To Fling or Not To Fling

(Francie's creator has been off dabbling in the world of Screenwriting. Please enjoy this first entry of a new Spring/Summer series.)

There’s a saying, “It takes all kinds to make a world,” and I think that’s true. People definitely do come in every variety, and after a few years in my business, I’d have to say that mourners do to. There are the stoic, stiff upper lippers, who don’t let anyone see how they really feel; there are the quiet criers, sitting in the back, who try not to let their grief make anyone uncomfortable; there are the in-and-outers, who spend just enough time to pay their respects and then leave as fast as they can; and there are even the people who wait out in the lobby because they are unable to, or don’t want to, be in the room with the casket. And then there are the Flingers. If you’ve been to a lot of wakes and funerals, you know exactly who I’m talking about. Chances are, you’ve probably seen at least one Flinger in the wild in your time. I’ve seen quite a few over the years, starting with my own sister, Felicity.

Flingers share certain characteristics. They usually sit in the front – in or near the family seats (most Flingers are close family, but not always). They’re almost never on the receiving line because they can’t maintain their composure enough for that. You’ll know them almost immediately by the loud crying, and the large number of people gathered around them. Most Flingers need a large crowd. But Flingers are most obvious when they approach the casket to pay their respects to the deceased. This is the point when Flingers tend to lose control completely, which results in ear-splitting wails (“Why, God, Why?” is a popular choice) as they throw themselves across the casket, inevitably having to be pulled back by several relatives. This is usually the point when a lot of the more “casual” mourners suddenly discover a need to use the restroom or go outside for some air.

Flingers can generally be divided into two categories. First are the truly devastated, who just cannot come to terms with their loss. Their grief is truly heartbreaking to behold, and I cry myself every time I see someone in that kind of pain. Often it’s a spouse of many years, who cannot imagine life without their other half. Sometimes it’s a parent of a young child, whose justifiable devastation is something no one should ever have to endure. And, sometimes, it’s a young child who has lost a parent, and I defy anyone to not be affected by the tears of a child.

These Flingers have every right to their pain, and their expression of it. But there’s another type of Flinger out there, and I have very little patience for them (although, professionally, I have to tolerate them all). These Flingers are more narcissistic, and feel a need to show everyone that their grief is deeper than anyone else’s. Because, if everyone feels bad for them, they’ll be the center of attention, and that’s what these Flingers need. Once you’ve gone to enough funerals, it’s easy to tell the difference between the genuinely devastated and the “Show Flingers.” Show Flingers usually have a pretty well rehearsed story about their relationship with the deceased (often using the possessive, “my mother/brother/cousin” even with people who have the same relationship, as if to suggest they were closer to the deceased than anyone else). If you spend enough time around a Show Flinger, you’ll probably hear the same story, word-for-word, multiple times. Show Flingers also have an incredible sense of timing, and won’t waste their performances on a small crowd. They’ll wait until the room is full to turn it on, for maximum effect.

Guess what category Felicity falls into? Our mother’s funeral was her finest performance and, had it been a TV movie, she would have gotten an Emmy. I know that sounds harsh, because she lost her mother just the same as me. But you had to see her –she was in total Show Flinger mode. Mom and Felicity had a difficult relationship. They loved each other, of course, but Felicity was always the rebel, and she and Mom butted heads more often than not.  But, in the packed funeral parlor, it was all, “What am I going to do without my best friend?” as my cousins dragged her off the casket. It was hard for me, standing on the receiving line, to hear that, knowing I couldn’t give way to my own grief because someone had to greet all of the well-wishers. I admit, I did wonder, since I didn’t cry once in front of anyone, if people thought I didn’t care as much as Felicity. But, I had to be me . . . and Felicity had to be Felicity. Oh, and in case you’re wondering what she did when the crowd had thinned, well she was either texting in the back, or disappearing with her boyfriend.

As I’ve said, I’ve dealt with my share of Flingers in my job, but one of my more disruptive ones came at a funeral that took place just days before my highly anticipated weekend in the Hamptons. It was a relatively small funeral for me, with only about 25 mourners present. Things had gone relatively smoothly at the wake the night before, and at the Church. The Flinger in question was the elderly aunt of the deceased, and it seemed like her family was keeping a tight leash on her (Show Flinger all the way). But, the leash snapped at the cemetery. Just as the minister finished the final prayer, and invited the mourners to lay flowers on the casket, a keening cry sounded from the back of the crowd. Everyone turned to look, creating a clear path to the gravesite. The elderly aunt broke away from the “embrace” of her nephew, ran remarkably quickly (for someone her age) through the crowd and hurled herself on the casket. Unfortunately, her momentum carried her clear across the top, causing her to land in an ungainly heap amid the pile of flowers on the other side.

Undaunted, but with a variety of roses, carnations and other flora clinging to her eggplant suit, the woman rose and climbed back onto the casket, which she basically straddled, refusing to let go, as she wailed and cried incoherently.  I can’t even do justice to the chaos – her wails, the angry shouts of her relatives, the laughter of the cemetery workers waiting to lower the casket (inappropriate, yes, but her action star slide was pretty damn funny) all combined into a nearly deafening roar. I had no idea what to do – there was no way I was hauling this elderly woman off the casket. So, I just hovered at the back while the family sorted it out. The nephew finally lifted her bodily off the casket and carried her, slung over his shoulder, to one of the cars, where he dumped her, none too gently, in the backseat.  He then stood next to the car, arms crossed, as if he was daring her to try and escape.  After a few minutes of sorting things out (during which I tried to salvage the floral displays), the ceremony continued, but everyone was clearly thrown by what had happened. This was one service where I had elected not to attend the luncheon after, and I couldn’t have been happier to make my escape.

