Manon nodded, confirming her little white lie.
“Let me take her back to her final resting place at the Columbarium,” she urged.
Her father placed his hand on the urn. “Not right away. Can’t we leave her here for a little while? For just a few days?”
“Just a few days,” Manon repeated.
Neither of them felt like returning to dinner. Teresa had gathered as much from eavesdropping on the beginning of their conversation and had since cleared the table and brought herbal tea to the library for the two of them.
Manon sat down on the couch, her father in the armchair.
“Which book?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You wanted to borrow one.”
Manon got up and pretended to look for a title on the shelves.
“It’s funny, sometimes you’re an amazing liar, and other times you’re so bad it’s painful.” Her father’s vulnerability had lasted only minutes. “I’ll have to have a chat with Teresa tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t you dare scold her. She had your best interests at heart.”
“I think I know better than anyone else what’s in my best interest.”
Manon studied the urn, which shone in the lamplight. “Mom has spent enough time locked up inside,” she said decisively. “I’ll come back tomorrow, and we’ll go scatter her ashes on the beach. That’s what she would have wanted. To be free at last.”
“How do you know what she would have wanted? Your mother didn’t bother to take the time to write a will. I had to learn from one of her friends that she wanted to be cremated and from you that she wanted that burlesque funeral I reluctantly agreed to.”
“You’re impossible. Stop criticizing her. Mom couldn’t have known what would happen to her. You love to be in control so much; what would you do if you realized you were losing control of yourself? She was dignified until the end, and that’s worth more than a will, don’t you think?”
“I refuse to let her go,” her father said.
“She’s already gone, whether you like it or not. A man can’t own a woman—not even you.”
“That’s enough. I don’t want to fight. It’s been a hard day for both of us. Go home. I’ll walk you to your car. We’ll talk about all this tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep.”
Manon let her father accompany her to her Prius.
“Another one for your collection,” he said as he pulled a parking ticket off the windshield.
Manon took it from him and sat down behind the wheel.
He bent down next to the window. “I’m sure your organist is behind this whole thing.”
“What thing?”
“You know what I’m talking about. I want to know how you met him.”
“You’re ridiculous. He was walking through the mausoleum garden yesterday, and I ran into him. During our short conversation, he mentioned he was a musician. When I saw him again this morning, I’d just found out that the organist I had hired was unable to perform. He was a gentleman and agreed to do me a huge favor. Mom’s urn must have been bumped by a clumsy employee. It was an accident, that’s all.”
“But what was this gentleman doing on the grounds of the mausoleum two days in a row?”
“Do you really think you’re the only person who’s ever lost someone? But sure, he must have come all the way from Paris to open Mom’s urn.”
“What do you mean, ‘from Paris’?” Her father looked intrigued.
“He’s French. Can I go now?”
