The words hit me like a hurricane, because for a moment I’d forgotten. “Thank you,” I forced out, fixing a smile onto my face.
He went back to the person on the phone, and I left as quickly as I could. I think he shouted after me about breakfast, but I was already late to the Waffle House to meet my family, and no offense to the breakfast at the inn—nothing topped hash browns scattered, smothered, and covered.
The WaHo was at the end of Main Street, near the elementary school and the bookstore, and the parking lot was jammed with travelers stopping through Mairmont on their way through South Carolina to North Carolina and Tennessee. It was close enough to Pigeon Forge to visit Dollywood whenever you wanted or pop over to Asheville to tour the Biltmore. Mairmont was situated just on the outskirts of the Appalachian Mountains, hilly enough to have great walking trails but flat enough for the mountain roads to not kill a Prius. My family sat in the farthest booth at the diner, already eating their cheesy hash browns and sausage-and-egg omelets. I quickly hurried over and slid into the booth beside Mom.
She said, “We already ordered you a waffle and hash browns,” as she slid over a cup of coffee.
I took a long drink. “Mmh, battery acid.”
“Late as usual,” Carver added dryly, mocking a look at his expensive Rolex.
Alice agreed. “Some things never change.”
“No one said there was a hard meeting time,” I scoffed. “Ooh, yum,” I added as the waitress came over with my waffle and a side of hash browns. They smelled absolutely delicious, and my stomach grumbled, reminding me how many meals I skipped yesterday. （Three, all three.）
“Blessed nutritious breakfast sugar,” I said, starved, as the waitress left for another table.
Carver gave me a strange look from across the table. “That hungry?”
“They don’t have Waffle Houses up in New York,” I replied, digging my fork into the soft waffle, cutting off a piece so large I had to angle it to get it into my mouth. It was syrupy and sweet and soggy, just like I remembered.
Mom asked, “So how’s the bed-and-breakfast? I heard it was renovated after Nancy Riviera passed. Is it pretty?”
“Gorgeous,” I said between mouthfuls. “Dana did a great job.”
“Your father and I talked about spending the night there on our anniversary and . . .” Mom frowned into her almost-empty cup of tea. “Well, I guess that won’t be happening.”
Alice gave me a pointed look, as if it was my fault.
“Anyway,” Mom went on, “staying in hotels always gives me such sore muscles. You know, your room is exactly as we left it. Well, with the exception of a sewing machine in the corner. And some paints. And some reclaimed furniture pieces I found on the side of the road—”
Alice interrupted, “She turned it into her art room.”
“It’s my crafting office,” she corrected nobly.
“That’s fine. I like the bed-and-breakfast.” I took another large bite of waffle. “So, what’s the family meeting this morning?”
Mom clapped her hands together. “Right! The schedule.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
Alice said, “There’s two funerals we have to get through first. Mr. Edmund McLemore and Jacey Davis.”
Carver shook his head. “I know no one else’ll point this out—but don’t you think it’s a bit insane that we have to do other people’s funerals when Dad’s dead? Can’t they get someone else?”
Alice gave him a tired look. “Who, exactly? There’s not another funeral home in town.”
“Then the next town? Asheville? Pop on the interstate and you’re there in no time. C’mon, Mom,” he said to our mom when he realized that he wasn’t gonna get Alice to budge, “you can’t honestly be expected to work right now.”