Amy is brilliant in her own way. It’s just a very different way from my own analytical smarts, so we don’t often ‘get’ each other, though we can appreciate the other’s talents.

Still, the discordant nature of the fancy furniture and the rustic overgrown weeds is way out of my wheelhouse and seems weird and eccentric, which are two things that do not appeal to the masses. At least, not insurance buying masses.

Especially the ones in this part of the state.

I must give away my thoughts with another one of my tells because Amy crosses her arms, throws a hip out, and looks down her nose at me despite being a foot shorter. “Do not say what you’re thinking or you will be officially uninvited from Sunday brunch.”

Shit, she’s bringing out the big guns.

I grab my chest, wounded. “You wouldn’t. You know how much I look forward to Fernanda’s Sunday brunches.”

That’s the God’s honest truth. If something were to happen to Amy and Fernanda—not that I think it ever would because they’re the real deal—I’d still end up on Fernanda’s doorstep every Sunday. She’s an amazing cook and I just couldn’t give that up.

Plus, I might like her a teeny bit better than my sister, especially when she’s glaring at me like she is now.

“The chair looks fabulous,” I say politely, not meaning it in the slightest but not risking losing Fernanda’s chilaquiles.

Amy pats my chest more than a little too hard. “Thought so. Let’s do this, people.”

The cameraman and I exchange looks because we’re the only other ‘people’ here.

A few minutes later, I’m sitting in the Grandma chair and Amy is sitting in the dirt by my feet holding a reflector with one hand and a tablet with my prompts in the other, while the cameraman is giving me the ‘action’ sign.

“Caring for your loved ones is important in life, and though we don’t like to talk about it, in death.” I pause, staring at the camera earnestly.

“Call me, Blake Hale, today, and together, we can make sure your family knows you care. Smile like you give a shit.” I blink, realizing a moment too late that was supposed to be an actual smile, not one of my spoken lines.

“Cut,” Amy says as the cameraman quickly hides a grin. “Do I need to explain how this works again?”

The answer is no, so I smile like I was supposed to for the take and say, “Yeah, maybe so.”

She offers a long-suffering sigh, like she’s Kubrick herself. “You, dear brother, are a statistical genius and a life insurance salesman. And I am . . .”

She draws it out, making it clear I’m supposed to fill in the blank by singing her praises. I do my best.