Virginia elevated her hand to admire the jewels bedecking her fingers. “Do you know the only thing worse than a fool, Victor?”
“I expect you’re about to tell me.”
“An old fool.”
He pivoted slowly toward her. His voice became gruff. “Help me out to the bus.”
“Thanks for everything, Madeleine.” Cal offered a brief valedictory wave. “I’m going to pick up some of that Calvados. Good stuff!”
Taking my cue from Cal, I stood up. “I guess we should be leaving, too. Don’t want to keep the coach driver waiting.”
“Non.” Solange clutched Osmond’s hand. “Not yet. There’s …
there’s much I should tell you.”
Woody Jolly maneuvered around my chair to sketch a valiant, if arthritic, bow before the sofa. “Ladies, thank you for the conversation and refreshments. The obnoxious drunk I could have done without.” He extended his hand, palm up, to Solange. “May I?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Solange placed her palm atop his, smiling shyly when he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.
“I don’t know if that’s the way you French do it,” he blurted out with enthusiasm, “but it sure works for me. I’ve wanted to do that all my life. ‘Course, if I tried it with a woman in the States, I’d get my face slapped.”
He released her hand but continued to linger, apparently not at all worried that his dawdling might earn him the dreaded status of last person on the bus. “You’re such a 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?”