CHAPTER 1

Savannah, Georgia, 2025

The church was packed to overflowing, the altar crowded with flower arrangements. Two priests and a monsignor to co-celebrate her funeral Mass, just as her mother had stipulated. Mary Helen Sullivan Dunagin would have beamed with pride, Maeve thought.

Everyone was kneeling in preparation for communion when they heard the doors opening at the rear of the church, and then the thud of heavy shoes, like boots, on the wooden floor. Her cousin Jeanette turned to look, sucked in her breath, then muttered, “Christ on a bike with Mary on the handlebars! Would you look at what the cat dragged in?”

Maeve’s backbone stiffened but she kept her eyes on the altar as the footsteps grew closer. Then, someone was poking her shoulder, hard. Finally, she turned. Sure enough, there stood Therese, dressed in a short black skirt, beat-up black leather motorcycle jacket, black tights, and Doc Martens. Her chestnut hair had been chopped short and stood up in spikes. She’s put on weight, Maeve thought, with a hint of grim satisfaction.

“Shove over,” Therese demanded, louder this time, poking her again with a talon-like purple-painted index finger.

“Shhh!” Maeve hissed, but she glanced at her aunt Bernadette, sitting beside her, and Bernie and her daughters Patsy and Denise obligingly scooted sideways in the pew. Aunt Frannie was in the pew behind them, flanked by Uncle Keith, who sat on the aisle, and her cousins Dylan and Shane.

Instead of kneeling with the rest of the family, though, Therese plopped her butt down on the worn oak bench, arms crossed defiantly over her chest. And when the organ music swelled with “Faith of Our Fathers,” the communion hymn, instead of making the decent, universally accepted gesture of standing and stepping into the aisle, Therese sat there, unmoving, forcing everyone, including their half-crippled aunt, to awkwardly climb over her and those goddamn army boots of hers.

Maeve wanted to pinch Therese’s arm hard, the way her mother had their whole childhood when their behavior in Mass was less than acceptable. She wanted to poke her older sister in the back, tell her to stand up straight, for the love of God, or at the very least fix her with their mom’s patented laser-like stink-eye. But she did none of these things. Instead, she closed her own eyes and concentrated on going through the motions, the rituals, of consigning Mary Helen Dunagin’s earthly remains to a higher, better place.

CHAPTER 2

Seven Years Ago

When she hit the age of sixty-five, Mary Helen drafted a plan for her own funeral.

“It’s not morbid at all,” she’d told her daughters, who were frankly aghast at the idea. “I’m doing this to save you girls a lot of time and trouble. I’ve got money set aside for it, and I’ve included a little extra, you know, for inflation.”

They were sitting at the counter at Clary’s, the neighborhood diner across the street from Dunagin’s Pharmacy, owned and operated by their uncle, Keith Dunagin, but mostly run, for the past thirty years, by his highly efficient sister-in-law Mary Helen.

Their chicken salads and iced teas had just arrived when Mary Helen whipped the file folder out of her purse and spread it out on the counter.

“Mama,” Therese protested. She’d blown into town for the weekend, from Florida, where she’d been cast in a small indie movie (or so she said). “Eew. We don’t want to talk about your funeral at lunch. Besides, you’re healthy as a horse.”

“Esther Culpepper was dancing up a storm at her granddaughter’s wedding, and then two months later she had a slight cough, and when they operated they found out she was eaten up with cancer, poor thing. All they could do was sew her back up and call Fox and Weeks,” Mary Helen said, sketching the sign of the cross in the air. “We just never know when our time will come.”

“Esther Culpepper smoked two packs of Marlboros a day her entire life, and besides, she was what when she died? Ninety?” Maeve said. “For once, I agree with Terri. Let’s just have a nice lunch and enjoy our time together.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Mary Helen said. “It gives me peace of mind having everything set down in black-and-white. Now. First of all, the coffin. I’ve picked mine out: walnut, brass mounts. Dignified but not showy. Burial, of course, beside your daddy at Bonaventure. The coffin and plot are paid for, and Brian, at the mortuary, has everything in his file, and of course I have my file too.”

