The shop sat at the far edge of Main, a weathered two-story house painted like a patchwork quilt—boards in teal, buttercream, and sky blue, all edged in uneven white.Someone had stenciled vines of wildflowers along the porch posts; a hand-painted sign swung from a white chain:Secondhand Sunshine.
“I done told you why,” Margie said, starting up the walk.“Ridge Hollow’s a historical site now.County done stuck their nose in it—said no more burials.And round here?Nash is the one who can get shit done—if you catch my drift.”
“I can get things done, too,” Cassie muttered.“Legally.”
The screen door groaned as they stepped inside.The air was heavy, thick with detergent, and the cloying scent of cedar.A ceiling fan rattled overhead, blades clicking as they pushed the hot air from corner to corner.
Behind a counter fashioned from a glass display case sat a blonde woman slouched on a stool, a dog-eared paperback in her lap.She looked up, blinked, then grinned wide.In an instant she was on her feet, bounding around the counter to throw her arms around Cassie.
“Cassie-goddamn-Berry—hell, what’s it been…ten years?”
Cassie shook her head as they pulled apart.“Luanne Hayes.Oh my god, look at you.You’re blonde!”
Back in school, Luanne had been somewhat of a wallflower and a brunette—plain clothes, no makeup, always quiet except when she was singing.They’d become friends through music, chorus and orchestra always pulling them into the same spaces.
Now she was anything but plain.Her white-blonde hair was chopped to her shoulders, lightly curled.Dark turquoise shadow brightened her brown eyes; her lips glossed pink.A tank top spattered with paint clung to her sun-tanned skin, while a symphony of multicolored bracelets jangled as she moved.
“So, you’re clearly still painting every surface in sight,” Cassie gestured around the shop.“Still singing too?”
Luanne laughed and shrugged.“You know me—never met a surface that didn’t need sprucin’ up…and only on karaoke night at Shooter’s.”
Margie rapped her knuckles on the counter.“As much as I love hearin’ you girls reconnectin’, me and Cassie got a funeral home waitin’ on us.”
Luanne’s grin slipped.“I heard about Con,” she said somberly.“I’m real sorry, Cas.He was a good one.If there’s anything I can do…”
Cassie’s chest tightened, though not as sharply as before.After days of condolences, they were all starting to blur together.She cleared her throat, forcing a small smile.“Thanks, Lu.I appreciate it.”
“There’ll be a service soon,” Margie added, nudging Cassie down the aisle.“Word’s bound to get around.”
“Of course,” Luanne called after them.“And I’ll be there, Cas—and whatever else you might need…”
Cassie trailed after Margie, voice low and edged.“Seriously, Margie.Why does he have to be there?Can’t he just leave a paper bag of cash under a park bench like every other wannabe mobster?”
Margie snorted, thumbing through shirts.“It ain’t just money that makes those men sing—it’s muscle too.And Nash has both.”
Cassie pressed her lips together, biting back the retort rising hot in her throat.Sure, Nash could get things done—and usually steamrolled everyone while doing it.But she wasn’t about to let him hijack Connor’s funeral.This was the last thing she could do for her brother.
Margie tugged a faded red flannel free and held it up.“This looks like him.”
Cassie brushed her fingers over the fabric.The red-and-black plaid was worn soft, collar frayed and nearly identical to the one Connor had lived in as a teenager.“Yeah,” she said softly, hanging it over her arm.
They drifted deeper into the store, weaving past shelves stacked with mismatched dishes and milk crates overflowing with used books and records.The next rack was crammed with dresses—brightly colored prom gowns crowding one end, varying shades of white wedding dresses packed along the other.
“Hell, if you and Nash can keep your tongues in check for five dang minutes, we can get this done without anyone throwin’ hands, or bats—” Margie paused, peering at her over a rack of jackets.“…or scaldin’ each other with coffee.”
Again, Cassie swallowed her reply.After the way she’d stormed into the clubhouse, she didn’t have much ground to stand on—even if Nash absolutely deserved a fist to the face for the coffee incident.And arguing with Margie was about as useful as yelling at a brick wall.
“I’m thinkin’ jeans,” Margie said, crouching by a bin of denim.“All that boy ever wore was jeans or coveralls.”She pulled out a pair—knees pale, a few stitches at the pocket where they’d once torn.They weren’t Connor’s, but they could have been.
“Need somethin’ for his feet.”Margie moved toward shelves lined with scuffed-up boots.“You want black or brown?”
Cassie’s eyes scanned the rows until they landed on a pair of black leather boots, creased at the ankles, soles still intact.She could see her brother sitting on the front stoop polishing his riding boots until they gleamed.His work boots he’d beat to hell without a second thought—but his riding boots?He’d treated them like crown jewels, like they were part of the bike itself.
“Those,” she said quietly, pointing.“He’d want black.”
Margie pulled the pair from the shelf, brushing a bit of dust off with her hand.“Well, that’s everything, ain’t it?We need to get movin’ if we’re gonna make that appointment.”
Cassie tailed her to the register, where Margie dropped the boots on the counter with a thump.“Now where’d that girl run off to—Luey?”