After that eventful funeral, I couldn’t wait for the weekend in the Hamptons. I needed the rest. And, I was intrigued by that chance encounter with Michael at the Esplanade. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there had been a spark there, and that he had been flirting with me. Despite the fact that I still wasn’t sure I even liked him, I could no longer kid myself about my attraction to him. And, it seemed like he was attracted to me too. This weekend seemed like the perfect opportunity to see if there might be some potential there.

Stupid me.

Dog Park Diplomacy

OK, I’ll admit it. Michael Rhodes saved my ass at the Marlowe funeral. And he and Lila together saved my career. Really, it was very unfair for two people to possess such a degree of charm. By the end of the day, they had smoothed every ruffled feather. When we returned to the restaurant for the second half of the funeral brunch, I watched, amazed, as the two of them worked the room, glad-handing like a couple of politicians. I know it was thanks to them that business didn’t slow down after that disaster.

To be honest, I wouldn’t necessarily have minded a bit of a slow down. As I said, Lila’s patronage had caused my business to take off, and I was in demand all over the tri-state area. On the one hand, it was great – my bank account hadn’t looked so robust in years. On the other hand, I was exhausted. I had managed not to double-book again, but I was handling two to three funerals a week by the middle of August. Keeley was amazing, but there were limits to how much she could help, considering she was still in the chorus of Chicago, and had to work around rehearsals and performances.

Still, I knew I couldn’t complain. Or, rather, I knew I shouldn’t complain. Too much work is something of a luxury problem, I know. But, I couldn’t help but hope for good health for the greater metropolitan area for a few weeks. Seriously, New York actually ranks fairly high on the list of healthiest places to live in the US, but you wouldn’t have known it that summer. However, I finally got my wish as August drew to a close. Unexpectedly, I found myself with an entire week off. Now, if this had happened immediately after the stoner hearse driver incident, I might have worried. But since it was a few weeks later, and since I knew it was a case of simply no one of any great fortune dying (I read the obits everyday – creepy, I know), I decided to accept it as a much-needed vacation.

Well, I say vacation. It was more an opportunity to clean my apartment, tackle the huge piles of laundry spilling out of my closet, and take Roxie to the dog park and on some long runs along the Esplanade in an effort to gain her forgiveness for several weeks of neglect. It was on one of those days, as I was leaving the little dog run in Carl Schurz Park that I ran into Michael for the first time since the Marlowe funeral.  

Roxie had just enjoyed a half hour of frolicking in the sprinkler, and I was trying to grab her to towel her off, but she was having none of it. Apparently, she decided it would be a fun game to let me get within a six-inch reach and then to spring away, yipping loudly, as if she were laughing at me. Anyone who has dogs knows this particularly annoying trick. Even if Roxie wasn’t laughing at me, a few of the other owners were certainly getting a good chuckle over her antics. And, I couldn’t help but laugh myself at the absurdity of the situation (if you’ve never been to the little dog run at Carl Schurz, it’s really little – more a dog patio than a dog park!). But, in a split second, I was no longer laughing.

Roxie had just sprung away from me again when someone opened the gate to come into the dog park. Most owners are very aware when they open the gate – it’s actually a double-gate, so if a dog gets past one, it’s not likely to get past the other. But, this woman was busy talking on her cellphone, and didn’t seem to notice that her massive handbag was propping the outer gate open while she was trying to open the inner gate with the hand that held her corgi’s leash. In the moment that both gates were open, Roxie slipped past and out into the main park.

I sprinted after her, pretty much body-slamming the oblivious woman out of my way. I saw Roxie pelt across the grass and then up to the Esplanade. At least she was nowhere near the street, and it wasn’t like she could jump into the river, but with all of the runners, bikers, and dogs around, I worried she’d manage to get herself hurt anyway. A few people made grabs for her as she ran by (it was clear that this was a jail break, especially with the madwoman running behind her). But, no one had any luck. That is, until Roxie, who actually looked over her shoulder as if to taunt me, ran straight into a strong-looking pair of legs and bounced right off. She shook her head, as though she were stunned, and that was all the time it took for a pair of large hands to pick her up.

Winded, I came to a stop as well, and watched as Roxie wriggled energetically in the arms of Michael Rhodes. I didn’t say anything at first, because I have to admit I was a bit bemused at the site of this tall, generally officious, man, grinning like a little kid and ruffling Roxie’s fur, asking, “And who do you belong to, little one?” His voice was gentle, and Roxie seemed to respond to it. She ceased wriggling, and instead turned to look Michael in the face. An instant later, she gave him a big wet kiss, setting him to laughing, something I had yet to hear from him. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound.

He was looking at her, not at me, so it wasn’t a surprise that his head jerked up when I said, “Thanks for catching her.”

“Francie!” he exclaimed, still maintaining a firm grip on Roxie. “Is this miscreant yours?”

I nodded. “Guilty.” Roxie began licking him again, and Michael shifted her in his arms before she could get too intimate.  “I can take her now,” I offered.

“No, it’s fine. She’s a friendly one, isn’t she?”

I looked at him curiously. “Actually, Roxie doesn’t usually like strange men.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. I’m not sure if it was because of the name or my comment. “Well, she seems to like me,” he said, as Roxie settled more comfortably in his arms, the little traitor. “At least one member of the Fellowes household does.”

This time, my eyebrows went up. I shrugged nonchalantly and said, “Well, you’re being nice to her.”

