The Dead Romantics (29)

Mom clapped her hands together. “Right! The schedule.”

I blinked. “Come again?”

Alice said, “There’s two funerals we have to get through first. Mr. Edmund McLemore and Jacey Davis.”

Carver shook his head. “I know no one else’ll point this out—but don’t you think it’s a bit insane that we have to do other people’s funerals when Dad’s dead? Can’t they get someone else?”

Alice gave him a tired look. “Who, exactly? There’s not another funeral home in town.”

“Then the next town? Asheville? Pop on the interstate and you’re there in no time. C’mon, Mom,” he said to our mom when he realized that he wasn’t gonna get Alice to budge, “you can’t honestly be expected to work right now.”

But Mom was having none of it. She waved her hand dismissively. “They want to be buried by a Day, and it’s an honor and a privilege to do so! I won’t send them somewhere else when we can give them the best ending.”

It was next to impossible to argue with Mom when she had her mind set. Much like Alice, she was immovable. Carver was the sensible one, but he also knew when it was a lost cause. He shook his head and mumbled something under his breath (that sounded suspiciously like “this is why we never went on vacation”), and I was left sopping up the syrup and asking, “Can I do anything to help?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t think so,” Mom replied. “Besides, Alice has most of the funerals this week under control. I just have to be there to—to be there. Xavier would haunt me if I didn’t. Though I don’t think I can do all the heavy lifting.”

“I can do that,” Carver suggested. “I have some time accrued.”

I frowned down into my waffle. Business as usual, even though one of us was gone, and it was strange in the way that The Twilight Zone was strange. As though, on the plane ride home, I’d fallen into a parallel dimension. Everything was off-kilter enough to be wonky. How everyone’s life was still running, still going, still pushing forward when Dad—

I fisted my hands. “But what about Dad’s funeral arrangements?”

“Aren’t they just so eccentric?” Mom sighed wistfully.

“Someone needs to do them, Mom.”

“Meaning us,” Carver guessed, and stirred his glass of water. “I’m afraid I can’t help all that much. I have a tech report due at the end of the week, and if I’m helping with the other funerals . . .”

“I won’t have time between the two services and the embalming processes,” Alice added, somewhat annoyed. “His requests are just—just so—so inane.”

“They’re what Dad asked for.”

“I know, but we don’t have the time, Florence.”

That struck a nerve. “Well, I have time, so I’ll do all of them.”

My younger sister rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to do all of them. I just meant—”

“You don’t have time, I get it.”

She threw up her hands. “Sure! Whatever! Do it yourself. Florence Day, always being the lone hero!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it—”

“Girls,” Mom interrupted in her steady, soft voice. Alice and I both sank back into the booth. “Fighting about this won’t solve anything.”

No, but I wasn’t the one picking the fights. I began to say as much, when Carver checked his smart watch and said, “Karen’s supposed to come by with Dad’s finances in a few. Want to go ahead and head over there, Mom?”

“If we must,” Mom sighed. “Xavier could’ve at least given us a hint on how to go about the Elvis one . . .”

Yes, but I’d figure it out.

I wanted to ask about the lawyer, and the finances—I hadn’t heard anything about a meeting, but it seemed like my siblings had. Maybe they didn’t want me to be a part of it, or I’d missed the memo, or . . . I didn’t know. A myriad of things.

But whatever—I tried to brush off the feeling that I was missing out on something that I should’ve been a part of as I grabbed the ticket for the bill.

“Go on, I’ll pay,” I said. “I think it’s my turn, anyway.”

My family scooted out of the booth and started talking about the funeral and how widely to send out the invitations. To the relatives in the Lowcountry, and the poker club, and most of Mairmont (including the mayor, Fetch, a bubbly golden retriever who had won reelection three times).

Mom sighed as she followed Alice and Carver out of the WaHo. “I wonder if it would be frowned upon to dance with his portrait at the wake? You know the picture—him in the dovetail tuxedo? So dashing.”

“No,” Carver and Alice replied, and the door chime dinged as they left.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. I was still angry with Alice—she was hurting, we all were—but I missed them. I missed mornings like this, and bad soggy waffles, and I missed Dad.

I didn’t think missing him would feel so lonely, though.

I leaned on the counter, beside a guy muttering to himself—small towns, they always had at least one weird guy—and handed the cashier a twenty. She smiled and said, “You must be Florence!”