“Behave,” Carlotta hissed. “That’s my godfather.”
“Damn, I’d hate to see how they treat complete strangers.”
“Shh,” Carlotta said as they stepped into the crowded wood-paneled foyer of the funeral home. The sickeningly sweet smell of live flowers rode the air as they shuffled forward on industrial-grade beige carpet toward what appeared to be the main parlor. At the far end of the entryway, a tall man in a striking brown suit nodded to her over the heads of the crowd. Surprised, she smiled and nodded back.
“Who’s the deep dish?” Hannah said into her ear.
“It’s Wesley’s boss, Cooper Craft. I guess this is his family’s funeral home. I had no idea.”
“Yowza, he’s hot.”
“He’s a funeral director,” Carlotta reminded her friend, but she had to admit, the man knew how to wear a suit.
“So? What’s the saying—cold hands, big schlong?”
Carlotta shook her head in exasperation as they were swept up in the crowd and herded into the burgundy-and-hunter-green parlor where low organ music played. They seized two of the few remaining empty seats, and the walls were quickly lined with overflow guests.
Standing room only, Carlotta thought morosely. Angela would be thrilled, if only she weren’t dead.
But she was dead, lying, presumably, inside the gold-and-white casket on display at the top of three steps at the front of the long room, flanked on either side by countless baskets and wreaths of flowers, crammed into every square inch of space, each seemingly more huge than the next.
“Christ,” Hannah groused, “how many acres of hot-house flowers were depleted for this send-off?”
Carlotta ignored her and as discreetly as possible looked for Peter. She spotted him in the front row, head bent as he spoke to the tanned, older couple next to him—Angela’s parents, no doubt. On the other side of him sat his own parents, spines ramrod straight, the picture of propriety. The same propriety that had driven Peter to end their engagement ten years ago. How different things might have been if only…
A few rows in front of them, Tracey Tully bent her head to whisper into the ear of the woman sitting next to her, and the woman turned around to send a laser stare Carlotta’s way. She watched as Tracey’s companion then whispered to the next woman, who turned to gawk. One by one, the entire row of women turned to look, all of their noses identically chiseled, their mouths tattooed with permanent lip liner.
“Are the clones friends of yours?” Hannah asked dryly.
“Hardly,” Carlotta murmured, “although I’m sure I went to school with some of them.”
The rise of organ music signaled that the service was about to begin. A minister strode down the aisle and stopped to shake hands with Peter and with Angela’s parents before ascending to the podium. He read a short, dry eulogy in a detached monotone and as he droned on, Carlotta realized that the man had probably never met Angela Ashford or, if he had, that he didn’t know her. He divulged no personal details, nothing to conjure up images of Angela as a living, breathing human being.
The same was true for the three women (all of them with names ending in “i”), who had apparently requested or had been asked by the family to talk about Angela.
“She loved Peter more than anything,” Staci gushed into the microphone. “The day they were married was the happiest day of her life.”
“She worked out and took care of herself,” Lori said. “Everyone on the tennis team is really going to miss her.”
“Her house was her pride and joy,” Tami said, “down to the last flower arrangement.”
“Egad,” Hannah whispered behind her hand. “If that was her life, she’s probably glad she’s dead.”
Helplessness tightened Carlotta’s chest as she remembered the two sentences the radio announcer had used to sum up Angela’s life and death. The indifference was heartbreaking, but Carlotta had expected more out of the woman’s friends.
“Would anyone else like to share their memories of Angela?” the minister asked, giving the audience a cursory glance.
Stand up, Carlotta willed Peter. If you had any feelings for this woman, don’t let people leave here thinking that the sum of her existence was being your wife, going to the gym and living in a big house.
“Very well,” the minister said.
“Wait,” Carlotta said, lurching to her feet. She felt everyone’s heads turn toward her and the weight of their attention fall on her.
“Yes?” the minister said. “You’d like to say something?”
Now what? her racing mind screamed. Her gaze flitted over the expectant crowd and to the bewildered expression on Peter’s face.
“Go ahead,” the minister urged.
Carlotta wet her lips and clamped her hands on the back of the seat in front of her. “Angela and I were friends a long time ago,” she said, her voice high and shaking. She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “A lifetime ago really—we were just kids, trying to make sense of things.” She gave a little laugh. “Angela had a talent for drawing cartoons. She would make up characters and stories about them and put together her own little comic books. She was really good at it, and said that she’d like to draw comics for a living someday.”
The room was deadly quiet now, and Carlotta’s throat tightened. Fervently wishing she’d never stood up, she pressed on. “Angela bit her fingernails to the quick, she always dreamed of owning a pinto-colored horse and she could hit the high note in ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’I remember her saying that one of her favorite movies was Awakenings—she was captivated by the fact that people could be frozen inside themselves, and how agonizing it must be to want to get out and not be able.”
People were gaping at her now, and she realized that this crowd didn’t really want to hear anything deep or meaningful about the woman in the casket. They simply wanted to do their duty as neighbors and club members and put in ass-time at the funeral. Some of them were already glancing at their watches. Angela’s parents seemed confused and although Peter was smiling, based on the way people were looking back and forth between them, she wasn’t so sure that was a good thing.
“She’ll be missed,” Carlotta finished abruptly, then sat down.
“That was memorable,” Hannah muttered.
As the minister brooked the awkward pause with a thank-you and some throat-clearing, she could feel people’s sideways glances land on her and whisperings ensue.
“Who is that?”
“Is she drunk?”
“What was she talking about?”
In front of her, the Clone Club was practically buzzing. Her face flamed as she shifted in her seat. In trying to reveal a side of Angela that no one else seemed privy to (or would own up to), she’d simply made a spectacle of herself. And the kicker was, she couldn’t explain what had made her do what she’d done.
At the side of the room, she caught the eye of Cooper Craft, who was staring at her with a little smile. He inclined his head as if to say “well done,” but she couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t making fun of her.
She stared at her hands for the rest of the service, standing at the end to join in the processional past the casket and to shake hands with the family. Her feet felt like lead as she made her way up the aisle, but she shuffled along until she stood before Angela’s parents and Peter. Even as she shook hands with the stoic couple, she felt Peter’s gaze on her. When she finally looked at him,