The Name on Everybody's Lips is Gonna be Roxie!

Welcome to "Funerals By Francie." If you're new to this online novel, or haven't visited in a while, please start with the oldest post first. You can follow Francie on Twitter (@franciefellowes), and you can visit www.kristenmareecleary.com for more information. Enjoy!

One of the good things about good friends is that they can be relied on to remind you to live your life. When you’re getting a business off the ground, there’s a tendency to develop tunnel vision – nothing matters but the success of the business. And, if you’re not careful, that tunnel vision can become a way of life. Three years into my new career, I had developed a really bad case of tunnel vision. If it hadn’t been for my friends insisting that I go out with them once in a while, I would have had no social life whatsoever, never mind a love life!

Case in point – April 26, last year. I was sitting at my desk, in my apartment, pouring over account books, trying my hand at creative accounting. Things had been slow for about a month, and I was starting to feel the pinch. I was so absorbed in the negative numbers before me, that I almost didn’t hear the phone. When I finally answered, it was Tamsin on the other end.

“Hey, love, what are you doing?” she asked as soon as I picked up.

“Bookkeeping,” I replied. “Want to help?”

“Not at all. Now, put the calculator down, get dressed, and be ready by half four.” Tamsin had a familiar determination in her voice that immediately raised my suspicions. It was a moot point, though, because I had way too much to do today to be drawn into whatever scheme she was hatching.

“Sorry, T,” I said. “I’ll have to raincheck. Too busy.”

There was a short pause, and then Tamsin asked, “Do you know what today is?”

Mystified, I replied, “Thursday, why?”

“What date?”

I was starting to get a little annoyed, and snapped, “It’s the 26^th.” Then I stopped. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“How could I forget?”

“Because you work too hard,” was Tamsin’s succinct reply. “But, lucky for you, I didn’t forget. Now, get dressed, throw on some makeup, and be ready by half four. You only turn 25 once, and I’m going to make sure your birthday is something to remember – even if I had to remind you!”

I started to protest again, although this time it was a bit half-hearted. But Tamsin had a counter for any weak argument I could think of for why I should continue to work on my birthday, and finally I relented. “OK,” I said. “I’ll get ready and I’ll meet you at ha – at 4:30.”

“Fab. The car’ll be downstairs.”

So, at 4:30, Tamsin picked me up in her Bentley, and her driver set off to destinations unknown (that’s one of the perks of hanging out with Tamsin – no waiting for cabs). When I asked where we were going, I just kept getting, “You’ll see. It’ll be great” as a response.

As we crossed the river into Brooklyn, I started to get really confused. Tamsin rarely visited the outer boroughs, so I couldn’t imagine what were doing here. But Tamsin remained annoyingly tight-lipped throughout, so I had to just wait and see where we were headed.

The car soon pulled up outside a beautiful brownstone, and as soon as it stopped, Tamsin hopped out. I followed her up the front steps, and watched her suspiciously as she rang the bell.

“T, seriously, what gives?” I asked. I didn’t get an answer. Instead, I got another surprise as Keeley opened the door to the brownstone. “Keeley?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”

Keeley didn’t answer me. Instead, she looked at Tamsin and said, “Good, you got her. She forgot, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Tamsin said as she followed Keeley into the house. I had no choice but to follow as well.

“If you mean I forgot to meet you at some strange brownstone in Brooklyn, no I didn’t,” I protested.

“You forgot your birthday,” Keeley replied. It wasn’t a question, and I couldn’t deny it, so I just continued to walk through the rather attractive house toward what seemed to be the kitchen. It was, in fact, the kitchen, but we didn’t stop there. Instead, we headed out into the tiny backyard, where an attractive brunette sat on the patio, surrounded by three tiny balls of fluff.

Upon closer inspection, those tiny balls of fluff turned out to be two impossibly small, impossibly adorable puppies, nestled close to a Yorkshire Terrier who looked bored and indifferent to what was transpiring around her. I couldn’t quite tell the breed of the puppies; they were a curious black and grey color, but I couldn’t place the features. But they were criminally cute.

My attention was diverted from the puppies by Keeley’s introduction of the attractive brunette. She turned out to be Miranda Lane – yes, that Miranda Lane, currently starring as Velma in Chicago. Keeley had been in the chorus for about six months, and had landed the part of Miranda’s understudy a few weeks ago.

“You have a lovely home,” I said after the introductions had been made. “But I’m not sure exactly why I’m here,” I added, looking pointedly at Tamsin and Keeley.

Keeley shrugged and picked up a puppy. She walked up to me, grabbed my hand, and placed the little furball in it, saying, “Happy Birthday.”

I instinctively brought up my other hand to secure the puppy before it could wriggle free, and it started licking my thumb. “Come again?” I asked, not liking where this was headed.

“Happy Birthday.”

“You didn’t tell her?” Miranda asked.

“Tell me what, exactly?”

“Keeley adopted one of the puppies for you for your birthday,” Miranda explained, clearly confused.

“Did she?” I glared at Keeley. Tamsin remained suspiciously quiet.

