Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
All of the wakes are held on the main level, two rooms back-to-back. Sometimes they make it into one, if the person was popular. Lord knows I’ve come here enough times. It’s the only place of its kind in Minton Parish. My grandmother’s wake was here—she didn’t need the two rooms made into one. And Ivy’s dad—he did need the two rooms. When I was younger, my mother used to make me come here with her whenever people from church died. We’d both put on dresses and pretend we were good Christians.
A thought hits, makes my blood run cold. Was Mr. Sawyer’s wake in two rooms? Did all the town come to pay respect to a man who didn’t deserve respect? I hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out. That fucker probably packed the place.
My musings are interrupted by a voice. “Ms. Davis?”
I stand, practically jumping from my seat.
The man extends his hand with a solemn face. “I’m Kenny Chapman. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
He motions down the hall. “Right this way. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”
“It’s fine.”
He opens one of the closed doors to reveal an office. There’s a desk with chairs, some catalogs, tissue boxes carefully positioned on my side. An archway to my right leads to a bigger room, one full of caskets—display pieces like we’re shopping for blouses at Macy’s. It makes me wonder, do they come in sizes? Are there clearance options? Name brands and generic?
Kenny Chapman tucks his chair in and opens a folder. “So your mother already made most of the arrangements.”
I blink a few times. “Excuse me?”
He offers a practiced smile. “It’s common. Parents often want to take the burden from their children, save them from having to make choices during a difficult time.” He slides a piece of paper across the desk to me. “These are the things she picked out. I can still show you them, if you’d like.”
A lump forms in my throat, thinking of my mother coming here by herself—sick, knowing she was dying, picking out her own casket. I swallow, pushing down the shitty feeling that has threatened to rear its ugly head ever since my phone rang last night. If I keep moving, the guilt can’t catch up with me.
I lean forward, look down at a full page of typed-up line items. It must be fifteen rows long, each with a price tag at the end:
Base service fee: $2,295
Embalming: $895
Hearse: $350
Full day viewing—two sessions, double room
Of course my mother thinks she needs the double room. I stop reading and scan down to the bottom line. The total is more than $9,000. I point to it. “Did she pay this already, too?”
Mr. Chapman frowns. “No, I’m sorry. She didn’t. We do offer a prepayment option that locks in the rate, but your mother didn’t opt for it.”
For some absurd reason, that makes me smile. It’s just . . . so Mom.
He reaches behind him to the credenza, grabs a board with all different types of wood displayed. “Your mother chose the glossy red oak—it’s a beautiful piece—with the premium white satin liner.”
“It’s very nice.”
“Would you like me to show you a full-sized glossy red oak casket? We have one on display in the other room. Since the bill wasn’t prepaid, there isn’t a formal contract and you can still replace anything that isn’t to your satisfaction.”
I shake my head. “No. But thank you. Whatever she picked is fine. I want her to have what she wanted.”
Kenny Chapman nods with a smile. “Wonderful. Then there’s just the matter of payment.”
“Do you take Visa?”
“We do.”
I dig into my purse, pull out my wallet, and hold the card across the desk. “Here you go. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“When would you like the service to be held?”
“I don’t know. As soon you can do it, I guess.”
He slides the invoice back to his side of the desk, takes a convenient credit card machine from a drawer. “We’ll need tomorrow to prep. How would Friday work? Two to five and seven to nine for viewing hours?”
“Okay.”
“And nine a.m. for mass at Saint Matthew’s on Saturday, followed by a short ceremony at the crematory?”
“Sure.”
“Would you prefer to make the arrangements with Saint Matthew’s or have us handle that?”
“You, please.”
“Of course. There’s a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar preparation fee.”
I purse my lips. I don’t know why, especially since the bill is over $9,000 already, but adding another fee to make a phone call just irks me. “Maybe you could use the non-premium white satin liner, and we can call it even?”
Kenny Chapman looks appalled. I don’t care.
He clears his throat. “We’ll absorb the fee as a courtesy.”
I don’t think it will break him. I force a smile. “Thank you.”
He swipes my card, slides a receipt over for me to sign. I scribble my name and stand. “Is there anything I need to do?”