Michael looked at me, and I almost apologized, but he spoke first. “I guess I deserved that,” he admitted. “Any chance you’d be willing to start fresh?”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” I hurriedly said. “I owe you.”

“No you don’t. I had the ability to help, so I did. That’s all. But, you’re right. I haven’t been very nice to you since we met. I’d like a chance to start fresh,” he said again.

I nodded and he gestured to a nearby bench. We sat and I finally relieved him of Roxie, attaching her leash, and letting her explore at our feet. I looked out over the river, at a complete loss about what to say next.

“So, Roxie, huh?” Michael asked, breaking the tension. “As in Roxie Hart?” He smiled at my surprise. “Just because I know a bit about musical theatre, don’t go jumping to conclusions.”

My jaw dropped ever so slightly. “No, I, that is, yes, that’s how she got her name. My friends got her for me from Miranda Lane. The name seemed fitting.” Or at least, it had seemed fitting after far too many vodka shots.

“Doesn’t she play Velma, though?”

“Wow, you really do know about musical theatre,” I said, with a grin.

Michael shrugged. “Let’s just say that I’m my grandmother’s go-to escort for any number of events around town. Some things are inescapable. And Miranda hosted the Finley Foundation’s charity gala last year.”

Of course, I should have known that. The Finley Foundation Gala was the most sought-after ticket of the charity fundraiser circuit, and always received a ton of press coverage. I had never attended, being too young when my family had moved in those circles, but my mother had always looked forward to it. Every year, in mid-December, Lila transformed the ballroom of one of New York’s many posh hotels into a winter wonderland. Blue Bloods and Celebutantes came from around the country, and even around the world, to attend. I idly wondered if I would get an invitation this year, since Lila had seemed to take me under her wing, as it were.

Belatedly, I realized Michael was waiting for me to speak. “I see,” I mumbled. “Makes perfect sense.”

“Yeah, I can see that it does,” Michael commented. When I looked at him, he was smiling. He certainly seemed to be in a good mood today. I opened my mouth to reply, but then Roxie jumped straight up on his lap, not waiting for an invitation. We both laughed, and any lingering awkwardness passed.

“So,” I said, once Roxie had settled in for a nice back rub on Michael’s lap. “A fresh start, huh? Does that mean you no longer see me as, what was it, ‘unseemly at best and parasitic at worst’?”

Michael actually flinched, his hand coming down a touch too hard on Roxie, who glared at him. “Is that what I said?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it sounded like he meant it. “I should never have said that. It’s just that I’m—”

“Very protective of your grandmother, I know.”

“Exactly. Anyway, in my defense, I seem to remember that I didn’t say that about you. I said it about your profession.” I just stared. “OK, so that’s much of a defense,” he admitted.

“No, it’s not,” I agreed.

“Sorry.” He smiled as Roxie rolled over on his lap to give him access to her belly. “Really, I am sorry. I can be a bit –“

“Obnoxious?”

“I was going to say rigid, but OK. Truce?”

I looked at him for a long moment. He did seem sincere. I suppose if I were honest with myself, I’d have to admit that I judged him as harshly, and quickly, as he had judged me. Holding a grudge at this point would be a bit childish, I guess.

“Sure, truce,” I said.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he said with a smile. “Otherwise Labor Day weekend would have been unbearably awkward.”

“Next weekend?”

Michael looked surprised. “Yes, at the Hamptons. Didn’t my grandmother mention it?”

“Uh, no.” I would have remembered an invitation to the Hamptons, and that seemed to be what he was talking about.

It was. “Oh, sorry. I would have thought she’d have mentioned it by now. She’d like you to join her for the Labor Day weekend at her place in the Hamptons. If you don’t have other plans, that is.”

“None to speak of,” I said.

“Well, before you jump at the opportunity, I should warn you about one thing.” Michael paused, then added, “I’ll be there too.”

I smiled. “I think we can manage to get along for one weekend,” I offered.

“It’s a long weekend,” he replied.

Now I laughed outright, and said, “I’m willing to take the chance, if you are.”

By now, Roxie had grown bored and had jumped off Michael’s lap. She was now pulling on the leash insistently. Michael noticed and shook his head. “Fickle,” he commented.

I shrugged. “She’s young. Short attention span.” And she’s yet to discover just how nice it can be to have a man’s arms around you, and just sit for hours, I added silently. I felt myself blush a bit at that thought, and rose in some confusion. “But I should get her home.”

Michael rose as well. “It was nice seeing you, Francie,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at Grams’s for the long weekend.”

“Uh, yes. Me too.” I took his hand, said goodbye, and started back toward my apartment, my mind in a bit of w whirl. It was all very curious. That had by far been the most civilized conversation I’d ever had with Michael. I knew I shouldn’t attach too much significance to it, but it had felt a bit like flirting, to be honest. And he had seemed genuine in saying that he looked forward to seeing me in the Hamptons. And, I couldn’t help but feel a bit excited about seeing him there too. And that was the most curious thing of all.

How to Win Friends and Use Other People's Influence

(Note: OK, so not quite back on track. Thanks for your patience and enjoy the newest entry!)

Well, I was definitely right about one thing – that awkward evening at the NYAC, combined with that warm late Spring afternoon on Lila Finley’s terrace did change my life forever, although not quite in the way I expected. After our initial meeting, Lila and I agreed to meet once a week to talk about her preferences. The strange thing was that her preferences seemed to change every time we met. That’s not necessarily unusual. Plenty of my clients have been very indecisive about what they want. But as I came to observe more of Lila Finley, it was clear she was a woman who knew what she wanted, and was accustomed to getting it. However, when it came to her funeral arrangement, she couldn’t seem to make a decision and stick to it. One week she wanted a ceremony in the country. The next week it was to be in the city. First she wanted a small, intimate gathering with only her closest friends and family. Then she wanted a huge affair with foreign dignitaries and press coverage.

