Chapter Twelve #2
“I reckon you did, but I just wasn’t expecting her twin.
Land sakes—thought it was Birdie walkin’ into prom all them years ago.
” She shook her head lightly. “Mercy, where are my manners—Cassie, I’m Eunice Weller.
Taught your daddy and your mama…and later on, had Connor in my classes, too.
After I retired, Connor’d stop by from time to time to trim the grass, keep me company.
He was such a good boy, and—” Her voice broke. “He’ll be sorely missed.”
Eunice dropped her head, rummaging through her purse for a handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes beneath her glasses.
Cassie felt her own tears threaten and had to fight them back. “I…I remember you,” she said quickly. “You used to volunteer at the library after you retired, right? And read us The Jack Tales?”
“Told us a good story could take you farther than any bus ticket,” Luanne added, a faint smile tugging.
“And that if we couldn’t find ourselves in a book, we weren’t lookin’ hard enough.”
Eunice’s gaze moved between them, eyes shining. “And look at you both now—two beautiful young women, smart and capable and successful. I’m glad to know I had a hand, however small, in helpin’ you grow into that.”
Cassie smiled, the small, sad expression fading just as quickly—and with it, the brief warmth that had filled the room.
“Everybody ready?” Margie asked roughly.
No one answered, but the soft scrape of shoes and rustle of fabric filled the silence as, one by one, they began shuffling toward the door. Cassie, last, shifted the violin case in her grip, glanced once around the quiet room, then followed them out.
Nash pulled his pickup into the lot beside Mercy Hill Baptist Church, the old stone building darkened by decades of rain and coal dust. Motorcycles already filled the front rows, parked tight and gleaming, Virginia and Kentucky plates mixed among the locals’.
Nash spotted a few familiar faces—brothers from other chapters come to pay their respects.
He gave each a short nod. They weren’t here for him; they were here for Connor.
Beyond the bikes, townsfolk were pulling in—former friends of Malachy and Birdie, Darlene and her husband, Becca and Brady with their three boys. The line between the club and the town had always been thin, and today it was damn near gone.
He was helping Junie down from the truck when he spotted Ollie Caldwell strutting toward the church in his dress uniform, that goddamn hat tucked under his arm—like either meant a damn thing here.
Nash, jaw twitching, watched him pause on the steps to shake the preacher’s hand before disappearing inside.
Junie in hand, Nash signaled for the Kings to fall in line behind him.
A slow procession of leather and denim, they passed through the church archway and into the bowels.
The men began peeling off—some to sit with family, others finding space along the sides while Nash continued toward the front, where Connor’s casket sat—the plain pine piece of shit Cassie had chosen.
Only, covered in Margie’s wildflowers, even Nash had to admit it didn’t look half bad.
Framed photos stood on easels around the casket.
Some showed Connor during his football days, under the Friday night lights; others were from the clubhouse—rides out, beers raised, brothers crowded close.
But there was only one of the Berry family all together—Malachy with little Cassie on his shoulders, her smiling face tipped toward the sky; Birdie’s arms around a grinning young Connor.
It was the last photo taken before Malachy got sick; there weren’t too many more after it either.
Nash led Junie to the front row, guiding her into the empty seat beside Margie and Charlie.
He stayed standing a moment, eyes sweeping the room until he found her.
Cassie sat with Luanne sat in a small alcove, off to the side of the pulpit, her violin case clutched tight in her lap—face pale, eyes wide, looking like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
Then he heard the heels, sharp and fast down the aisle. A second later, Addison’s perfume hit him, sweet enough to choke on, as she slid past and into the pew beside Junie.
“You couldn’t wear a dress today?” she hissed. “Seriously, Juniper?”
Junie folded her arms. “It’s what Con would’ve wanted.”
“Don’t think you’ll be sittin’ here with us, Addy,” Margie cut in quietly. “This row’s for Con’s kin.”
Addison blinked, lips parting. Her gaze flicked toward Nash, and he nearly cringed, bracing for the fallout. But for once she stayed quiet. Face pinched tight, she simply straightened her skirt and slipped into a seat a few rows back.
Nash scanned the building full of faces one last time before taking his seat, a hard knot of satisfaction settling in his chest. For all the ways Connor had been written off, they’d still come to say a final goodbye.
