Page 35 of Cherry Picking

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CHAPTER 10

EVIE

It’s time to start my afternoon shift, but there’s a beautiful woman in my way, standing on Murphy’s doorstep. Ophelia, I guess, based on Briggs’s deranged text.

From a distance, I can still read the pinched look on Murphy’s face.

“Thanks for the food, Miss Andrews,” he says. “But you ought to get on home now.”

I hesitate at the bottom of the ramp. She’s tall—taller than me—with strawberry blonde hair that can’t decide if it’s pink or gold, and a face that belongs on the side of a bus.

I vaguely recognize her from Ziggy’s funeral. She was lingering near the gravesite long after everyone left. Well, everyone but Briggs and me, that is.

“Evie!” Murphy calls, and I realize I’ve been standing there gawking for who knows how long.

“Yeah, sorry.” I jog up the ramp and thrust a hand out. “I’m Evie Sutton. Friend of the family.”

Ophelia raises one perfectly manicured brow. “The family?”

“The Maxwells.”

“Right.” She gives me a saccharine smile. “Zigmund, then? Or Briggs?”

It’s a strange thing to ask. There are only two ways to know these people, apparently, and one of them is dead.

“Murphy, first and foremost.” I smile over at him, warm, and mean it. A casserole dish sits on the seat of his four-wheeled walker, a pie tin balanced on top. “Did you bring some food?”

“I did.” She turns her attention away from me. “I remember you enjoyed the bourbon pecan pie I made when Briggs got his call-up.”

Murphy chuckles. “Can’t say I remember it all too well. Went a little heavy on the rum that night.”

Ophelia’s shoulders drop slightly, but she recovers before glancing back at me. “Well. I just wanted to come by and offer my condolences again. To the family.” She addresses Murphy, softer now. “And if you could pass that on to your son, I’d be awfully grateful.”

He frowns. “Which son?”

“Oh, uh—”

He laughs, dry and a little cruel. “Kidding, Miss Andrews. Thanks for stoppin’ by.”

Murphy dismisses her with a wave, and I track her retreat toward a polished black sedan. I’m still entirely in the dark about her identity. An ex-girlfriend, maybe. Regardless of her business here, I’m grateful Murphy took the lead on that interaction so I wasn’t forced to play enforcer for Briggs’s blacklist.

Once we’ve retreated inside—the casserole dish safely warming in the oven—I trail Murphy into the front room. He’s managed to graduate to the walker today, leaving the chair behind. The PT gave him the green light for short distances a few days back, and it’s been a slow, stubborn process of trial and error ever since.

It’s a quiet triumph to witness his progress. I can see the flicker of genuine pride in his expression, even if he tries to bury it under a layer of unearned cynicism.

“So,” I say, “are you going to fill me in on the drama?”

He taps a finger against his jaw. “That’s a story you’re going to have to get from Briggs, I’m afraid.”

My first instinct is to push. But I’m well aware there’s a delicate line between being a paid employee and a person you trust with your secrets, and I’m not entirely sure I’ve earned the right to step over it.

“Well, he already issued a formal warning against the lasagna we’re currently heating up, so . . .”

“You’re actually going to take orders from that boy?”

“He’s growing on me lately. Plus, he has a temper.” I pick at a loose thread on the sofa arm. “I’m not in the mood to aggravate it.”