I think maybe it was that last one that made me suspicious. Not the foreign dignitaries, because she certainly knew enough of them from her charity work. No, it was the desire for press coverage that gave me pause. Lila was no stranger to the media – she had been dealing with it from the moment she had appeared on the social scene as a young bride. But she never invited it. That’s why it seemed so shocking that she would want media coverage of her funeral (privately I knew the media would cover it anyway, given her standing, but that was beside the point). The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if there weren’t something else going on. Did Lila have some kind of ulterior motive in hiring me?

 If Lila did have an ulterior motive, I could not imagine what it might be. And, since I found I quite enjoyed our Saturday meetings, I decided to put my suspicions out of my mind. Of course, there was one thing I couldn’t quite manage to put out of my mind, and one warm June afternoon, I found it, or rather, him, glaring at me while shading his marvelous green eyes against the hot sun with a rather well-shaped hand.

“Miss Fellowes,” Michael Rhodes said, with more than a trace of irritation in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

I bristled a bit at the tone and glared right back. “I am here at your grandmother’s request, Mr. Rhodes. You haven’t forgotten that she engaged my services have you?”

“No, but since she’s not here, I don’t see why you are.”

OK, so he had a point. It was a little odd for me to be there without Lila. But, seriously, did he think I was going steal the Monet? Besides, I wasn’t alone in the apartment. Elena was around somewhere.

“Lila had an appointment,” I said. “She asked me to wait for her.”

“I see.” Michael seemed like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Instead he sat down abruptly and pulled one of the papers I was working on toward him.

“Help yourself,” I muttered. If he heard me, he didn’t respond to the comment.

“Guest list?” he asked.

“Yes. There have been some changes from last week.” There are changes every week, I thought resignedly. It will change again next week, I’m sure.

Michael perused the list in silence, and then he gave a slight chuckle. What could possibly be funny about the guest list for his grandmother’s funeral? My surprise must have shown on my face because he said, “I’m sorry Miss Fellowes. It’s just that, I am quite confident a few of the people on this list will be gone long before my grandmother. In fact, maybe you should keep a copy of this for your own purposes.”

I stood up angrily and made to leave the table, but he jumped up quickly and blocked my way. “Don’t,” he said, keeping step with me as I tried to dodge around him. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear.”

I stopped dodging, since I was sure it looked pretty ridiculous. “That’s a change,” I said, simply. I sat back down, since there didn’t seem to be anything else to do.

Michael sat as well. “I guess it is.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot, Miss Fellowes. I’m a bit protective of my grandmother, is all.”

Oh, that’s all? Well, then, insulting me and my profession is perfectly all right, then isn’t it? I opened my mouth to say something caustic. I have no idea what. I’m sure I would have thought of something. But just then Lila walked out onto the balcony and both of stood, pretending we had not just been arguing.

“Midge, dear, what brings you here?” Lila cried, hugging her grandson tightly. I tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a laugh at the disgruntled look on Michael’s face at the nickname. The disgruntled look became another glare as he turned to look at me as he released his grandmother.

“I thought you might want to go out for lunch, Grams,” he said. “I had forgotten about your Saturday appointments with Miss Fellowes.”

Lila sighed. “Honestly, Mi-Michael,” she said, catching herself in time. “I never raised you to be so stuffy. Her name is Francie.” She turned to me with a warm smile, and embraced me as well, as had become her habit lately. I saw Michael’s eyebrows fly up at the sight, and could not resist returning the hug just a little more enthusiastically than normal. “Thank you for waiting, Francie,” she added with a smile. “The Opera Guild is a bunch of catty old bats, and I’m afraid their gossip ran a little long this morning.”

Michael and I both laughed at this, and Lila’s smile widened. “Well, Grams, I’ll leave you two to your work,” Michael said, as he made to leave. “We’ll have lunch another time.”

“Nonsense. It’s hard enough to get you away from the office, Michael. You are here, and I would love to have lunch with you.”

I took this as my cue, and I began to gather my things. “We can reschedule, then, Lila,” I offered. “Just give me a call.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Francie,” Lila said, with a frown. “You’ll join us, of course. We can discuss the guest list just as well over lunch.” She took my arm and began to lead me off the balcony, Michael trailing behind. “Honestly,” she added, “you’d think the two of you couldn’t stand to be in the same room as each other!”

I risked a quick look over my shoulder, and my eyes met Michael’s. He raised a single eyebrow, and I quickly looked away again and turned my attention to Lila’s conversation.

Lunch was … awkward. Michael was polite, but reserved. It was clear he still didn’t trust me. I tried to keep the conversation professional, attempting to address the guest list issues, but Lila kept diverting the conversation to other topics. The more I tried to steer us back to business, the deeper the frown on Michael’s face. I wanted to believe it was simply that he was uncomfortable with the topic, but I sensed it was something else entirely.

Finally, as we stood to leave, he suddenly leaned close to me, and whispered, “You’re very single-minded, aren’t you? Always back to the matter at hand. If you ask me, it’s a bit cold.”

“I didn’t ask you,” I hissed back.

“What’s that, dears?” Lila asked, turning away from her conversation with the maître d’.

“Nothing, Grams,” Michael lied smoothly. “I was just telling Miss Fellowes that I would go out and hail a cab for her.”

“Jeffrey will take her home,” Lila said.

“I’ll walk,” I said at the same time.

