by Molly Harper
“Well, now, you’ve got to remember that the cost of living is much lower here as opposed to the big city,” Tootie cautioned.
“How generous?” Margot asked again, and Tootie’s blue eyes sparkled behind those reading glasses.
“Here, I’ll send you the compensation package the family put together.”
Another box popped up on Margot’s screen. She clicked on the file and grimaced at the salary, which was about one-quarter of what she’d made at Elite Elegance. “How much lower is the cost of living there? Also, where is ‘there’?”
“Did you notice that the package includes health insurance?” Tootie asked. “When does your coverage run out?”
“Soon,” Margot grumbled. “Also, I noticed you didn’t answer the question about location.”
“And I’m guessin’ from the packing boxes in the background that your lease runs out pretty soon, too. So really, I could see why you would want to stay where you would be homeless and at risk of huge medical bills, in a city where you could be mugged or run down by a taxi or have a windowpane fall on you from twenty stories up. That’s far preferable to coming down to Georgia, to a town where the crime rate is next to zero.”
Margot had never passed the Mason-Dixon Line, not even to Florida. Her mother had always insisted on family vacations to Lake Geneva, to New York, to France. Anyone could go to Disney World, she’d told Margot; Linda was trying to give Margot the world. Margot didn’t know how well she would function in a rural environment, much less a place where she would constantly hear the banjo music from Deliverance in the back of her head.
“But my life is here. My friends are here. I need to stay where the jobs are. And right now, that’s in Chicago.”
“So you lay low for a few months in God’s country, get to know your kinfolk, get that city air out of your lungs, and then relaunch yourself at people who will have forgotten your foul-up once someone else messes up worse. It will be good for you,” Tootie told her.
Margot stared at the offer. Tootie had thought of everything: financial compensation, meals covered, a clothing allowance, and health insurance. She’d even attached a picture of a small cabin on the edge of a lake, labeled housing. And another photo of a huge family posed in front of a lakeside dock. Tootie stood with an older man, holding his hand. Two couples in their fifties stood behind them next to a man with deep frown furrows barely touched by his lopsided smirk. His arm was thrown around a twentyish girl with purple-streaked hair in pigtails wearing a black T-shirt with a pink radiation symbol on it. Another couple stood on the far left, a man in his thirties with curly reddish-blond hair hugging a laughing blonde. The sun was setting behind the family and they looked so happy together, so at ease with one another. And it felt like a punch to the chest. These people didn’t miss her at all. They didn’t feel a Margot- shaped hole in their family, they’d just moved on without her. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. She’d spent a lot of time on visualization exercises so it wouldn’t hurt. And yet . . .
She cleared her throat. “The whole family put this together? Even my . . . even Stan?”
“Everybody,” Tootie said emphatically.
Margot skimmed the top of the document and caught sight of the letterhead, which read McCready Family Funeral Home and Bait Shop.
“Funeral home? Wait, you run a funeral home? And a bait shop?”
“Well, it’s more of a full-service marina, but yes! For four generations now! You’re part of a Lake Sackett institution, hon.”
“Why would a funeral home–slash–bait shop need an event planner?”
“Well, the baby boomer generation is dropping like flies around here, so we’ve got more business than we can handle. We’ve needed to add another planning consultant for a while now, and when I saw your video and looked up your background, I knew you’d be perfect.”
“I’m an event planner. For major society parties, galas, charity balls, that sort of thing.”
“Well, a funeral is a kind of event. And some of the considerations are the same—timing, speeches, music, food, and such.”
“Oh, I just don’t think I could—”
Suddenly, the lights flickered out and her refrigerator died with a whine. Because she’d shut off utilities in preparation for the move to the condo that was supposed to have taken place the week before. But she had nowhere to go. And no health insurance.
She pursed her lips. “When can I start?”
