by Jessa Archer
I rolled my eyes. Ed and I had been hanging out together for a few months, but it wasn’t anything romantic. While I wouldn’t be averse to that at some point, I wasn’t ready to plunge back down that particular rabbit hole just yet. Cassie and I had gone to Pat’s for dinner the night before, and Ed had stopped by to chat for a bit, but as far as I could tell, he hadn’t looked at me any differently than usual. Or any differently than he looked at anyone else.
My daughter has always been observant, though. She picks up on people’s moods and can spot a lie at fifty yards. Cassie would have made a brilliant reporter if she’d ever had the inclination.
That said, I could tell from the gleam in her eye that she was trying to figure out how to play matchmaker, and I didn’t intend to give her anything to play with. “You have an overactive imagination, Cassie. Ed and I are just friends.”
“How long have you known him?” she asked, not even acknowledging my comment. “And why haven’t you told me a single thing about him?”
“Ed grew up in Thistlewood. He’s a bit older than me, but I knew his younger sisters.”
I ignored her last question, even though it was a very perceptive one. The truth is, I really didn’t know how to answer. Cassie and I talked a few times a week. I’d told her lots of stories about Wren and some of the other people I knew in town. The fact that I hadn’t mentioned Ed yet suggested that maybe some part of my brain had been thinking of him in a romantic way all along. Not that I really thought Cassie would object, but the divorce from her father had only been final for a few months. Ed had stopped by to chat almost every day since I opened up the newspaper. I’d even had lunch with him at Pat’s a couple of times and gone to a few poker games that he and some of his ex-cop or former military buddies held every two weeks or so. He’d never pitched it as a date, just a way of introducing me (or in some cases, reintroducing me) to people in the area.
But I hadn’t said a peep about any of that to Cassie.
“He used to be the sheriff,” I continued. “So I knew of him even if I didn’t really know him, mostly from my subscription to the Star when I was in Nashville. The sheriff plays a leading role in any small-town paper. And, of course, his accident made the news, even in Nashville. Not front page, but a sheriff getting sideswiped on the side of the road merits at least a mention.”
“So that’s what happened,” Cassie said. “I noticed the limp but didn’t want to ask.”
“Yeah. It was New Year’s Eve, seven years ago. Just a routine traffic stop. Ed was standing on the shoulder of the road. Whoever hit him was almost certainly drunk, judging from the way they were swerving. He saw part of the license plate and the make and model, but the owner, who was still in high school, had a decent alibi and a powerful grandfather. That kid’s dad is the sheriff now, in fact, and the boy still drives like a maniac, so you might want to keep a watch out if you’re downtown late at night.”
A burp and hiss from the kitchen told me that the coffee was finished brewing. I poured myself a travel mug and headed for the door.
“You’re still going in?” Cassie asked with a fake pout.
“Yes, but only a half day. I need to deliver copies to the diner and to the stores that carry them. And I’m still working on getting the press up and running so that we don’t have to go all the way to Knoxville each week.”
“I can’t believe you’re still able to get parts for it,” Cassie said. “And the drive into Knoxville would take a lot less time than using that ancient monstrosity.”
“You can still special order the parts,” I replied a little defensively. “And don’t talk that way about Stella. She was my baby long before you came along.”
To be fair, though, Cassie was right. Although there had been some minor updates, the printing press, which Mr. Dealey nicknamed Stella, was the same machine that had been used at the Star since it opened in the early 1900s. And yes, it would be much quicker to continue having the paper printed in Knoxville. Much easier, too, but it’s definitely not cheaper. And it just didn’t feel the same.
“Anyway,” I told her, “the press is part of the attraction. I’m hoping we can get tourists to stop in, since Stella is one of only a few old-fashioned printing presses in the nation.”
Cassie looked skeptical. “Isn’t that a lot of effort just to sell a few extra papers?”
“Maybe. But it could also help draw business to the shops on my block. I’m being a good corporate citizen.”
She laughed. “You just don’t like change.”
“Not true,” I said as I opened the door. “I simply believe you need to balance the old with the new. Have fun today! Maybe drop by the paper after you’re done at the library.” I paused as I was about to close the door. “But I won’t be there at lunch.”
“Going on a date?” Cassie wagged her eyebrows at me.
“Yes. With Wren. She told me you’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
Cassie wrinkled her nose. “Are you having lunch at her house?”
Wren Lawson, my best friend for as long as I can remember, owns the Memory Grove Funeral Parlor in Thistlewood. She lives above the chapel and mortuary, something that freaks Cassie out more than a little bit. Wren is a pragmatic soul, who has always viewed death as simply another stop in the circle of life. Cassie, on the other hand, goes out of her way to avoid walking past a graveyard or funeral home.
“Yes. At her house. She has something she wants to give me. Although I could probably convince her to meet us at the diner if it means she’d get to see you, too.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” Cassie said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just make a salad when I get back. We ate at the diner last night, and I don’t want to mess up your plans.”
“You know, if you went to Wren’s house just once, you’d see it’s really not a big deal,” I said gently. “I mean, we’re all going to end up in a place like Memory Grove eventually.”
