Fleur De Lies by Maddy Hunter

beautiful woman, Solange, but like me and Osmond here, you’re getting up there in age. Do you mind my asking if you’ve made advanced funeral plans yet? For a nominal fee, Jolly Funeral Home offers an online consulting service to help you decide exactly what arrangements will best suit your needs. And it doesn’t matter that you live here and I live in the States. We’re all connected now through the Internet, and we accept all major credit cards.”
    Solange stared at him, looking too speechless to respond.
    “I brought a brochure with me. How about I leave it with you, and if you’re interested, you can contact me through our website. You have a computer, don’t you?” He slapped the numerous zippered pockets of his jacket in search of the missing document. “Can’t remember which pocket I stuffed it in.”
    Madeleine waved him off. “Please, monsieur, it is not necessary. We—”
    “Sure it’s necessary. Folks in your grandmother’s and my generation don’t want to spend the afterlife cooped up in a jar the size of a flour canister. We want to be able to stretch out in a cheerful casket that’s lined with tufted satin and rest our heads on a pillow made of one hundred percent breathable cotton. Aha! Paydirt.” He unzipped a long, vertical pocket and slid his hand into—
    “ Mon Dieu ,” cried Solange, eyes wild, mouth contorted. “ MON DIEU! ”
    Woody froze, brochure in hand. “Was it something I said?”
    Solange hurled a barrage of rapid-fire French at him, her voice rising to a crescendo, the cords in her neck straining so violently against her flesh, they looked as if they might burst.
    “What is it, cherie ?” Madeleine darted around the sofa and sat down. “What is wrong?”
    Solange’s hands flew into the air. Her voice grew shrill. Her words spilled out of her mouth so quickly, even Madeleine looked baffled.
    “Please, Grandmama. Lentement . I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
    Cal poked his head in the door. “Sorry to break up your farewells, folks, but I’ve just been told by the head honcho that if you’re not on the bus in three minutes flat, our schedule is going to be seriously screwed up. You hear me, Dad?”
    Osmond threw me a pleading look. “Emily, please, I can’t leave Solange like this.”
    “Well, you can’t stay here,” said Tilly as she pulled him unceremoniously to his feet. “And you know you can’t.”
    Woody backpedaled away from the sofa, a sheepish look on his face. “How about I leave the brochure here for you?” he suggested, dropping it on the coffee table in his hasty retreat. “Maybe you can check it out when you’re in a better frame of mind.”
    Solange stabbed a damning finger at him as he rushed out the door. “ C’est toi !” she scolded in a high-pitched shriek that bristled with venom. “ C’est toi !”
    The bus horn blared long and loudly, causing a wave of panic to ripple down my spine. “C’mon, Osmond.” I grabbed his arm. “We’ve gotta go. I can guarantee you won’t want to be anywhere around me if I have to walk back to the boat in five-inch wedges.”
    “Solange?” He reached out his knobby fingers to touch her, but she was collapsed in Madeleine’s arms, seemingly inconsolable as she broke out in anguished tears, the sounds of her tormented wails filling the room. He took a step back, bowing his head with a remembered sadness. “She cried just like that the day she found her brother.” He tried to catch Madeleine’s eye, but she was so fixated on soothing her grandmother that she no longer seemed aware of the presence of other people in the room.
    “I guess maybe we should go,” he rasped, looking utterly bereft.
    Once outside, we hurried down the front path in a footrace to the waiting coach.
    “What was wrong with her?” Osmond puzzled. “What was she yelling at him? Does anyone know what say twah means?”
    “It means, ‘it’s you,’” I said, dredging up a few remnants of my high school