The organ started up as the preacher—a small man, shoulders a little stooped—made his way down the aisle to the pulpit, smoothing a weathered Bible between his hands before greeting the congregation and launching into scripture.
“The Good Book says, I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.” The preacher’s voice softened. “Now, Connor knew that fight. He knew what it meant to stumble and still keep goin’.”
Nash looked down at his hands, at the two Kings’ rings side by side. Connor had known how to fight, all right—just never for himself.
A hymn followed the sermon, half the room mumbling through it, the other half waiting for it to end. When the last note faded, the preacher stepped aside and opened the floor to those who wished to speak.
Margie rose first, walking to the pulpit. “Well, y’all know Connor Berry was a pain in my ass,” she said.
A few chuckles rippled through the room.
“But he was mine,” she went on. “All of ours, really. We all watched that boy grow up hard and soft at the same time. Loyal. Stubborn enough to fight the wind if it looked at him wrong.” She glanced at the casket.
“Carin’ enough to save a pack of kittens, too.
Lord, do you remember them kittens he found wrapped up in a sack, tossed off the interstate? ”
“Wouldn’t rest till he found every one of ’em a home—and now them kittens had kittens, and them kittens had kittens, and we got feral cats up to our wazoo. So if you hear yowlin’ tonight, well, that’s just part of Con’s legacy.”
Sarge got up next, pausing beside the casket to lay his hand on the lid before making his way to the pulpit.
“Now, I ain’t too good with words, but I had to say somethin’.
Been knowin’ Con his whole life, and most of y’all only knew the version of him he wanted you to—fast talkin’, always grinnin’ and laughin’ and havin’ a good time.
Never said no to a favor, never shirked his responsibilities to the club or the town until…
” Sarge trailed off, just for a second. “But truth is, he carried a hell of a lot more than he ever let on. And he didn’t even complain, not even when he should’ve.
Not even when we all knew how bad he was hurtin’—”
He cut off abruptly. With a short nod toward the casket, he quickly returned to his seat.
The preacher stepped forward, adjusting his glasses. “Miss Berry,” he said, turning toward the alcove. “I believe you and Miss Hayes have prepared something.”
Luanne rose from the alcove and started toward the pulpit, only to pause when she realized Cassie hadn’t moved. Inside the alcove, Cassie sat ramrod straight, still hugging her violin case. Luanne hurried back, bending low to whisper something, but Cassie only gave a small shake of her head.
Margie glanced at Nash—but he was already on his feet, something sharp and protective striking low in his gut. Heads turned as his boots thudded up the steps.
“I didn’t like Con much at first,” he said, facing the room. “Way back when my old man first started bringin’ him around. Thought he was too green for the life—too damn clean, too. Hell, first time he tried to shift a custom, he damn near ground the gears clean out.”
A ripple of laughter broke out among the Kings.
“Then I grew the fuck up and figured out what the old man saw that I didn’t.
While I was busy chasin’ trouble, Con was workin’ his ass off—double shifts, triple shifts—helpin’ folks out whenever he could, fixin’ shit that wasn’t even his to fix.
And that was the kind of man Mav wanted workin’ for him.
A man who’d never quit, even when he should’ve.
A man who’d give you the shirt off his back, even if it was his last. A man who still gave a damn about a town that stopped givin’ a damn about itself. ”
“A-fuckin’-men,” Boone called, and a few murmurs followed.
Nash nodded. “He deserved better. He deserved to be standin’ here today. And he damn well deserved to see how much he meant—” he gestured at the packed church, “—to every one of us.”
He hit his fist to his heart. “To Con-Man,” he said, voice rough. “Ride fuckin’ free, brother—you earned it.”
Sarge shot up. Then Boone. Then Crusher and Rook. The rest followed, the motion catching like a tide until everyone in a cut was on their feet, each with a fist pressed to his chest,
“To Con-Man,” they echoed one after the other, filling the church.
And while Connor’s name was still rolling through the rafters, Nash stepped down from the pulpit and turned toward the alcove to offer Cassie his hand. “Whenever you’re ready, Strawberry.”
Cassie sat frozen. Somewhere between Margie’s laughter and Sarge’s broken words, she’d gone completely still, barely even breathing.
She’d never frozen before—not when it came to performing, anyway.
