“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.
Chapter Ten
Inthepines,inthe 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.
