Page 19 of Cherry Picking

We move on to the logistics.

Briggs walks us through it: I handle the mornings at Sutton’s, then spend the afternoons and off days here. I’ll manage the PT routine from the laminated sheet, drive him to the clinic, and keep the pill organizer filled and on schedule. The arrangement lasts through the end of the season, or until Murphy’s cleared for solo duty. Whichever arrives first.

“And when do you catch your flight back to Charlotte?” Murphy asks his son.

“Tomorrow. Puck drop is Thursday. I’ve already missed—” He cuts himself off. “I missed the game.”

Murphy grunts. “What’s one measly game?”

Briggs lets the question hang, and I realize it’s an entire history of arguments condensed into four syllables. I decide not to touch it.

“I’ll video call every day,” Briggs says. “And Evie will—”

“Evie,” I interrupt, “will tell you to mind your own business while she handles it herself.”

Murphy points a finger at me, wagging it with a grin. “Her. I definitely like her.”

Briggs huffs. “You’ve known the woman for twenty minutes.”

“Danny was right. Let’s double her salary.”

Briggs rubs a hand over his face. “How about I manage the finances, Dad.”

Murphy narrows his eyes. “What? You can afford the bill.”

“I could also afford to move you into a single-story place where you could actually move around. You refused to leave this house, so don’t fight me on the payroll.”

His father waves him off with an indifferent hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

Once the deal is struck, Murphy and I shake on it. His grip is slightly unsteady, but he pulls me in closer for emphasis. “You really dig the graves yourself?”

I smile. “When the occasion calls for it.”

“Huh.” He releases my hand. “Honest work. You can tell a person means it when they work with their hands.”

It’s the kindest thing anyone has said about my career in years. Usually, people find it macabre or just a temporary stop-off until I find a real job. I have to look at the photo wall for a second just to keep my face from doing something embarrassing.

Then we do the goodbyes, and Briggs walks me out to the curb. The heat is already rising off the gravel in shimmering waves, my car sitting in the sun like a tired dog.

“That was smoother than I anticipated,” Briggs says.

“You expected a disaster?”

He rubs a hand over his jaw. “He likes you. And he doesn’t like anyone. Not lately.”

“I’m exceptionally charming. It’s a liability.” I fish my keys out of my tote. “He’s good, Briggs. Your dad. He can actually take a hit.” I unlock the door. “He’ll be fine.”

Briggs is quiet for a long beat. “Listen,” he says, his voice going serious. “About the job.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s contingent on one condition.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his tone putting me on high alert. “You are not taking that car to my father’s house.”

I stare at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“It sounds like it’s on its last legs. It probably is on its last legs. If it dies with him in it while you’re on the way to an appointment, that’s a problem.” He’s already shaking his head before I can even open my mouth. “I’ll cover a full tune-up. Everything it needs so it’s reliable. That’s the deal.”

“I really don’t think you should—”