“Working there, I can understand,” she says. “Okay, not really. That’s not a job I would ever take. But living there? No way.”
“You live above a magic shop. Some people might think that’s strange.”
Cassie groaned. “Nirvana is not a magic shop. It’s a metaphysical bookstore.”
“It’s a new-agey place. The sign always makes me think of witches and crystal balls.”
“We sell crystals, Mom. Not crystal balls.” Cassie dumped a spoonful of sugar into her cup.
“You also sell those chakra thingies,” I added. “Plus tarot cards. And what about the psychic who comes in to give readings each weekend? It’s a magic shop.”
“Fine,” she said with a laugh. “Call it whatever you want. But it’s not even remotely as bizarre as living above a funeral home.”
✰ Chapter Two ✰
Like most small towns, Thistlewood’s Main Street is its lifeline. Almost everything is located off the two-lane blacktop. Pat’s Diner is at one end, and a large church at the other. In between, you have an assortment of small shops, many of which are closed in the winter, along with the courthouse, the library, a small movie theater that’s shuttered during the winter, another church, the drugstore, and the offices of the Thistlewood Star. This is the core of the town, the part that existed before the tourist attractions began to spring up around the river and the gateway to the Smoky Mountains National Park. During the off-season, the townsfolk seem to cluster around this narrow strip, which everyone thinks of as the real Thistlewood. I guess we’re a bit like bears in the winter, and Main Street is the communal cave in which we gather to hibernate.
Thistlewood’s winters are always tough. We aren’t high up enough for skiing, and the town lacks the flashy allure of nearby Pigeon Forge or Gatlinburg. There used to be two local factories, but pretty much all we have now is the river. In warmer weather, the cabins and campgrounds are filled with families who spend their vacation days fishing, swimming, or inner-tubing. It also doesn’t hurt that the casinos at Cherokee are only a short drive aw
ay.
Back when I was in high school, the town went into snooze mode after Halloween. We’d get hunters and a few of the more diehard fishermen in the late autumn months, but they didn’t buy much aside from food at the diner. In recent years, though, some smart cookie on the town council came up with the idea of turning Thistlewood into a picture-perfect Christmas village. It took a while to catch on, but the gimmick has done a decent job of drawing visitors from Knoxville, Asheville, even as far away as Chattanooga, to buy knickknacks and handmade goods for the holiday season. But from January to mid-March, the town remains a veritable graveyard.
I’d forgotten exactly how dead the place could be during the thirty years I was away. It was one of those not-entirely-relevant things that you stash away at the back of your head. Because I’d never planned on returning to Thistlewood for more than a few days at a time. My career and my life were both in Nashville.
But things change, and sometimes they change wicked fast. When the paper I’d worked at for nearly twenty-five years was bought out by one of those big syndicates, they offered several of the writers and editors an early retirement package. At first, I resisted the idea. I liked my job, and I was too young to retire. But my friend Wren had reminded me that there was nothing wrong with retiring from one job and moving on to new adventures. My husband, Joe, had seemed to think that it was a good idea, too. So I took the money and started thinking about my next chapter. What did I want to do with the second half of my life?
I hadn’t known at the time that Joe was asking himself the very same question. He arrived at his answer before I did. About a week after I’d accepted the offer from the Trib, Joe waltzed in from work and announced, without the slightest bit of warning, that he really wasn’t in love with me anymore. We had nothing in common aside from a grown daughter. He wanted a divorce. And with that simple, matter-of-fact statement, my world had come crashing down.
Or, at least, that’s how it had felt at the time. Over the past nine months since I packed up my things and came back to Thistlewood, I’d come to realize that maybe Joe had a point. I didn’t miss him as much as I missed the idea of him, the idea of us. And eventually I didn’t even miss that anymore.
I flipped the sign on the paper’s front door to CLOSED and headed off toward Wren’s house. There weren’t many people milling about downtown, even during lunch hour, although I spotted a few walking in the direction of the diner. During summer, it would be very different. Traffic would congest Main Street like a bad cold. The locals would complain half-heartedly, because they all knew the money those crowds brought in during the summer was the only thing that kept groceries on the table for most residents during the winter.
Wren Lawson’s funeral home, Memory Grove, is located on James Street, just off Main, behind one of the churches. It’s a large, two-story Victorian on a deep lot that sits back from the road, with a big front garden where family and friends of the deceased can mingle. Wren’s living quarters are upstairs, with the funeral home below and the mortuary itself in the basement. When she took over the business from the previous owner, Wren painted the exterior a beautiful robin’s egg blue.
Just because it’s a funeral home doesn’t mean it has to look depressing, she’d said. This change from the somber gray that Memory Grove had been for generations had bothered some people in town almost as much as the fact that the new owner was African-American.
I walked through the front door and pulled it shut as quietly as possible. Stepping into Wren’s house always felt like stepping into a chapel. A large staircase with angels on either side of the bottom posts stared back at me, their eyes watching my every move. Maybe even judging me a little. When I visit, I always tend to whisper until I’m upstairs. Which is a bit silly, I guess. As Wren often says, her overnight guests are very difficult to disturb.