“You can’t walk. It’s twenty blocks,” Michael pointed out.

“Yes, but it’s a beautiful afternoon,” I insisted, suddenly wanting to get far away from him. “It’ll be a nice walk.”

Lila looked doubtful. “Are you sure, Francie?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Thank you for lunch. I’ll see you next week, unless you need anything between now and then.” I gave Lila a quick peck on the cheek, gave a curt nod to Michael, and hurried out the door, not stopping to look back.

It was a beautiful afternoon, and the walk did give me a chance to clear my head a bit. I couldn’t believe that I let Michael get to me the way he did. I knew how low his opinion of me was, so why did it surprise me when he expressed that poor opinion? And, why did I care? Just because he was handsome and had those ridiculously compelling green eyes? There were plenty of good-looking men in New York. Michael Rhodes was nothing special. It was just that I was going through a bit of a dry spell, that was all. I just needed a night out – meet new people, distract my mind, maybe get a little drunk.

OK, so “a little drunk” is a bit of an understatement. I convinced Tamsin to go to a few clubs that night, and I’m not entirely sure how I got home (I assume Tamsin’s driver had something to do with it). All I know is that I woke up Sunday … afternoon with a raging headache, and three cocktail napkins with phone numbers for Andrew, Lyle and John. With a groan, I crumpled the napkins and tossed them in the trash – or near the trash, anyway. A little later, I found Roxie shredding them, but didn’t have the energy to care. I pretty much lay like a lump on the sofa all afternoon, and it was already getting dark when the phone rang, the sound jarring me as if the 4 train had just run through my living room.

I had no intention of talking to anyone, but when I looked at the caller ID, I saw that it was Lila Finley, so I picked up. “Hello?” I mumbled.

“Hi Francie, I’m sorry to bother you,” came Lila’s strong, cheerful voice. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all,” I lied, trying to get my voice to sound as bright, and failing miserably.

“Are you sure? You sound … tired.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” I sat up on the sofa, as if to prove to her that I was OK (yes, I know she couldn’t see me). “What can I do for you?”

“Well, dear, it’s a bit awkward, and you must feel free to tell me no.”

As if. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I was supposed to attend a luncheon for Sloan Kettering at The Pierre tomorrow with a dear friend, George McGowan. But George has just called and said he can’t make it. Some kind of stomach bug, I believe. I don’t suppose you would be interested in accompanying me? I know it’s a cause close to your heart.”

It was. The doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering had done everything they could to save my mother and, even though in the end, they were unsuccessful, I had always been grateful for everything they did for her. “I would be honored to join you,” I said, really quite touched that she had thought of me.

“Wonderful! I’ll have Jeffrey pick you up at 10:30.”

I knew better than to protest the offer of a ride this time. First of all, it would seem very ungrateful. And second, I knew very well one did not walk to a charity luncheon!

The luncheon at The Pierre turned out to be the first of many events I attended with Lila as the summer progressed. I don’t know quite how it happened, but soon I was Lila’s regular companion, attending 2-3 events per week. It did occur to me to wonder why Lila was including me so actively in her social calendar, but I decided she was just being nice. She had known my mother, and wanted to be kind to her daughter.

I guess if I had thought about it more, it would have raised my former suspicions about Lila’s motives in hiring me. After all, no one as active as Lila Finley could possibly be so close to death. So, why would she need a funeral planner at this stage? But, the truth is, I enjoyed Lila’s company and, as long as Michael Rhodes didn’t make an appearance (which he rarely did), I was content to accompany her wherever she wished to go.

All of these social gatherings also had a professional benefit, of course. Lila recommended me to everyone, and business really picked up. That’s not to say that the social elite of New York were dropping like flies that summer, but from Lila’s referrals, I received other referrals, and soon friends of friends of friends were requesting me, and I had more business than I could handle.

I guess that’s what caused it, really – the mistake that nearly destroyed my career, I mean. You’ll remember me mentioning it a while back – the Fairfield/Fairfield mix-up. It was my own fault. I can’t entirely blame the driver. Well, I can blame him for smoking pot outside the church while the service was going on inside, but the rest was on me. Except for the resolution. That was – well, you’ll see.

To backtrack slightly, in early August, my business was at its height. In fact, it had become so popular, that I had promoted Keeley to be my assistant planner. I still handled all the major details, and the client meetings, but Keeley had proven to be a master if the minutiae. She credited it to having to juggle two jobs and auditions for most of her adult life. Whatever the reason, she proved invaluable in helping me handle the sudden surge. Keeley was so capable, that I didn’t hesitate to turn to her when I found myself in the unprecedented position of being double-booked.

It didn’t start out that way, but a flood in the basement of the Flynn Funeral Home in Yonkers had necessitated a change of venue for the Marlowe funeral – to Lincoln Park, across town. But, Lincoln Park was booked on our original dates, so we had to move everything up a day. That would have been fine because the Doyle funeral, out of Sisto, in the Bronx, was scheduled for a Thursday burial that week, and the Marlowe funeral was originally scheduled for Saturday. Only one night of the wakes would have overlapped originally. So, moving the second burial up to Friday was not a problem. I could move between the wakes, and Keeley could cover when I wasn’t there. We had a perfect tag-team scenario set up. Until Mr. Doyle informed me that storms over the Atlantic had forced the cancellation of the flight from Dublin that was carrying roughly a dozen mourners – oh, and the body of Kieran Doyle.

