, you do it on your own time—not Con’s or mine.”
The silence stretched taut until Cassie, still trembling, turned slightly, placing the tip of her finger on the picture of the pale pine casket. “That’s. The. One,” she bit out softly, her eyes still on Nash, bright and wild and…practically daring him to do something.
Nash bared his teeth, grinding his molars so hard his jaw popped, but he said nothing, did nothing. Not because he was done with her—hell-fucking-no—but because Margie was watching him.
“Lovely, uh, choice,” Harvell rasped from behind his chair.
“A very fine…erm, modest option.” He fumbled with his pen, nearly dropping it.
“Now that we have the casket selected, why don’t we move on to, um…
the arrangements? We offer a variety of floral pieces, custom-tailored services—whatever you, uh, feel best represents… him.”
“I’ll be bringin’ the damn flowers,” Margie replied, tone still clipped. “And he’ll be havin’ a church service at Mercy Hill—that’s what his mama woulda wanted. And these two are gonna be keepin’ their mouths shut for the rest of this god-dang appointment. Do I make myself plain?”
Nash muttered something low. Cassie echoed it—barely audible—but neither of them moved, and neither broke eye contact.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Harvell replied, jotting down notes. “Self-supplied flora; Mercy Hill service…and have you given any thought to a personalized service program?”
“Heavens,” Margie muttered, dropping back into her chair. “Y’all better just toss me in a feed sack when I go. Bury me under my favorite pear tree. Let the worms eat my eyeballs like the good Lord intended.”
“Oh,” Harvell said suddenly, rifling through his papers again, producing a pamphlet.
“I could arrange that for you—we’re partnered with Laurel Groves Memorial Park outside of Charleston.
” His voice took on a faint, practiced rhythm.
“They specialize in natural burials—no vaults, no chemicals, just a simple shroud or biodegradable coffin under a tree.
“They even have a certified ‘green section,’” he added, tapping the brochure. “Where families can plant native wildflowers, or adopt a sapling nourished by, well…your loved one. There’s even a little sign that says ‘From ashes to apples’ if you go with one of the fruit trees.”
No one said a word.
Not even Margie had an answer for that.