Chapter 79 Arrangements
The funeral home smells like polished wood and lilies.
Too clean. Too quiet. Like grief has to be contained within the walls and can’t spill onto the floor.
I step inside with Rowan at my side, Devin just behind us, Theo and Camille trailing in with an energy that doesn’t belong in a place like this, but somehow, I’m grateful for it. Their noise keeps this from feeling like a tomb already.
The doors close softly behind us.
A woman in her late fifties approaches immediately, dressed in a charcoal suit, silver hair pinned neatly back. Her smile is practiced but not cold. She has kind eyes. The kind that have seen people fall apart in this lobby more times than she can count.
“Miss Pierce?” she asks gently.
“Yes.”
“I’m Margaret Hale, the funeral director here at Sunnyfields. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The words hit, but they don’t knock me over. Not yet. I don’t think I’ll collapse in public. That would be messy. Inefficient.
“Thank you,” I say.
She glances at the group behind me but doesn’t question it. “We’ll take this one step at a time.”
Rowan’s presence at my shoulder is solid. Warm. Quiet. He doesn’t touch me, but I can feel him there. Like a wall.
Margaret gestures down a hallway. “Let me show you where the ceremony would be held.”
We follow her into a chapel space.
Soft cream walls. Stained glass windows filtering muted color across dark wooden pews. A small raised platform at the front with space for two caskets side by side.
Two.
My throat tightens.
“You can arrange seating however you like,” Margaret explains calmly. “We can provide photo boards, memory tables, digital slideshows if you’d prefer. We also offer live streaming services for family who cannot attend in person.”
Theo whispers behind me, “We’re not doing a slideshow with embarrassing childhood photos, right?”
Camille swats him. “Read the room.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
“I’d like them side by side,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Equal. No one behind the other.”
“Of course,” Margaret nods. “Matching caskets?”
“Yes.”
She leads us into another room.
Rows of caskets line the walls. Different finishes. Different handles. Different interiors. Glossy. Matte. Ornate carvings. Satin linings in ivory, champagne, blush, deep blue.
I swallow.
“We have our Heritage Collection,” Margaret begins smoothly, her tone shifting slightly into something more polished. “Solid oak with hand-carved detailing. Very popular for families who want something traditional and memorable.”
She gestures to a casket with intricate floral carvings and gold hardware.
“And our Premier Signature line,” she continues. “Mahogany with custom engraving, upgraded cushioning, personalized interior embroidery. We can stitch names directly into the lining.”
Rowan’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“I don’t want anything… flashy,” I say quietly. “No gold trim. No ornate carving.”
Margaret smiles politely but doesn’t quite stop. “Many families later regret choosing something too simple. This is a final tribute. A last opportunity to—”
“That will be enough.”
Rowan’s voice is calm. Controlled. But there is steel in it.
Margaret blinks at him.
“She’s been clear,” he continues evenly. “You will show her what she asks for. Not what you prefer to sell.”
The room goes still.
Margaret straightens slightly. “Of course. My apologies.”
She pivots without argument this time.
“We have a simple mahogany option,” she says, gesturing to two side-by-side displays. “Elegant. Understated. Clean lines.”
The wood is dark but warm. The interior lining soft ivory. No embellishment. No drama.
I step closer, running my fingers lightly along the edge.
“These,” I say.
Rowan doesn’t speak. But I feel his gaze on me.
Matching.
Together.
Margaret writes something down. “Would you like upgraded memory drawers installed? Keepsakes placed inside? We can also offer engraved nameplates.”
“No,” I say. “Simple nameplates are fine. Standard.”
“And interior pillows can be customized—”
“No.”
My tone is firmer now.
She nods, finally accepting it.
“And burial plots?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She leads us back into her office and unrolls a large cemetery map across the desk.
I lean over it, scanning rows of tiny squares labeled with numbers.
“The front rows are premium,” Margaret explains. “More accessible for elderly visitors. The center section receives more sunlight. We also have a small gated family estate section—”
I shake my head.
The front rows are too exposed. Too visible.
The far right corner catches my eye.
“There,” I say, pointing. “Near the treeline in the back.”
Margaret leans closer. “Those are available. Two adjacent plots.”
“Good.”
“The estate section would allow for a shared monument structure,” she offers gently. “More prominent.”
“I don’t want prominent,” I say. “I want quiet.”
Rowan’s hand brushes lightly against my lower back for just a second. Not guiding. Not pushing. Just… there.
Theo leans over the map. “That’s actually kind of peaceful.”
Camille nods. “They’ll have shade.”
Margaret writes down the plot numbers.
“Headstones,” she continues. “We can do matching granite. Gray. Black. White marble. Engraved portraits. Etched images. Scripture. Custom poetry.”
“Gray,” I say. “Simple. Same design.”
“And inscriptions?”
I hesitate.
“Full names. Dates. And… just a single line under each.” I whisper. “Together. Always.”
She nods again.
We move on to flowers.
“I originally selected lilies,” I say. “But I’d like to change them.”
“To what?”
“Orchids.”
Margaret raises her brows slightly. “Orchids are beautiful. Any specific color?”
“White. With a touch of pale purple.”
“We can also do cascading arrangements,” she offers. “Arch displays. Floral framing around the caskets.”
“No arches,” I say. “Just arrangements. Balanced.”
Camille smiles softly. “They’re elegant.”
Theo mutters, “Very on-brand for you.”
I roll my eyes at him.
Margaret jots everything down.
“And catering?” she asks gently. “Would you prefer a full meal reception or light refreshments? We partner with several local providers. Three-course plated options. Wine service.”
“Light,” I say. “Pastries. Finger sandwiches. Punch. Water. Coffee.”
“We could do champagne for a toast—”
“No,” Rowan says calmly.
Margaret looks at him.
“She doesn’t want elaborate,” he says. “So don’t dress it up.”
Margaret inclines her head. “Of course.”
“Nothing excessive,” I add. “It doesn’t need to be.”
Margaret studies me carefully. “It can be as simple or as personal as you’d like.”
“I want it quiet,” I say. “Not dramatic.”