Now, I might have convinced the family that the overseas mourners could miss one night of the wake, but pulling off a wake without the deceased was beyond me. And so, the Doyle services were pushed back a day, resulting in two families with exactly the same schedule for services. Keeley insisted she could handle the Doyles, and I trusted that she could, so I focused on the Marlowes. Despite a rough couple of days of rescheduling, everything was now in place. So, what could possibly go wrong?

Mackintosh Marlowe had been a friend of Lila’s husband, so I knew she would be there. I hadn’t counted on Michael attending as well, but he turned up on Thursday morning, escorting his grandmother. I said hello briefly and kept my attention on my work. The brief service at the funeral parlor went smoothly, as did the mass at Annunciation Church. As we were leaving the church, my phone vibrated, so I moved quickly outside to answer the call. It was Keeley, telling me that the Doyles wanted the procession to drive by their old house before going to Gate of Heaven cemetery. I told her that was fine, and not an uncommon request. By the time I had gotten off the phone, Mackintosh Marlowe’s body had been loaded into the hearse and everyone was getting into their cars. I said a few words to the Marlowe family, and got into the Town Car behind their limousine. We had a long drive ahead of us to the cemetery, since the Mrs. Marlowe had requested that the service be in the church where she and her husband had gotten married, but the burial was to be closer to their current home, 40 miles away in Fairfield, Connecticut.

The long procession managed to pretty much stay together through the convoluted side roads of Crestwood and Scarsdale. It was when we approached the entrance for the Hutchison River Parkway that things went wrong. Two cars ahead of me, I saw the hearse begin down the southbound ramp. The limo driver waved a hand at me from his window, and I leaned out and yelled, “Keep going – North!” He proceeded to enter the northbound ramp, and the rest of the procession followed. I frantically dialed the cellphone of the hearse driver, but he didn’t pick up. In retrospect, I suppose I should have had my driver follow him to make sure he turned around, but I assumed he’d quickly realize his mistake, would turn as soon as he was able, and would meet us at the cemetery.

I was wrong. When we got to the cemetery, I spoke with Mrs. Marlowe and told her it was a minor miscommunication and everything would be back on schedule shortly. I advised her and the rest of the guests to stay in their cars, as it was a blistering hot day. Meanwhile, I wore a path in the grass with my pacing as I waited for the driver to show up. I continued to call his cellphone, but he still did not pick up. After about 30 minutes of pacing, I made a turn, and bumped right into Michael Rhodes, who had come up silently behind me. He handed me a bottle of water and waited while I took a grateful gulp.

“Gladys Marlowe is beginning to get worried,” he said. “My grandmother is with her. What’s going on?”

I was too upset to be upset with him, and I blurted out, “I’ve lost the body, and I can’t get a hold of the hearse driver, and this is a total disaster, and I’m ruined!” I turned away in horror after that because I realized I was about to burst into tears. I tried to stave them off by gulping down more water, but that just resulted in me choking, and Michael patting me forcefully on the back.

“I thought you were more professional than this, Francie,” he commented. I opened my mouth to object, but he held up a hand. “Relax,” he ordered. Seriously, he ordered me to relax. And I did, a little. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to tell Gladys what’s going on, but that it’s under control.”

“But it’s not—“

“Then, you’re going to talk to the cemetery administrator and tell him that the burial will not take place until the afternoon.”

“But, they won’t—“

“Then, you’re going to invite everyone to the funeral brunch.”

“But I can’t—“

“Then, when the body has been recovered, you’re going to bring everyone back here for the burial.”

“But, how—“

“And I’ll meet you back here.” Michael turned to walk away, apparently satisfied that everything was under control. I was not nearly so sure.

“Wait – where are you going?” I asked.

Michael turned back slightly. “To find the body.”

And then he was gone, and I was doing everything exactly as he had told me to. Why? Why did I follow so faithfully the instructions of man I couldn’t be in the same room with without arguing? Frankly because I was at a total loss, and he had seemed so sure.

And he was right, damn him. The cemetery administrator and restaurant manager agreed to the change in plans. Granted, a bit of money changed hands – I’m not ashamed to admit it. And the Marlowes were a big name in New York and Connecticut society, so that helped. In fact, the logistical changes were the easy part. Explaining things to the guests was the real challenge. People were thoroughly confused and Mrs. Marlowe was beside herself. But Lila worked her signature charm and soon even had me nearly convinced that this was a minor inconvenience at the worst.

We had been at the restaurant for about an hour or so when my phone rang. It was Michael. “I’ve got your man,” he said succinctly. “We’ll be at the cemetery in half an hour.”

The relief was palpable. I felt like I could breathe for the first time in hours. I whispered in Lila’s ear, and she gave the news to Mrs. Marlowe. Within 20 minutes, we were all loaded back into the cars, and heading back to the cemetery, with the promise that a fresh meal would be waiting for us afterwards.

When we arrived at the cemetery, the casket was already in place at the gravesite. I saw everyone assembled and then drifted to the back of the group. I felt a light touch at my elbow and looked up into Michael’s eyes. He nodded to the line of cars and I followed him, unnoticed by any of the mourners.

“How did you do it?” I asked, once we were out of earshot.

“I got the license plate number from the funeral parlor and then I called a friend of mine in the NY State police. They sent up a chopper and had a look around. They put an alert on the plate number and when your guy hit the EZ Pass on the George Washington Bridge, they got the notification.”

“The GW?”

“Yeah.” Michael shrugged. “They found him driving around Fairfield, New Jersey, looking for Oaklawn Cemetery.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Yeah,” Michael said again. “Listen, Francie, the driver was stoned out of his mind.”

“What? He was fine this morning at the funeral parlor!”

“And at the church?”

“I – he – I don’t know. I got a call after the mass, and I didn’t see him before the procession set out.”