***
* * *
AUNT TOOTIE—MARGOT was still refusing to call her that out loud, on principle—had been very helpful in organizing her immediate move to Lake Sackett. Using her above-generational- average tech skills, Tootie arranged for a local company to ship the few belongings Margot was bringing to Georgia. Tootie booked a flight from Chicago to Atlanta and then assured her that she’d have a car pick her up at the airport and drive her the two and a half hours to the lake country.
Tootie was just so efficient.
Three days later, Margot’s flight was taxiing down the runway at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport and she was clutching her cell phone to her chest. Margot had no idea what she’d face when she deplaned. She’d intentionally avoided reading up on the funeral home or her new base of operations because she was afraid that additional information would convince her to cancel the whole agreement.
Margot managed to find her bags without problems, but she couldn’t find the car service at the arrivals terminal. She scanned the little signs held by the handful of drivers near the exit. Not one of them said Cary. Maybe Tootie hadn’t sent anyone, she thought. Maybe she could take the airport transit system to the departures terminal and book a flight back to Chicago. She didn’t believe in signs, but maybe this was an omen. Maybe she wasn’t meant to meet her father’s family. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to live in Georgia. Maybe she should step back on the sidewalk before that enormous green truck barreling through the pickup area squashed her flat.
The battered early-model truck skidded to a stop in front of her. The side door was marked McCready Family Funeral Home and Bait Shop—Lake Sackett, Ga in bold gold print.
Margot murmured, “Oh . . . no.”
Tootie hadn’t arranged for a car service. She’d sent a family member to pick Margot up. A stranger in a pickup truck. Everything inside of Margot seemed to tense at once. She’d thought she’d have at least a few more hours to pep-talk herself into the right frame of mind to meet any of her extended family—not to mention the little bottle of vodka she’d purchased on the plane to help prepare her to meet her father. But here it was, spewing exhaust at her, while the driver’s-side door opened. The windows were tinted too darkly to allow her to see the driver. Would it be Stan McCready? Was she ready for that? Was it too late to run back into the airport and hide behind the baggage carousel?
A man in his thirties—the man with curly reddish-blond hair from the family photo she’d studied relentlessly for the last three days—popped his head over the truck frame and grinned at her. His eyes, the same ocean blue as Tootie’s, glowed with amusement as he held up a poster-board sign that read Welcome Home, Cousin Margot! in bright red glitter letters. The sign had been decorated with balloons and glittery star stickers. He waved it madly and yelled, “Hey!”
Definitely not her father, then. Margot stepped back, eyes wide, and in a move natural to someone who spent most of her life in a major city, pulled her purse closer to her body.
The bearded man scampered around the front of the truck and threw his arms around her. “Hey, cuz!”
“Who . . . are you?” Margot whispered as he squeezed her tight. His T-shirt smelled of citronella and sunscreen, a pleasant combination, but she generally liked her personal space bubble to be a little more . . . bubbly.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m Duffy McCready, your cousin. Well, my grandpa is your grandpa’s cousin, which always muddies the waters with third cousin and once-removed and all that. So we’ll just keep it simple and say ‘cousin.’ ”
“And Tootie McCready sent you?” she asked, just in case there was some other half-wild McCready picking up his long-lost cousin at the domestic arrivals terminal.
“We’re so excited that you’re here,” he drawled in his heavy Georgian accent. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had this nightmare customer, refused to give up the search for Billy the Mythic Largemouth Bass. And then Atlanta traffic is always awful.”
“You’re still hugging me,” she noted.
“Sorry,” he said, detaching himself from her. He was a pleasant-enough-looking guy, thin but nicely muscled, with a cheerful face. He was dressed in well-worn jeans, work boots, and a plaid shirt over a forest-green T-shirt that read McCready Family Funeral Home and Bait Shop.
He attempted to take her Vuitton suitcase from her and she held firm to the handle, shaking her head. “I’ve got it.”
After he realized that she was not, in fact, going to let go of her luggage, he raised his hands in surrender. “Suit yourself. I just can’t believe I’m finally getting to meet you,” Duffy said, opening the passenger door for her. “Everybody’s excited that you’re comin’ back home.”
“Everybody?” Margot whimpered.
