“Yes,” I said. “I’ll make sure everything is ready.”
“Thank you.”
I hung up.
By six in the morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee I hadn’t touched. The house was silent, empty. I picked up the phone one more time.
I called Naomi first. She answered on the third ring.
“Mom, it’s six in the morning.”
“Your father passed this morning,” I said.
Silence.
Then: “When’s the will reading?”
Not, “I’m sorry.” Not, “Are you okay?” Just: “When’s the will reading?”
“Four days,” I said. “I’ll send you the details.”
I hung up.
I called Rosalind next.
“When’s the funeral?” she asked.
Celeste.
“What was the cause?” she asked.
Violet cried, but I could hear the TV in the background. She wasn’t even paying attention.
Aurelia didn’t answer. I left a voicemail.
When I finished, I set the phone down and sat there in the kitchen as the sun came up.
I looked at the dining table. The twenty-five envelopes were stacked there exactly where Harrison and I had left them. I walked over, picked up the first one, held it in my hands.
“Now it begins,” I whispered.
Four days after the funeral, I stood in Warren’s office downtown. The building was old brick, three floors, with a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains from the conference room windows.
My five daughters sat around the long table—Naomi, Rosalind, Celeste, Violet, Aurelia. They’d all flown in. New York, Chicago, Seattle, Austin, Portland.
None of them had asked how I was doing. They’d only asked, “When’s the meeting?”
Warren stood at the head of the table, gray suit, briefcase open.
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