“A costly phone call,” Michael commented.

I wanted to argue. My nerves were so raw, I just wanted to yell and scream at him that it wasn’t my fault. But I couldn’t. Aside from the fact that I actually believed it was my fault – I should have spoken to the driver before leaving the church – I also knew I owed Michael everything that day – possibly, even the future of my career. I knew he hadn’t done it for me. Gladys Marlowe and Lila were friends, and so he had done it for her. So, all I said was, “Thank you.”

Michael simple nodded, and then I thought of something else. “How did you get here from New Jersey so quickly?” I asked.

Michael shrugged. “My friend in the police helicopter loaded Marlowe up and flew here. We landed in town and borrowed a hearse from a local funeral parlor.”

“We?”

                                                                                                  

“Well, yeah, I wasn’t just going to sit around and wait for a phone call, was I?”

“You mean like I did?” I asked, a bit resentfully.

He looked at me oddly. “From the few words I exchanged with my grandmother, you did everything but sit around. She said you handled everything admirably.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. And I’d expect nothing less from you.”

Really??

Don't forget, you can follow Francie on Twitter @franciefellowes. Please also feel free to check out my website, www.kristenmareecleary.com

Saint Lila of the Upper East Side

(Note to Readers: Once again, profound apologies for the lack of updates. Hopefully, we're back on track now! Thanks for reading. And don't forget, if you're new, start at the oldest entry and work your way forward.)

I didn’t tell anyone about that meeting with Michael Rhodes. As with many things pertaining to Michael, I’m still not sure why, exactly.  All I know for sure is that I barely slept for the next two nights, leading up to my meeting with Lila Finley. I told myself it was nerves – Lila Finley is a New York society legend. I knew her only by reputation, and it was a sterling reputation at that. Little was known about her early life. She seemed to appear on the social scene out of nowhere when she married oil tycoon Alistair Finley at the tender age of eighteen. But she had soon made an indelible impression among the Who’s Who of Manhattan with her intelligence, wit and charm. Generous to a fault, she was the patron saint of kids, choreographers and curators. But, by all reports, she was not a woman to be trifled with, and I knew that if I made a bad impression, it could hurt my career in untold ways.

So, that’s what I told myself was the reason for my sleepless nights, - not a pair of intense green eyes, with a disturbing air of disapproval about them, that seemed to appear every time I closed my eyes. No, I refused to believe that Michael Rhodes was having any kind of effect on me. It was a case of the nerves, that was all.

On Saturday morning, I ransacked my closet for something appropriate to wear. It’s not like I hadn’t been to my share of penthouses. Hell, I lived in one until Richard the Bastard took all our money. But I had such butterflies, it was ridiculous. I tried on outfit after outfit. Roxie watched me for a while, but soon grew bored and headed for the living room, leaving me to sift through the growing mountain of suits and dresses. I finally settled on a conservative floral print dress, with a navy-blue cardigan, and my favorite Louboutin strappy sandals (left over from when I had real money). Smart, professional, but approachable.

It was an absolutely gorgeous late Spring day, and as I walked from my apartment on York and 83^rd to Lila Finley’s home at Fifth and 87^th, I reflected on how much my life had changed in just a few short years. I knew I would be walking past my old building at Fifth and 84^th, and it still hurt sometimes to do so. I could have taken a different route, heading North while still further East, but for some perverse reason, I felt compelled to take the same route every time, right past the door I had walked out of more times than I could ever count. The seven avenues and one block that separated my new apartment from my old one may have only equaled about half a mile, but the distance between my new life and my old one was far greater.

With these thoughts running through my mind, I guess I was feeling a bit melancholy by the time I reached Lila Finley’s building. I absently gave my name to the doorman, and he directed me to the concierge, who called up to the penthouse. Within minutes, I was forcing a smile for the elevator operator as he keyed in the code to take me up.

I was feeling a bit ambivalent. I told myself this meeting meant nothing, that it was just one client.  But what a client it would be to land! Arranging Lila Finley’s funeral would more or less allow me to write my ticket in Manhattan society. I would be back on top, in a very big way. But, was that what I wanted? I liked my life and I liked my friends. My life was more real than it had ever been. And, yet, walking past my old building . . . I think you get the picture here, right? The truth was, I didn’t want to care, but I did.

I took a deep breath as the elevator came to a halt. I had, for a moment, forgotten how things worked in a building like this, and so I was not quite prepared for the doors to open directly into Lila Finley’s entry foyer. “Miss Frances Fellowes,” the elevator operator intoned, for all the world like he was some stuffy Victorian Era butler. The effect was slightly ruined by the smirk he had on his youthful face when I glanced at him. That smirk grew, and it took me a moment to realize that he was waiting for me to get off the elevator. Great, I thought as I stepped quickly out into the foyer. Now he probably thinks I’m some sort of country mouse who’s never seen a luxury high-rise. I shook my head slightly as the door closed, took another deep breath, and turned to face . . . well, I didn’t know what I was going to face.

My sense of drama is begging me to describe the scene I encountered in the most gothic terms possible: the darkened apartment, with only slivers of light escaping through the cracks of the heavy velvet curtains; inches of dust on the dark, mahogany furniture; the musty smell of years of neglect; and an old, gravelly, disembodied voice calling to me from the shadows to, “Come just a bit closer, my dear.”