* * *
Chapter 2
* * *
THE MCCREADY FAMILY had a compound.
An honest-to-God backwoods compound.
Duffy had called it that with absolutely no irony.
The ride to Lake Sackett started optimistically enough. Atlanta was a bustling metropolis, almost comparable to Chicago. Margot recognized various department stores and clothing shops, so at least she wasn’t stuck in a fashion desert. But then the buildings got a little less polished and fewer and farther between. Pretty soon, all she could see whizzing by were scrubby pines and sunbaked red clay, broken up by the occasional run-down gas station or pecan stand.
She had never been this far away from any city. She’d never felt so alone or out of place. And she wasn’t entirely sure this whole Aunt Tootie job offer wasn’t some sort of ruse to lure her into the middle of nowhere so her paternal family could sacrifice her to Lake Sackett’s forest god like something out of The Wicker Man.
While she was suffering this crisis of identity, Duffy continued to chatter to fill the silence. Where was her father? Duffy seemed nice enough, but there was this unspoken distance between them, the strange knowledge that they should know each other better but didn’t, for reasons beyond either of their control.
“We didn’t want to crowd you. Tootie said you weren’t used to a big family fuss. We figured it would already be pretty overwhelming for ya, new state, new place, and all. Everybody’s at Mr. Allanson’s visitation—working as usual—so you have some time to settle in, get some sleep before you go through the full McCready roll call.”
Some small part of Margot would admit that she was relieved. She didn’t think she’d be able to handle meeting the entire family en masse at the moment. She’d barely handled meeting Duffy, and he’d been insistently sweet. She also noted that he hadn’t mentioned where Stan was, that he hadn’t even made an excuse for her father not being present. What did that mean? Had her father not even tried to make it to see her for the first time in almost thirty years?
Margot realized Duffy was staring at her with an expression both troubled and expectant. She tried to muster some semblance of a polite smile and said, “Thank you, that’s very considerate.”
“You’ll meet ’em all soon enough. Grandpa E.J.J. couldn’t be more pleased. He wanted to add you to the company letterhead right away, but we convinced him that might be jumping the gun a little.”
“Grandpa E.J.J.?”
“Technically, he’s Earl Edward McCready the Third, but everybody called him Earl Junior Junior. E.J.J. My dad was called Junior. And my mom said the whole damn thing was becoming too confusin’ so they named me after her side of the family, the McDuffs.”
“So my grandfather’s name is Earl?”
“No, E.J.J. is my grandpa. Your grandpa was his cousin, Jack. He and Grandpa E.J.J. were the ones who really got the business thrivin’.”
“I think I’m going to need a chart,” she muttered.
“It’s actually not that hard to remember. McCreadys have lived in Sackett County since before there was a lake. Our branch comes from a pair of brothers, John and Earl Jr. Now, back in 1916, Earl came home from World War I minus several toes and half an ass cheek and built a little bait shop on the shore of the lake selling night crawlers, plus homemade lemonade and sandwiches that his wife, Kate, made. Now, John never had much interest in fishing, but he could make the sturdiest cabinets you ever saw. The Spanish flu epidemic hit Lake Sackett real hard. John had to stop makin’ cabinets and start makin’ coffins. And it turned out he was an even better coffin maker than he was a cabinetmaker. With all the coffins the town needed—”
“Due to a plague decimating the town’s population?”
Duffy smiled brightly—perhaps too brightly, in light of the pandemic discussion. “Yep. With all the extra orders, John had to have more space to work and Earl let him use the back of his store as a workshop. They’d always gotten along real well and liked having each other nearby as they worked. The bait shop grew, because people loved Kate’s sandwiches and Earl’s fishing stories. And the coffin business took off, because, well, everybody dies eventually. Earl and Kate had E.J.J. John and Ellie had Jack. They all added to the business over time, offering full funeral services and guided fishing tours and such. And they added their own kids with Sarah and Tootie—my dad, Junior, came from E.J.J., obviously. Your dad, Stan, and Uncle Bob came from Jack, who passed on years ago. Bob and his wife have our cousin, Frankie. My parents have my sister, Marianne, and me—clearly the better child. My dad passed away about five years ago. Mom’s still a bit touchy on the subject. Marianne’s the only one of our generation to get married and have kids, so far. She and her husband, Carl, have two boys, Nate and Aiden.”
