Chapter 80 Next Of Kin
Violet
The front rows are too exposed. Too visible.
People would walk by. Stare. Read the names casually on a Sunday stroll like it was nothing.
The far right corner catches my eye.
“There,” I say, pointing. “Near the treeline in the back.”
Margaret leans closer over the large cemetery map spread across her polished desk. Her manicured finger traces the grid. “Section H. Those are available. Two adjacent plots.”
“Good.”
“The estate section,” she continues gently, “would allow for a shared monument structure. Something more prominent. A larger headstone. Possibly a bench installation between them.”
“I don’t want prominent,” I say immediately. “I want quiet.”
She pauses, studying me.
Rowan’s hand brushes lightly against my lower back for just a second. Not guiding. Not pushing. Just there. Solid. Present.
Theo leans over the map like he’s inspecting real estate. “That’s actually kind of peaceful back there.”
Camille nods. “They’ll have shade. And it’s away from the main path.”
“Yes,” I say softly. “Away.”
Margaret writes down the plot numbers. “Section H, row nine, plots twelve and thirteen.”
Her pen scratches neatly across the form.
“Headstones,” she continues, turning to another catalog. “We can do matching granite. Gray. Black. White marble. Engraved portraits. Etched images. Scripture verses. Custom poetry. Bronze plaques. Upright monuments or flat markers.”
She slides glossy photos toward me.
The examples are beautiful. Polished. Perfect.
Too much.
“Gray,” I say. “Simple. Same design.”
She nods. “Standard upright? Or low profile?”
“Upright,” I answer. “But modest.”
“No curved tops? No decorative edging?”
“No.”
“And inscriptions?”
I hesitate.
This part feels heavier than the rest.
“Full names,” I say slowly. “Dates. And… just a single line under each.” My voice lowers. “Together. Always.”
The room goes quiet.
Margaret writes it down carefully, as if the words are fragile.
“That will be centered beneath both names,” she confirms. “Matching font?”
“Yes.”
“We offer several styles,” she says, flipping to another page. “Traditional serif. Modern sans serif. Script.”
“Traditional,” I say. “Nothing ornate.”
“Understood.”
She makes another note.
“Would you like etched borders? Floral carvings? Crosses? Symbolic imagery?”
“No symbols,” I say. “No religion.”
Margaret’s brows lift slightly. “Very well.”
Theo clears his throat behind me. “She’s very minimalist.”
Camille elbows him lightly. “Stop narrating.”
Margaret offers a polite smile and shifts the paperwork aside.
“We move on to flowers,” she says.
“I originally selected lilies,” I say. “But I’d like to change them.”
“To what?”
“Orchids.”
Margaret’s brows rise again. “Orchids are beautiful. Any specific color?”
“White,” I say. “With a touch of pale purple.”
She nods thoughtfully. “White orchids symbolize remembrance. Purple often represents dignity. We can also do cascading arrangements,” she offers. “Arch displays over the caskets. Floral framing around the chapel stage. Hanging installations.”
“No arches,” I say. “Just arrangements. Balanced.”
“Pedestal arrangements at the front?” she suggests. “And smaller clusters along the aisle?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s fine.”
Camille smiles softly. “They’re elegant.”
Theo mutters, “Very on-brand for you.”
I roll my eyes at him, but it feels almost normal.
Margaret jots everything down with efficient precision.
“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. Passed hors d’oeuvres.”
“Light,” I say. “Pastries. Finger sandwiches. Punch. Water. Coffee.”
“We could do champagne for a toast,” she adds smoothly. “A sommelier service if you’d like to elevate the reception.”
“No,” Rowan says calmly.
Margaret looks at him.
“She doesn’t want elaborate,” he says. “So don’t dress it up.”
There is no sharpness in his tone. Just certainty.
Margaret inclines her head. “Of course.”
“Nothing excessive,” I add. “It doesn’t need to be.”
“We also offer live music,” she continues carefully. “String quartet. Solo violin. Recorded selections.”
“No live music,” I say. “Just quiet.”
“What about a memory slideshow?” she asks. “Digital display during visitation?”
My stomach twists.
“No slideshow,” I answer. “Just framed photos. On a table.”
“Three to five images per person?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Guestbook station?”
“Yes.”
“Memorial cards?”
“Yes. Simple. With the inscription.”
Margaret notes it all.
She glances up again. “Would you like a joint service or separate segments?”
“Joint,” I say immediately. “They stay together.”
“Very well.”
She folds her hands. “We do have a premium package that consolidates several of these services at a reduced bundled rate.”
Rowan’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly.
“I’m not interested in packages,” I say.
“Of course,” she replies quickly. “I simply wanted to make you aware of the option.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But this isn’t about upgrades.”
Margaret nods, understanding settling in.
She slides a final set of forms toward me.
“These are the burial authorizations and plot deeds,” she says. “And this is the engraving approval form.”
I take the pen.
The room feels smaller now.
Rowan stands slightly behind my shoulder, silent.
I can feel his eyes on me as I sign my name.
Next of kin.
The words blur for a second, but I steady my hand and finish.
Margaret gathers the paperwork neatly. “We’ll begin engraving immediately. The plots will be prepared by Monday.”
“Monday?” I ask.
“Yes. The ground team needs forty eight hours.”
“That’s fine.”
She hesitates before speaking again. “If you need anything changed, even at the last minute, you may call me directly.”
“Thank you.”
She rises. “I’ll have the front desk process the payment.”
“I’ll handle it,” Rowan says quietly.
I turn to him immediately. “No.”
His eyes meet mine.
“This is mine,” I say. “Let me.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
Then he nods once. “Fine.”
At the front desk, I hand over my card.
The total appears on the screen.
Two caskets. Two plots. Engraving. Flowers. Catering. Chapel use.
It feels obscene to reduce them to numbers.
I press confirm.
The receipt prints.
Margaret hands me a thick folder. “Everything is in here. Dates. Times. Contact numbers.”
I take it.
“It’s done,” she says softly.
Done.
We step back into the sunlight.
The air smells like cut grass and distant rain.
Theo stretches dramatically. “Well. That was morbidly efficient.”
Camille elbows him. “You are unbelievable.”
But she’s smiling faintly.
I glance back at the building once more.
“They’ll be together,” I say quietly.
Rowan steps closer, not touching, just near.
“Yes,” he says. “They will.”