Yeah, Lila Finley’s apartment was nothing like that, and Lila Finley was as far from a Miss Havisham as Roxie is from a Rottweiler. When I turned around, I was nearly blinded by the light coming from the 360-degree exposures. The windows had sheers and tasteful Roman Shades; the furniture was an impeccable blend of traditional and modern, without a speck of dust anywhere to be seen; the only smell was a gentle fragrance from the bouquet of fresh Spring flowers on the small round table in the foyer; and Lila Finley’s voice was strong and cheerful as she entered from the living room, a wide smile on her face, saying, “You must be Francie! My word, it’s been 20 years since I’ve seen you. What a lovely young woman you’ve become!”

I gaped. Seriously, I stood there, opening and closing my mouth like a fish. The astute reader will have realized by now that this is not an uncommon look for me, however unflattering it may be.  I didn’t know what to say. I had been expecting a frail elderly woman. But Lila Finley was as vibrant and immaculate as her apartment. There was no possible way this woman could be dying. Was there?

The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. Lila (as she quickly insisted I call her) ushered me through the living room, directly out onto the terrace, where a pleasant-looking woman, introduced to me as Elena, was setting out trays of lemonade, cakes and finger sandwiches. Before I knew it, I was reclining in a chaise, gazing out over Central Park, and absently munching a tiny egg salad sandwich.

“I hope you don’t mind being out on the terrace,” Lila began, once we were both settled. “We can sit in the living room, or my office, if you prefer, but it seemed such a shame to waste a beautiful day like this inside.”

“Not at all,” I said, honestly. “It’s lovely.” I took a swig from the lemonade and forced myself to ask the one question to which I really didn’t want an answer: “Will your grandson be joining us?”

“Midge? No, I told him I wanted to see you alone.”

I had been in the process of taking another drink, and choked ever so slightly. “Midge?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face.

Lila laughed to most endearing, musical laugh. “Oh, yes. Don’t ever tell Michael I told you, but he was the tiniest thing growing up – so small for his age. His older brothers called him ‘Midget,’ and somewhere along the line, it got shortened to ‘Midge.’ The name simply stuck, I’m afraid.” Lila shrugged and smiled. “I’ve promised time and again to stop calling him that, but old habits are hard to break.”

I grinned (probably a tad evilly) as I filed this supremely blackmailable fact away for future reference. I assured Lila I would never say a word, and then ventured the other question that had been on my mind since my arrival.

“I hope you’re not offended by this, Mrs. Finley,” I began.

“Lila.”

“Of course, Lila. It’s just, you said it’s been twenty years since you saw me, but I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Lila said, with another charming smile. “It was your father’s funeral. You and your sister were so young. I remember you, though. So poised and mature even then. I was quite charmed by you. I loved hearing about all of your accomplishments over the years.”

“My accomplishments? I don’t understand. How did you—“

“From Felicia, of course.”

“You knew my mother.” This was a surprise to me, as I had only ever heard of Lila Finley by reputation.

“We were on a number of committees together,” Lila explained. “She spoke often of you and your sister. She was very proud of you.”

I stared out over the park, a little overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of emotion that hit me. I thought about my mom every day, but I tended to regulate those thoughts. But right now, there was no constraint and I was feeling a fresh wave of loss. I felt a light touch on my hand, and turned to look at Lila.

“I was so sorry to miss Felicia’s funeral,” Lila said. “I tried everything to get a flight back from Cairo, but nothing was available. I wanted to be there for her – and for her girls.”

“Thank you,” I said. My dormant memory kicked in then and I quickly added, “And thank you for your lovely arrangement and the donation to the Met.”

“Of course, dear.” Lila gave me a moment to gather myself. Then she broached the subject that had brought us there in the first place. “I admire you for what you have done to  get your life back together after what that man did to you. Your business is quite a clever idea.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sure Michael told you that I would like to engage your services.”

“He did,” I replied, a little uncomfortable. For a short time I had forgotten that this vibrant woman thought she was dying. It didn’t seem possible. Lila Finley was a force of nature. I could not imagine any force in nature that could stop her.

“Michael thinks I am being foolish.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said quickly. Then I wondered why I was defending the man who had pretty much trashed my career choice and, by extension, me. It seems Lila was thinking much along the same lines.

“You are kind to say so. Especially when I am certain Michael was more than a little blunt in his conversation with you.” Lila smiled again. “He doesn’t approve of you.”

“So he said.” I shrugged. “He’s not hiring me.”

“That’s right,” Lila said with approval. “I am. And since Michael doesn’t approve of me much right now, I’d say you and I will get along famously.”

Now I did have to defend him, because our short conversation had made it clear that Michael Rhodes loved and admired his grandmother, and I said as much.

“Oh, I know Michael loves me,” Lila assured me. “But, as I said, he thinks I am being foolish in believing I will die soon, and in engaging your services.”

“Why –“ I hesitated. “Why do you believe that you are dying?”

“You mean aside from the fact that I’m 75 years old? Let’s face it, I fewer days ahead of me than behind.”

I smiled involuntarily. “But that doesn’t mean that your death is imminent.”

“I like you, Francie,” Lila said. “You don’t sugar coat things. You’re up front and professional. Michael and those quacks he takes me to are afraid to even say the d-word.”

“I’m sure Michael doesn’t want to think about losing you,” I offered. “That’s a difficult thing to accept. It’s part of why I do what I do – it’s easier for families to allow someone without a personal connection to handle the most difficult details.”

“And that’s why I want you here,” Lila said simply. “When the time comes, Michael will need you.” She sighed. “I don’t know when I’m going to die, Francie. But I am an old woman, and my heart is weak. Whenever the time comes, I would feel better knowing I had left everything in order. Will you help me with that, Francie?”

I looked Lila in the eye and knew there was only response I could give. “Of course, Lila. I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”

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