Lovey was too tired to eat as she went into the kitchen. Her hair was in a frazzled halo around her face, and she was dragging her feet.

There were beads of sweat across Mercy’s brow, the fry cook’s apron looked like he was wearing a little bit of everything he’d cooked, and there wasn’t a dry thread on the dishwasher’s clothes, but the commercial dishwasher was humming right along.

“Just look at us! Have you ever seen such a crowd?” Lovey said. She pointed at Mercy. “Child, get something cold to drink and step outside in the alley a minute and cool yourself off. Elvis, for the good Lord’s sake, put on a clean apron.” Then she eyed Chet and grinned. “What happened to you?”

“I fell. I don’t wanna talk about it,” he muttered.

Her expression was instantly replaced with concern. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Nothin’ but my pride, Miss Lovey. I’m fine.”

“Do you have any dry clothes here?” she asked.

“I have a T-shirt with a bad word on it, and some shorts, but—”

Lovey blinked. Mercy giggled, and Elvis snorted beneath his breath.

“Exactly what word is on that shirt?” Lovey asked.

Chet looked nervous. “You want me to actually say it? Like, aloud?”

Lovey glared. “Son, if you’re gonna walk around wearing a socially unacceptable shirt, you gotta have the balls to pull it off. What’s the damn word?”

Chet’s face turned a very girlie shade of pink.

“It says I GIVE A FUCK.”

Lovey rolled her eyes. “Turn it wrong-side out, make sure you have one of your rubber aprons over it when you go bus tables in the dining room, and don’t let this happen again.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am,” Chet said, and then took off to the employee lounge as if he was being chased.

Lovey looked at Mercy, and Mercy looked at Elvis.

Chet was stripping off his clothes when he heard them laugh. He groaned. They were never going to let him live this down.

* * *

While laughter ensued at Granny’s, the people rapidly filling the pews at the Baptist church were respectfully quiet. From the first ones seated to those still coming in, it was impossible for them not to notice how many pews up front had been saved for the family.

Curiosity made tongues wag, and the room was fairly humming from the energy of the whispers among those gathered.

At straight-up 2:00 p.m., the pianist struck a chord.

“Please rise,” the pastor said, and much rustling of clothes and scooting of feet ensued before a sudden silence blanketed the room.

Barb Holland entered wearing a stark-black dress without a single piece of jewelry save her wedding ring. She was escorted by her father, Jake Austin, and then the family behind her.

The people who’d been at the visitation the night before recognized the family who’d been with her then, but today there were more…so many more. All in black. In designer clothes. And more diamonds than you could shake a stick at. And they just kept coming.