Maeve and Therese rolled their eyes in unison.

“Next, the viewing,” Mary Helen said, tacitly ignoring her daughters. “Night before, chapel at Fox and Weeks, family and close friends for rosary. For after, just some light refreshments, cookies and those little tea cakes from Gebharts, maybe some cheese straws and coffee and punch. If you girls want to have wine, I suppose that’s okay, but I am not paying for hard liquor for this. Not after what went on at your uncle Joe’s wake.”

Maeve’s mouth twitched as she tried to suppress a guffaw, knowing her mother was referring to Therese’s antics at their uncle’s funeral seven years earlier.

Mary Helen sipped her iced tea. “I’ve decided against doing anything graveside. Bonaventure is lovely, but if it’s summertime those gnats will chew you alive, and your aunt Fran can’t be expected to go tramping around a cemetery with her arthritis.”

“Thanks for that, at least,” Therese said.

“But what if you outlive Fran?” Maeve asked. “And you die in the winter?”

Their mother ignored both these comments.

“Okay, can we eat our lunch now and maybe talk about literally anything except your death wish?” Therese asked, forking into her chicken salad.

“Not yet. After the funeral, reception back at the house. Now, you know my sister Bernadette is going to want to run things…”

“Think positive, Mom. Maybe you’ll outlive her and Fran,” Maeve said.

Mary Helen shot her a dirty look. “If she’s still living, which I assume she will be, because you know how Bernie is, she always has to have the last word … she’ll want to bring one of her wretched pound cakes. Just tell her to bring the paper goods. And maybe some flowers from her garden.”

She handed them each a sheet of paper. “Now, don’t lose this. It’s got a list of who brings what.”

Maeve stared down at the paper. “You really expect us to call these women we hardly know and give them their assignments for your wake? That’s pretty nervy, Mama, even for you.”

“Nonsense. You won’t have to call them, because as soon as they get the news that I’m gone, they’ll be the ones calling you.”

Seven Years Later

By the time Mary Helen Dunagin’s funeral Mass was over and people were streaming into the social hall, everything was ready. White cloths covered tables adorned with flower arrangements contributed by the altar guild, and long tables at the back of the room were completely covered with platters of funeral food, three-quarters of which were desserts.

Maeve stood in the receiving line, right beside Aunt Bernie and Aunt Fran, Uncle Keith, and assorted cousins, accepting condolences, hugs, cheek kisses, and back pats. Her face was numb from smiling. In fact, her entire body was numb.

She felt hollowed out, but not from grief. She’d grieved enough over the past fourteen months, as the dementia and then the cancer slowly erased the essence of the feisty, hilarious, larger-than-life Mary Helen Dunagin she’d known her whole life.

No, this was something else. Relief? Definitely. Her mother had loudly announced that she was ready to go to Jesus nearly every day for the past three months.

Restlessness. That was it. She’d put her own life on hold, taken leave from her job as a creative writing professor at Georgia Southern four months ago, when it became clear that her mother needed round-the-clock care. She’d rented out her place and moved into the house on Blueberry Way to begin the long waiting game. Now what?

Therese sidled up behind her in the receiving line. “Why are we here?” she whispered.

Maeve turned to look at her sister, who was already glassy-eyed before noon. She wondered what Therese was on, and whether she would care to share whatever it was.

“Is that supposed to be an existential question?” she asked.

Therese nibbled at a cheese straw. “No. I mean, why are we having this shindig in the church social hall? I thought Mama specified it should be back at the house. Like, you know, with everything in the spreadsheet.”

Maeve’s stomach growled. She’d had nothing but a cup of weak coffee before Mass.

“You wouldn’t have to ask why we aren’t at the house if you’d bothered to drop in and check on Mom over the past year. The house is a shit show. I haven’t had time to get the hospice stuff cleared out.” Her whisper was hoarse enough that her cousins shot her a warning glance.

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