“I will definitely need a chart,” she said.
“Marianne already made you one. She hung it up in your cabin.” Duffy gave her a goofy half smile. “It’s a lot to take in, but you’ll get it. The most important thing to remember: Nate’s a biter.”
“I will try to remember that,” she promised. “So I noticed that you didn’t mention Stan with a second wife or more kids. Um, I guess my father never remarried?”
“No.” For the first time in their acquaintance, Duffy’s expression was not the picture of boyish excitement. He looked almost offended on Stan’s behalf that Margot was questioning her father’s loyalty. “He never even looked at another woman after your mama left.”
Margot frowned. She’d been counting on some sort of story about a cruel stepmother who wouldn’t let her father contact his only daughter. As a child, she’d spent a lot of nights coming up with elaborate reasons why her father never called or wrote. He was a spy. He was an amnesiac prince. He was in the Witness Protection Program. Gerald was a decent man who had always treated her civilly, if a bit coldly. But she’d needed some reason to excuse Stan’s silence. And then her mother had given her the full awful explanation about Stan’s drinking. Margot had spent years in therapy—sessions starting in college that she’d never told her mother about—working through those excuses. And to find that there was no story, no spies, no amnesia, no evil step- mother? It was more than a little deflating, especially when he’d failed to come pick her up. He’d finally had the chance to start making up for years of absence and he hadn’t shown up.
“He’s been sober for a long time, you know,” Duffy added. “We had a big party for his twenty-year chip and everything. Mama said he was a real mess when we were little. Hell, nobody really blamed your mama all that much for takin’ off. I mean, it sucked she never let us see you, but Stan was in no shape to be a daddy to you. We understood that. We just wish she woulda told us where she was goin’ with you so we knew you were all right. And it still took years after that for him to clean up. But on
ce he got on the path, he stayed on it. Hasn’t had a drink since.”
“Good for him,” Margot said blandly. “So, is there a reason my father isn’t here to pick me up?”
Duffy glanced into the rearview mirror and switched lanes, as if he was stalling. “Uh, well, I think he’s seein’ to Barbara Lynn Grady. He got called to pick her up a couple of hours ago. It’s a bit of an occupational hazard. Death doesn’t stop for holidays or airport pickups. He probably won’t be home until late tonight.”
Margot nodded. While she was hurt that she wouldn’t see her father that day, she was also oddly relieved. And then she felt guilty for being impossible to please. To distract herself from these rapidly realigning feelings, she pulled out her iPhone and checked her messages.
“Oh, you’re gonna have a hard time gettin’ much of a signal up here,” Duffy said, waving his large, calloused hands at her smartphone. “It’s better closer to town, but the hills between us and Atlanta make it pretty hard for the towers to get through.”
She dropped her phone in her carry-on bag. “Of course.”
“So, Grandma Tootie says that you’re going to start tomorrow. She said you didn’t seem the type to want to take time off to rest after your move. E.J.J. is going to do his best to teach you all he knows about the ‘people’ side of the business. Uncle Bob is a dab hand at handlin’ the logistics: paperwork for the coffins, the cremations, arranging the burials, workin’ with the police on traffic arrangements, and all that. But he’s all thumbs with non-McCready people, even if he’s known ’em all his life. If you’re not family, he just blurts out the most accidentally offensive things you can think of, because he doesn’t know what to say. And that is not the guy you want talkin’ you through one of the roughest times in your life.”
Margot swallowed heavily. She hadn’t thought that part of the job through, dealing with those who were handling the deaths of their loved ones. She’d thought her job would mostly involve ordering flowers and discussing casket linings. She was used to guiding clients through happy occasions. She’d been to only a handful of funerals herself.