Chapter Ten
In the pines, in the pines…where the sun don’t ever shine…
Cassie hummed the line under her breath, Margie’s rocking chair creaking beside hers as the ridge unfolded before them…
The days after the funeral home stretched long and hard.
Most days she went to bed late, woke even later, and spent the hours between with earbuds in, music on, and a mug of coffee she rarely finished.
Her grief settled around her like mountain fog that refused to lift.
The box from the police—Connor’s coffee-stained things—sat untouched where it had been set that awful morning.
Maybe once the funeral was over, she told herself each time she passed it.
Maybe then she’d have the courage to face what was left of her brother.
Margie and Charlie moved around her without making much of a fuss. One of them was almost always nearby—smoking on the porch or puttering in the kitchen.
Harvell had called at some point—Connor would be buried in Ridge Hollow. Monday—following the church service.
Ollie stopped by once, trying to talk to her, and ended up discussing local politics with Charlie instead. By the time she registered it, the sun had already set and he was saying his goodbyes.
Then, without quite noticing, she began slowly falling into the rhythm of things again.
Mornings came easier. She’d join Margie on trips to the market, where the same vendor always set aside a few packs of thick-cut bacon—gone if you didn’t get there early enough.
Afternoons found her helping in the garden or cooking in the kitchen.
Evenings meant Wheel of Fortune with Charlie, who rarely made it past the second round before dozing off in his chair.
Then she’d move out to the porch with Margie, Irish coffees in hand, to watch the sun set behind the mountains…
Hell, Cassie had chased beauty and music all over the world: old cathedrals echoing with Bach and Billie Eilish, opera houses alive with Strauss and Social Distortion.
She loved living in New York—the high, electric energy, the way a single block held five languages and three cultures, each bodega or bakery a world unto itself.
She loved Tokyo’s clean precision and the romantic loneliness of Paris’s rooftops.
Istanbul. The Andes. The Danube. She’d performed her way across continents, dazzled and challenged by them all.
Yet no matter how long she kept an apartment in Manhattan, or how often she returned to Paris, she still felt like a visitor—forever just passing through.
But here, high enough to glimpse three ridges deep, watching the light drain in long, molten ribbons, slipping off treetops and riverbeds—each ridge carrying its own hue, its own chord.
The deep greens of the pines settled into D minor, somber and endlessly patient.
The gold at the hilltops burned low, a held E dimming at the edge.
And the blue shadows pooling in the hollows were the silence after a performance—the soft, reverent pause between the last echoing note and the first beat of applause.
Pulling out her earbuds, she closed her eyes to a different kind of symphony. No audience or applause. Just the slow fall of light across the mountains, the chatter of birds settling through the trees, the faint percussion of an axe somewhere down the hollow—
Margie’s house phone rang, the sound cutting clean through the stillness. Chair and bones creaking, Margie shuffled inside.
“Cassie-girl!” Her voice carried through the kitchen’s open window. “Got Luey on the line for ya!”
And just like that, the stillness changed key, crescendoing right back into chaos.
Two hours later, Cassie was pushing through the warped, wooden door of Shooter’s Bar & Grille.
Heads turned, conversations stalling as she stepped inside.
A dozen pairs of eyes followed her while she made her way to the bar and took a seat beside an older man in oil-stained coveralls.
Cassie hadn’t thought twice about her outfit—high-waisted white jeans and a black lace camisole edging on cropped was casual by her standards—but this wasn’t her crowd anymore.
This was Shooter’s: the unchanged, sticky-floored bar from her youth that never carded, rarely closed, and before nightfall mostly catered to mechanics and construction hands—locals still chasing what was left of the work.
“Help you, honey?” The bartender—a familiar, striking woman with deep brown skin and sharp, dark eyes—gave Cassie a hard squint. “You lost—or just slummin’ it?”
Cassie huffed a laugh. “Darlene Mae McKinney,” she chastised. “You’ve been sneakin’ me beers and breakin’ up my fights since I was, what—twelve? And now you don’t even recognize me?”
The woman froze—then threw her head back with a full-bellied howl. “Cassie—goddamn—Berry,” she hollered, already rounding the bar. “I heard you were back, but hell, I didn’t recognize you in that getup—and without all that wild hair. Get over here and gimme a hug.”
“Baby…” Darlene’s voice dropped as she pulled Cassie into a bone-crushing hug. “I heard about Connor.” She exhaled slow against her shoulder. “You know I loved that boy. For real.”