Keeley squirmed slightly, but she didn’t back down. She did, however, drag Tamsin under the bus with her. “Tamsin and I thought it would be good for you. You love dogs. You’re always playing with people’s dogs in the park.”

“And you’re always banging on about that mutt you had when you were a kid,” Tamsin added, feeling the heat of the glare turning her way.

“Cadfael was a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel,” I retorted defensively.

“Right, whatever, he was a little ankle biter.”

I raised an eyebrow in an effort to look haughty. I’m fairly certain I failed miserably. But I did taunt Tamsin a bit, saying, “Cadfael’s lineage goes back farther than yours!”

Tamsin managed to look haughty without the least bit of effort. Another skill instilled by the Earl and Countess, no doubt. “I can trace my family back to William the Conqueror,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, well,” I responded, my sails rapidly deflating. “Cadfael’s family was waiting on shore when your family landed!”

We both burst out laughing at the absurdity of the debate, and then the little ankle biter in my hand bit my thumb. With a yelp, I jerked my hand back, which sent the puppy airborne for a second, before I realized what I was doing and grabbed hold of it again.

“Sorry!” Miranda cried, reaching for the puppy.

“No, it’s fine,” I said, a bit distracted. I had just looked the puppy in the eye for the first time, and there was a little glint there – as if she knew exactly what she had done, and she was proud of it. Shaking my head, I asked, “What breed is this, anyway?”

“Well, the ‘designer’ name is a ‘Snorkie,’” Miranda replied. “But there’s no lineage here – these two little monsters can trace their heritage back about three months to a midnight rendezvous between my Lola and the neighbor’s Schnauzer.”

“A Snorkie?” Really? That can’t possibly be a real name. It sounded like a piece of diving equipment for kids – or a Saturday morning cartoon from the eighties. I decided that, if this little puppy was coming home with me (yes, of course I was taking her, was there every any doubt?), she needed a different name for her breed. OK, she also needed an actual name, but that comes later. So, after minimal consideration, I decided that my new puppy would be known as a “Schnauzie.” Much better. And more grammatically correct too.

*   *   *   *

“So, this was the big surprise for my birthday, huh?” I asked Tamsin when we were back in the car, this time with Keeley. The Schnauzie stayed behind as she was still a little too young to leave her mother. I would take her home in a few weeks.

“No, that was just Part One. Have you thought of a name yet?”

I realized that Tamsin was only asking because she wanted to keep me from asking what Part Two was. After all, Tamsin’s idea of dog ownership generally involved riding to hounds, or walking the moors with a mastiff. She didn’t do lapdogs.

“No, I need to think about it. So, where—“

“You’re not going to give it some stupid name like, Cadfael, are you?”

“That was a great show!” I blurted out. But I grinned. My mom had indulged my childhood obsession with Masterpiece Theatre, and had agreed to let me name our dog Cadfael against her better judgment. But, considering the alternative was Felicity’s choice, “Tinkerbell,” (he was a boy dog!), it probably worked out for the best. “Anyway,” I continued. “I have to give it some careful consideration before I decide on a name. She’ll have to live with it for the rest of her life.”

“It’s a dog, not a baby,” Keeley muttered.

I was going to respond, but I finally noticed that we were back in Manhattan and were approaching the World Financial Center complex. “Uh, T,” I asked. “Were exactly are we going?”

Tamsin ignored the question, intent instead on her I-phone. The car stopped and Tamsin got out, beckoning us to follow. “I’ll call you when we’re ready,” she told her driver.

Keeley and I followed Tamsin down the esplanade, and found ourselves in the North Cove. Tamsin walked purposefully toward a large yacht that was moored at the end of the marina. It was getting dark, but light and music poured out of every window, and I could make out people on the decks and inside. Reaching the gangway, Tamsin shook the hands of the crew members standing on the dock, and turned to me.

“Happy Quarter Century, Francie,” she said, with a grin. “Let’s party!”

“No way.” I said in disbelief.

“Can I just say,” Keeley said, grinning as she followed us up the gangway, “that I bless the day you brought Tamsin into our lives!”

When I reached the top of the gangway, I grabbed Tamsin’s arm and turned her around. She smiled and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“You’re the best,” I said, and hugged her. “Thank you.”

It was a great night, full of friends and laughter. And, yes, a fair amount of booze. In fact, at about one in the morning, after one too many kamikaze shots, I found myself on the small stage in the lounge area of the yacht, belting out a medley of Chicago tunes in honor of Keeley. I had just butchered “He Had it Coming,” and had screeched out the first line of “The Name on Everybody’s Lips is Gonna Be Roxie,” when I suddenly stopped and yelled, “That’s it!”

And that was about it. I don’t really remember much after that. But, according to Tamsin (who has always had a higher tolerance than me), I apparently babbled somewhat incoherently about a monk, a fairy and a Schnauzie, and then was hustled off to the bedroom of the yacht to sleep it off.

But, from that intoxicated moment, I had the name of my new best friend. And a year later, I can’t imagine life without her. Of course, she’s as much of a diva, and as much of a troublemaker, as her namesake! But I love her. How could I not? Look at that face!