“Ruth!” she called out from the top of the stairs. “Hang your coat and come on up. I’m just finishing the chicken salad.”
I crept into the foyer to hang my jacket on the coat rack. Then I headed upstairs, careful to stay toward the middle of the steps to avoid those judgy angels.
“Cassie isn’t joining us?” Wren asked.
“No. She didn’t know how long she’d be at the library. But she said to tell you hi, and that she’d see you later in the week.”
Wren rolled her dark eyes. “Why on earth do you still think you can lie to me, Ruth Townsend? I’ve known you since you were fourteen years old, and I can spot your little white lies before the words ever make it to your lips.”
I laughed. “It’s not a lie.”
Wren shook her head of auburn curls and said, “Cassie is spooked of my place. That doesn’t hurt my feelings. Some people are just more sensitive about death than others.”
“It’s true,” I admitted. “Cassie’s had this thing with funerals since she was a teenager.”
A thing was putting it mildly. Cassie had never said outright that she saw or even sensed ghosts. All I knew was that she refused to step foot into mortuaries or cemeteries, and most churches were off-limits, too. While I kind of understood her point about the funeral parlor itself, it was hard to see how anyone could be spooked here in Wren’s cozy, colorful kitchen.
“I was kind of hoping I could get her to move past it, now that I’m back in Thistlewood,” I added. “Because you know she loves you to pieces.”
“The feeling is mutual, but I’m happy to visit with her at your place until she gets over it. If she gets over it. You said yourself that Cassie senses things. A smart girl knows her limits.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”
“I never said that. What I said is I’ve never seen one. At my house, or anywhere else. Doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Doesn’t mean other people don’t see them. Given my line of work, I consider not seeing them a blessing. Could you imagine knowing a spirit was watching over your shoulder as you embalmed its body?”
Wren’s dark brown eyes sparkled teasingly. She knew I couldn’t even begin to imagine getting a body ready for burial, with or without a ghostly observer. Viewings, preparing bodies, dealing with grieving families…just thinking about the entire process made me shudder.
“Anyway,” Wren said, “if I didn’t believe in ghosts just a little, why would I have painted this place haint blue?”
“What on earth is haint blue?” I asked.
Wren laughed. “Ask Cassie. She knows. Do you want coffee before or after we eat?”
“Both, of course. And also while we eat.”
Wren and I became friends in high school when her family first moved to Thistlewood. We’d stayed in touch easily while I worked in Nashville. Our friendship had always been the kind where we could go months without speaking and then pick back up as if no time had passed at all. She was always great about checking in on my parents when they were alive, and I’m not sure what I would have done without her during my divorce. Wren had made my transition back to Thistlewood as painless as possible, which was saying something, given the circumstances.
But I’ll admit that her choice of career is puzzling. Why would someone with Wren’s brains and beauty decide to become a mortician? Her military service had something to do with the decision. When she enlisted after high school, the recruiter had promised her a medical field. Her goal was to complete a single tour and have money for college, so she could become a physician’s assistant or maybe go to medical school. As is so often the case, however, what the recruiter promised and what he delivered were entirely different things. Wren was trained as a mortuary affairs specialist. To her surprise, she’d actually liked the work, and she’d liked the military, especially since it gave her the opportunity to travel.
For me, the bigger question had always been why she chose to come back to Thistlewood to practice after her military retirement. The town is far from diverse, and as one of only a few black students, high school here hadn’t exactly been easy for her. From what she’d told me, her brother had been baffled by
that decision as well. They’re still close, but she has to go to him—he won’t even visit her here.
I’d asked her these questions when she told me her plans. I knew that part of her reason for moving back was so she’d be around to help care for her grandmother during the last few years of her life. But Wren had also said that the job put her in a position to bring comfort to people. Maybe being there, offering kind words and helpful advice in their time of need, would bridge the divide a bit. Maybe she could help create some positive change.
Her first few years back in Thistlewood had been rough. She’d apprenticed with the former owner for a while, then bought him out when he retired. Most of the families in town had used Memory Grove for generations, and many of them continued to do so after Wren took over. Others weren’t at all pleased that the previous owner had apprenticed a black woman, and they opted to take their business to a funeral home in Pigeon Forge instead. Not that they’d admit that was the reason why, of course. They’d just shake their heads and say that they couldn’t imagine having a funeral in a place that was painted bright blue. Haint blue, apparently.
Over time, though, most of the residents had come to accept Wren’s role in Thistlewood. So maybe she was right. Maybe she was making things better.
I opened the cupboard where she keeps her coffee mugs and poured both of us a cup. “So…what did you want to give me?”
“Ooh. You are a greedy girl today, aren’t you?”
I grinned. “What can I say? I like presents. It’s the only thing that makes birthdays tolerable at our advanced age. Well, presents and cake. And margaritas.”
“It’s just something I found at a thrift store.” Wren heaped a few spoonfuls of chicken salad onto the pile of lettuce in the center of each plate. “A little something. My ship hasn’t come in yet.”
“You have a ship? I’d be happy with a rowboat.”
Wren put the plates on the table, along with a basket of rolls. “I think Ed Shelton has a rowboat.”
