Page 10 of What Remains of Grace

Jenna frowned, “Didn’t she have life insurance?”

Lillian sighed, “There was a policy, one she took out when Emmie was little. Troy was the beneficiary. He was set to collect it, but said he needed it to settle things.”

Jenna’s stomach turned. “Settle what? These are the things that life insurance is meant to settle.”

Marilyn’s eyes dropped to the table. “He already took her car to sell. And Emmie’s. Said he couldn’t afford to keep them. But Emmie said they were already paid off.”

Jenna pressed her lips together until they hurt. “So he will get the money. He just won’t be using it for this.”

Marilyn nodded softly. “We are hoping he’ll do the right thing, but we’re not sure what he’ll do.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Jenna said.

“Sweetheart—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Her father shook his head at once. “Jenna, now is not the time.”

“We can discuss money later,” her mother added wearily. “Not today.”

But Jenna looked between them and thought of retirement accounts, fixed income, medications, mortgage payments, and the cruelty of growing old after burying two children. And she knew they could not afford this. Not truly.

Her father cleared his throat and looked toward the funeral director.

“We have the means,” he said, weary but firm. “Let’s get through this first.”

The room fell silent. The director nodded, murmuring something about arrangements and timelines, but Jenna barely heard him. She was already doing math in her head. What could she move, what could she sell, or how long could she float a payment before anyone noticed?

It didn’t matter; she’d find a way. She always did.

They moved on to flowers, music, and the program. White roses. You Are My Sunshine. The acoustic version from Music Travel Love.

The last decision was the dress. White.

The others talked about tradition, about what was proper, but in the end, no one argued. Grace would wear white. It was the color that had always been hers, the one she wore when she baked wedding cakes, when she baptized Emmie, when she laughed hardest.

Grace had mourned enough. The rest of them would wear black. Grace would rest in white.

* * *

The next two days blurred into one long visitation.

Faces from their childhood appeared and disappeared like ghosts, neighbors from Athens Street, church members, and old classmates. They hugged and murmured, “She was such a light,” then left behind lipstick on paper cups and untouched plates of food.

It all felt too familiar: the folding chairs, the coffee urns, the way grief settled into corners like it owned the place, the smell of flowers, the rustle of tissues, and the hushed murmur of people saying the same few phrases because there was nothing else to say.

Jenna thought about how Brooks’s service had filled the chapel to the walls, the pews packed tight with teammates, teachers, and neighbors who spoke of promise like it was something you could hold in your hands. She’d sat in the front row then, her parents and Grace on either side of her, clutching her hand hard enough to leave crescents in her skin.

Afterward, in the parking lot, Grace had turned to her and said, “I can’t do this again, Jen. I can’t stand here and watch the world get smaller.”

But she had. She had already lost so much, and her world only kept shrinking after Jenna left town. Grace stayed. She kept the house, the bakery, the family orbiting around her like planets pulled by gravity. When she told Jenna she was marrying Troy, Jenna hadn’t blamed her. Grace wasn’t chasing love then; she was chasing something steadier, something that might make the world feel whole again, a family of her own after so much of hers had been lost.

And now, the visitation blurred on around her in the same slow, exhausting rhythm grief always seemed to take.

Jenna stayed busy, the way she always had when her heart was breaking. She helped Aunt Marilyn set up flowers, directed deliveries, arranged food, and smiled when she had to. She fielded calls she didn’t remember making, accepted casseroles she didn’t want, and said thank you more times than she could count.

Emmie barely spoke. She stood beside her mother’s photo line, stiff-backed and polite, but her eyes were distant. Every so often, someone would reach for her hand, and she’d flinch before catching herself and forcing a small, mechanical smile.