Page 37 of Cherry Picking

Briggs

fucking hell. if you tell me it was bourbon pecan I’m blocking this number

Evie

. . .

Briggs

you’re dead to me

Evie

*vampire emoji*

Briggs

*angry emoji*

The following morning at Sutton & Sons, we’re faced with a significant logistical problem, and that problem is a horse.

Not a real one, thankfully. It’s a life-sized cardboard cutout of a palomino currently wedged in the doorway of the arrangement room. Phil ordered it for a themed service and, in his usual fashion, neglected to measure the frame.

“It’s for the Delgados,” he says, as if that justifies the obstruction. “She was a barrel racer. State champion, three years running. The daughter requested it near the guest book.”

“It isn’t going to fit near the guest book,” Tomás says. “It isn’t even going to fit through the damned door.”

“It’ll fit. We just need the right angle.”

We spend six minutes negotiating the angle. Tomás takes the lead, I take the tail, and Phil offers a series of unhelpful directions. The horse loses an ear against the jamb.

Phil gasps. “You’ve maimed Diamond.”

“It has a name?” I ask.

Tomás sets his end down with a thud. “The real horse was named Comanche. I read the file. You’ve been calling this thing Diamond for no discernible reason.”

Phil considers this. “Oh. I could’ve sworn I saw Diamond in the notes.”

Gerald emerges from the back, moving at a pace that suggests he’s walking through heavy syrup. He surveys the palomino. He surveys us. He says absolutely nothing and continues toward the kitchen.

“Very helpful, Gerald!” Phil shouts.

We eventually force the horse through. It stands in the arrangement room looking somewhat worse for wear, but I have to admit it’s not the most unhinged thing Phil has talked a family into. Last month featured a fog machine. The month before that was a live butterfly release, half of which didn’t survive the industrial HVAC.

“The Delgados are going to love it,” Phil says, already supergluing the ear.

“They will,” I agree.

Grief makes people reach for highly specific comforts, and sometimes the weird things are the only ones that help.

While Phil takes photos for the social media feed, Tomás and I reset the room for the afternoon viewing, working in a familiar, easy quiet. He’s the one who breaks it.

“You heard Bianca’s leaving the shop?”

I look up. “Your best artist?”

He huffs. “Bianca’s a close second. But she’s moving to Reno—husband’s transfer.” He flips over a delivery tag. “I’m going to need someone for her chair.”