Page 115 of Cherry Picking

“He wants to know how you are.” Murphy swallows heavily. “The whole thing is getting tiresome, kid, because you aren’t telling me a single damn thing.”

“I’m an excellent assistant, Murph. That’s all you need to know.”

His lower lip wobbles, but he lets it go because he’s a man of his word.

I finish my tasks in a quiet blur before heading back to the funeral home to close out the day. My father’s sitting in the arrangement room, practically drowning in a tide of invoices and folders.

“Well, look who decided to show up.”

I frown. “Did you need me this morning?”

“We managed just fine. Why’d you cover for Tomás on Sunday?”

“He had stuff to do.”

“He had stuff to do last week, too.” Ray sets his readers on the desk with a heavy sigh. “You handled the Alvarez removal at four in the morning when it was Phil’s turn, and you’ve managed the entire supply cycle for three weeks. Which is also Phil’s job.”

“Phil ordered a casket with a Corvette-yellow finish, Dad. Someone had to step in.”

“I saw the photos. We’ll find a buyer for it eventually. Maybe a race fan.” He points a finger at the guest chair, and I drop into it, because a command from Ray Sutton is nonnegotiable. “You’re spending all your time covering everyone else’s blind spots, Evie.”

“It’s the job.”

“It’s a job, but it isn’t the one I envisioned for you.” He links his fingers over the desk. “You’re done at the Maxwells in a month.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“So what does your calendar look like for April?”

I watch a dusty sedan crawl past the window. I let the silence unspool until it starts to itch, which has always been my father’s most effective way of winning a dispute.

“Tomás offered me a chair,” I say finally.

Ray stays perfectly still. “At his shop.”

“An apprenticeship. Two years until I’m licensed. No actual pay for the first one—just drawing all day.” My throat feels suddenly tight. “He asked me back in December. I told him I’d think it over, and then I just . . . didn’t.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“I didn’t think it made sense at the time. With the loans and everything.”

But I’ve squirreled away enough from the Maxwell gig that I can cover at least the minimum payments for a year until I start taking my own clients. I’ve done the math. It’s tight, but it could work.

My dad leans back in his swivel chair, fumbling absently with his glasses.

“I used to cover the entire fridge in your sketches,” he says, a ghost of a smile appearing. “Every square inch of it, until your mother had to start taping them to the sides.”

“Dad.”

“I’ve had you in a removal van and on the phones for three years, and I never once asked what you intended to do with your degree. Because it was easier for me if you just stayed.” He clears his throat, looking away. “I should have.”

“But I like it here.”

“I know you do. You’re exceptional with the families.” He slides the readers back onto his nose. “Go part-time come April. Three days here. Spend the others at the shop and see if you like the view from a different stool.”

“You’d be short a person.”

“I’ll hire one. That’s the trick, Evie—you just hire someone.”