Not even as a kid. Not on any stage, no matter how big.
But this wasn’t a performance—it was goodbye.
And there wouldn’t be another chance. No encores. No do-overs. Just this one song, one time—both a parting gift and an apology for a brother who’d carried her farther than he’d ever needed to…maybe even farther than she’d deserved.
And that was what terrified her—the sheer weight of it.
How nothing else in her life, not the gala openings or sold-out seasons or glossy reviews, had ever felt half as heavy as this moment in a small West Virginia church filled with people who’d known her not as a name on a program, but as a friend and neighbor, as Birdie and Malachy’s wild child.
“Cas?” Luanne bent down in front of her, worry creasing her face. “Cas, you okay?”
Cassie looked at her friend, managing only the smallest shake of her head.
“What can I do?” Luanne whispered. “You want me to—”
Before she could finish, Nash’s voice boomed through the sanctuary, like a storm rolling through hollowed hills, bringing Connor with it: metal clanging against metal, gravel spitting under spinning tires, the smell of motor oil and cut grass.
Sun-squinted eyes, a toothpick caught between his teeth, his laugh running ahead of her down a back road at dusk.
Those hands—always fixing, always mending, like he believed he could muscle the world back together if he just kept at it.
And that look he’d give her when she pushed herself too far, chasing perfection till her fingers bled—half pride, half worry.
Easy, kid. The world ain’t goin’ nowhere.
Then Nash’s voice lifted, rougher now, calling out her brother’s name—Con-Man—and the reply came tenfold, one echo after another. As the Kings’ voices filled the church, Cassie opened her eyes, her tears blurring the room. Luanne’s face swam into focus…and behind her, stood Nash.
“Whenever you’re ready, Strawberry.”
Her hand moved before her mind could catch up, her cold fingers threading through his warm ones. His grip firm, he pulled her up, steadying her. She didn’t let go, and when he leaned closer, she felt herself tilt toward him.
“You remember that rock up at my place?” he murmured.
The flat boulder that looked out over the valley, always half swallowed by weeds. She used to play there for hours, bow to string, hair whipping in the wind. Playing whatever came—wrong notes, right ones—the mountains carrying it all away.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Pretend you’re there.”
And then he let go—taking the warmth of his hand with him.
As Nash retook his spot in the pew, Margie reached over and patted his arm. Junie, without a word, slid closer, her shoulder pressing into his side. Nash blinked—surprised. She never did that anymore. He quickly tucked her under his arm, not about to waste whatever miracle this was.
Up front, Luanne had taken her place at the pulpit. A few steps behind her, Cassie lifted her violin.
Her eyes shut; her bow rose; her head tilted, like she was listening for something only she could hear. Horsehair met string, the first notes ringing out across the church. Almost instantly, her expression eased and her spine lengthened, as if the sound itself were drawing her upright.
The sight of it—the sound of it—the way she held it—knocked something old loose inside Nash. Hell, she’d always played the damn thing like she’d been born with it there.
Then Luanne’s voice joined in—gentle at first—letting each line fall heavy, the way a prayer might when you’ve said it too many times to count.
Of all the money that e’er I had
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I’ve ever done
Alas, it was to none but me.
Luanne’s voice climbed, not in volume but in ache—each note more worn than the last.
And all I’ve done for want of wit
To memory now I can’t recall.
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all.
Good night and joy be with you all…
When Luanne’s voice fell away entirely, Cassie carried the refrain alone, breathing the final line out of the violin, letting it linger in the stillness. A brief pause—then the bow shifted.
The melody changed. No words now—just the song again, slower, stripped bare.
Her bow swept long and deliberate, her elbow cutting in with sudden precision, driving the sound higher, pressing the strings until they cried.
Then her wrist loosened, her body following, the tone collapsing back into a soft ache.
Tears slipped free from her closed eyes, catching the stained-glass light. Her lips stayed parted—not in sobbing, but in breath. And her arm kept moving—sawing, really—measured and goddamn stubborn. Her wrist flexed and released, over and over, the motion so relentless it looked almost painful.
And Nash thought, this is what grief sounds like. Looks like.
It wasn’t speeches or scripture. Just a girl with her brother’s ghost caught in her hands, trying to tear it free one note at a time.