asked him. He looks tired, she thought. He’s been working too hard. Which, if you’re a funeral director, Bernie would point out, isn’t such a good thing for the rest of the community.
Marvin looked around. When he was sure no one was watching he hugged her. “I thought you’d be at the Vongel funeral.”
“We made a mistake,” Bernie said. “We ended up at the Voiton affair.”
Marvin shook his head as if to say that was something he would have done, and as he stepped back Libby remembered yet again why she loved him.
“We’d better go. My dad is waiting to speak to you and Bernie,” Marvin told her.
“Why?” Libby asked again.
“He’ll tell you,” Marvin replied as he motioned for her and Bernie to follow him down the hall.
“Why can’t you?”
“I’d rather he did,” Marvin said, and he looked so unhappy Libby decided not to insist.
Three steps later he tripped over the leg of a chair that had been placed out in the hallway and stumbled into a table with one of the bird-of-paradise flower arrangements on it. Bernie caught the vase just as it was about to tumble over. That was the other thing she liked about Marvin, Libby thought. He was clumsier than she was.
As Marvin thanked Bernie for saving the flowers Libby wondered what on earth his father wanted to talk to them about. Clayton wasn’t particularly fond of her, her sister, or her father. He thought they were a bad influence on his son, distracting him from the family business and giving him, in Marvin’s father’s own words, “fantasies about being a detective when he should be concentrating on other more important things.” Notably the family business.
It was a business, it must be said, that Marvin wasn’t particularly fond of. Libby didn’t blame him. She still hadn’t reconciled herself to what he did. It gave her the creeps if she thought about it, so she tried not to. How could anyone want to be a funeral director? No matter how much she tried she just couldn’t see it.
But then, Marvin didn’t really have a choice. At least not when you had a dad like Clayton. She and Bernie were lucky they had their father. Very lucky. Libby bit her lower lip as she tried to remember what Bernie called Clayton. A martini? A martin? No. A martinet. She was trying to remember what the word meant when she realized that Marvin had said something to her.
“Excuse me?”
“What’s the matter with your pants?” he asked.
Libby looked down. They were beginning to slide down her waist again.
“Nothing,” she said. As she hoisted them up she could hear Bernie snickering in the background. “Nothing at all.”
It was at that moment that Marvin’s dad materialized from a door in one of the rooms. When she’d first seen him, Bernie had said he looked as if he’d been dipped in shellac. And it was true. Everything about him gleamed, from his hair down to his shoes.
He nodded curtly at Marvin. “That took long enough,” he told him.
Marvin looked down at the floor.
“You know how important this is.”
“Hey,” Libby said. “It wasn’t…”
But before she could finish, Clayton dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand. “Don’t bother with excuses. We have to go,” he said, turning to the door where Libby knew the hearses were parked. “We have to go now.”
“We can’t,” Libby heard her sister say.
Libby watched Clayton stiffen. He was about to reply when a woman started walking down the hall. He plastered a simpering smile on his face, nodded at her, and asked her if everything was all right. “Mrs. Frost, if there’s anything, anything at all I can do in your time of need…”
“No. You’ve been wonderful,” she told him.
Libby watched Marvin’s dad produce another of his smiles.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.” And he patted her hand. When she was gone he rounded on them. “You have to come with me,” he growled at them.
“Please,” Marvin added.
Libby looked at her sister and gave a little nod.
“Are you sure?” Bernie asked.
Libby nodded her head more vigorously. What else could she say? She didn’t want to have anything to do with whatever this was, but given the circumstances—mainly the fact that her boyfriend’s father was doing the asking—she felt she didn’t have a choice.
Chapter 3
Bernie looked out the rear window of Clayton’s limo. The view was not inspiring. It was gray and dreary. The sky was slate. The ground was frozen solid. Little patches of dirty snow remained from the storm they’d had two weeks ago. The trees were all bare. It reminded her of a Thomas Hardy poem. Depressing. No doubt about it, February sucked. It was the time of year when she wished she were back in L.A. No, make that Costa Rica or Cancún. Somewhere with sun and palm trees. Scratch the palm trees. She’d just take the sun and a couple of Cuba Libres.
February was her least favorite time of the year. Always had been. Spring was too far away to think about. Except if you were a gardener. Then you got to think about what you were going to plant. The holidays were all done, except of course for Valentine’s Day. Which was usually fun.
In grade school she’d made lace valentines and given out those little candy hearts to what her mom had called her “special friends.” Now, however, she gave her “special friend” different gifts. She’d gotten a great red thong and matching lace bra to wear for Rob. Except now she was mad at him.
Why had he signed up for the bachelor auction at the Just Chocolate benefit for Sudanese orphans? That had been totally unnecessary. She’d like to give him a kiss all right. A kiss with her fist. Pow. Right in the kisser. Rob had called her jealous. Which was ridiculous.
She didn’t have a jealous bone in her body. None. Okay, maybe her pinky. It was the principle of the thing. She just had to figure out which principle it was. She just wanted to spend time with Rob. Was that so bad? She’d tried to explain, but he hadn’t gotten it. Of course, he hadn’t gotten a lot of things lately.
All she knew was that Rob had better get her something really, really nice to make up for this. Like the pink cowboy boots she’d seen in Saks. Or dinner out at the new Moroccan restaurant down in Dumbo. Yes. That’s what she’d ask for.
The thought made her feel slightly better—having a plan always did—and she turned her attention back to the view. They were out of Longely now and heading down Townsend Road. Which meant they were heading either to Longely’s minimall or the cemetery. Considering the circumstances, Bernie was betting on the cemetery.
She leaned forward and tapped Marvin’s father on the shoulder. “Are we going to the Oaks?”
Clayton turned his head around and glanced at her. “You’ll see,” he said.
Then
