He nods quickly. “Completely understandable. Just thought I’d mention it since folks often ask me things they shouldn’t.”
That earns a faint breath of a laugh from Clara. It’s not humor exactly. More recognition. She grew up in places like this, where gossip travels faster than weather fronts.
Elvis closes the folder. “Everything is set on my end. We can finalize service details tomorrow if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Clara rises when I do, still clasping my hand as though she won’t let go until she’s certain I’m upright. We step back into the hallway, and the soft thud of the office door behind us brings a strange relief, as if the air shifts ever so slightly.
Outside, the breeze carries a mix of pine and distant barbecue smoke from the festival tents on Main Street. Clara turns to face me, her expression full of concern.
“You doing alright?” she asks gently.
I straighten my shoulders and nod. “Yeah. As alright as I can be.”
She studies me for a second before linking her arm through mine. “Then let’s get something to eat so you don’t pass out on me.”
The thought of food normally wouldn’t hold my attention today, but my stomach gives a faint, grumbling reminder that it hasn’t had anything real in too long.
“The town’s packed for the Fall Festival,” I say. “But I’m sure we can find pies at the diner.”
Clara’s mouth curves slowly. “Daisy Mae’s diner?”
I blink at her, surprised she still remembers the name. “You remember that place?”
“My dad loved her huckleberry pie. I think everyone in this town is obsessed with that pie. I have missed it so much.”
A soft ache threads through me. “Me too.”
We climb into the sedan, and the engine hums to life. The drive toward the diner pulls familiar landmarks into view, each one stirring memories I haven’t let myself touch in years.
The old thrift shop with its faded sign. The gas station with a mural of horses running across the side. A cluster of festival tents bright with hand-painted banners.
People wander between booths carrying bags of caramel corn and steaming mugs of cider. Children run with painted cheeks and sparkler sticks. Music drifts from a stage near the grassy center of town.
The diner sits at the end of the block like a landmark carved into the street. The red neon sign hums, and the wide windowsglow with warm light. Cars fill the lot, and both of us brace ourselves for a crowd.
Inside, the place hums with conversation and movement. Boots scrape against tile. Tables crammed with locals overflow with pies and plates of chicken-fried steak. The air tastes like sugar and coffee, a scent that feels stitched into my upbringing.
We step in, and the entire room goes still. Heads tilt. Spoons halt. Faces turn toward me. I can almost hear my pulse in my ears as the attention sweeps over us like a spotlight.
Then a warm, spirited voice cuts through the pause.
“C’mon now, she’s not a zoo attraction.”
Mayor Ruth Holloway emerges from a corner booth, hand on her hip, eyes carrying a blend of mischief and kindness.
Her salt-and-pepper curls bounce as she crosses the room. She must be in her fifties now, though she wears the years like a badge of honor.
She reaches me first and wraps me in a hug that smells like cinnamon lotion and hand sanitizer. Her grip is firm, almost motherly.
“I heard you were back,” she says against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
She releases me with a small pat on my cheek and turns to Clara with a friendly nod. “Who’s your friend?”
“Clara Finch.” My best friend smiles. “Nice to meet you.”