Darlene and Connor had dated in high school, on again off again for a few years after. When Cassie was growing up, Darlene had been something close to a big sister, always encouraging Cassie’s music, always acting like it mattered.
She gave Cassie one more firm squeeze before heading back behind the bar. “Sit tight,” she said, already turning. “I’ll make you somethin’ decent.”
Cassie had barely settled back onto her stool when Darlene set down a glass. “Top shelf,” she said with a wink. “Fancy stuff for my fancy girl.”
She took a slow sip, letting the bar’s noise tune around her—the glass clinks in sync, the bass-line of men’s voices, a sharp burst of feminine laughter hitting high and flat from somewhere near the back.
Eventually the after-work crowd began to thin, its rhythm shifting toward the rougher, rowdier night ahead.
Across the room, the karaoke stage—a plywood platform strung with Christmas lights—was already coming to life, someone tapping the mic, the speaker popping in reply.
“Cas!”
Cassie turned to see Luanne bounding toward her—huge hoops flashing at her ears, dressed in a form-fitting top with patched, paint-smeared jeans.
Behind her, Rebecca “Becca” St. James followed at an easier, quieter pace, looking like Luanne’s mirror in reverse. Her once-long dark hair was cropped into a soft pixie, her big, blue eyes bare of the heavy liner she’d once favored. She wore a floral sundress and scuffed military-style boots.
Cassie almost laughed—it felt like they’d switched places. Back in school, where Luanne had been the wallflower, Becca had worked hard to stand out, her daily outfits a collage of ripped tights, plaid skirts, and stacks of studded bracelets.
“Lord, look at you!” Becca exclaimed, pulling Cassie into a hug. “All these years and you’re still the prettiest thing!”
Becca pulled back just enough to meet Cassie’s eyes. “About Connor—”
“Becca!” Cassie exclaimed, cutting her off. “You swore we’d never see you without eyeliner. Seventeen-year-old you would be horrified.”
Becca rolled her eyes. “Seventeen-year-old me doesn’t have to chase three kids around all damn day.”
“Three!” Cassie repeated, eyes widening.
“Three,” Luanne confirmed. “All boys. And every one of ’em looks just like Brady.”
Cassie’s mouth fell open. “Oh my god—you’re still with Brady?”
“She sure is!” Luanne cut in before Becca could answer. “Married him a few years back, and they’re still fuckin’ like bunnies.”
Becca made a face. “Now that the whole town’s caught up on my sex life, can we please find a table ’fore we get stuck with the wobbly one by the bathrooms?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luanne said, mock-saluting. “Hey, Dar!” she hollered as they crossed the room. “Three Ridge Runners—and don’t skimp on the Evan!”
A few minutes later, Darlene dropped off a tray of mismatched mason jars brimming with Shooter’s signature mix of sweet tea and peach schnapps, topped with a heavy pour of Evan Williams.
“Trouble, times three,” she said with a grin. “Now don’t come cryin’ to me when it hits—y’all grown, and I ain’t hearin’ it.”
“Dar!” Luanne mock-offended. “We have always been three of the sweetest little things in Clifton.”
“Sweet?” Darlene turned away snorting. “Baby, I raised half y’all’s bad habits.”
Cassie, laughing after her, grabbed her jar and took a swig—sighing as she swallowed the old, familiar concoction, memories chasing the taste all the way down. “Holy shit, that’s good…”
Becca lifted her jar. “Now, what did we always use to say before a concert?”
“Go fuck yourself, Miss Delaney!” Luanne crowed, loud enough to draw a few curious looks.
“Because it feels good!” Becca and Cassie replied in unison, laughing and clinking their jars hard enough to send liquid sloshing over the edges.
Miss Delaney, their school music teacher, had been a bitter, mean-spirited woman who never missed a chance to tear down a student.
She’d told Cassie her bowing was flashy and self-indulgent, said Luanne’s voice belonged in a honky-tonk, not a concert hall, and forever warned Becca she’d “never be taken seriously dressing like a streetwalker.” Before every rehearsal and concert, they’d huddle and mutter the lines like a good-luck charm.
Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about Miss Delaney at all—it just meant showtime.
Luanne tipped back her drink, then shook her head. “Lord, if anyone ever needed some self-lovin’, it was that woman.”
“She’s dead, by the way,” Becca added with a wry smile at Cassie. “Probably lecturing all the demons in hell for singin’ off-key.”
“Correcting Satan’s posture and breath control,” Luanne added. “No doubt even he’s sick of her by now.”
Cassie snorted. “If she’s still conducting in four-four, he sure as heck is.”