Dearly Departed by Hy Conrad Read Free Book Online

don’t know how the hell the woman did it.”
    â€œOr how she even knew,” Laila added. “Because we never told Paisley where the furnishings had come from. And we certainly never told her about our predicament, although she did know my mother was visiting.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But that was dear Paisley. She knew everything.”
    â€œIt actually didn’t look horrible. Paisley had a good eye.”
    â€œAnd the upshot of it all was that my mother had a great week with us, and the second she went home, Paisley moved all the stuff out. Without ever saying a word.”
    The laughter grew and remained warm.
    â€œIt’s true.” Laila Steinberg had, perhaps unconsciously, joined her husband at the center of attention. “Paisley never, ever mentioned it. And we never mentioned it. We were way too embarrassed and grateful, and I don’t know what.”
    â€œTo Paisley MacGregor,” Maury Steinberg said and led the final toast of the evening.
    When Peter stepped forward with the urn, he didn’t need to speak. The moment felt instinctual. The small silver scoops had been lined up on a white linen tabletop, and one by one the mourners came forward and silently, meditatively took scoops of their maid and cast them into the breeze above the Seine. From here the ashes would scatter and join the dust of the city and perhaps fly through some tall, laced-curtained window of some riverside apartment, to be dutifully dusted away by someone else’s maid.
    Amy giggled at the notion, a maid’s dust being dusted by a maid, and drained her flute. It had been a great trip so far, exactly what she’d needed. Even Peter’s one attempt to get romantic had been sweetly lame.
    Amy had known he would try something, that her skill as a travel agent hadn’t been the only reason for his generous offer. And now that they were in Paris, thousands of miles from Amy’s boyfriend—and, more crucially, her mother—it hadn’t taken him long.
    Their rooms were at the Hôtel de Crillon, a palatial pile on the place de la Concorde, mere steps from where French peasants had once set up a guillotine to deal with just the sort of people who could now afford to stay at the Hôtel de Crillon. On their arrival, Peter had taken the manager aside and spoken with him in French, arguing politely, probably about some misunderstood detail in the reservation. When Peter had turned and walked the fifty feet back to Amy, his expression had turned apologetic.
    â€œThey made a mistake and put us in the same room.”
    â€œUs? You and me?” Amy had done her best to look surprised. “How could that happen? I made the reservations myself.”
    â€œThe good news is I managed to talk them into a suite. It’s got two bedrooms and a balcony and this incredible view of the Eiffel Tower.”
    â€œDon’t they have two singles?” Amy had asked. “A hotel this size?”
    â€œCompletely booked,” Peter asserted. “Springtime in Paris. But the suite has two bedrooms.” He raised his eyebrows and looked helpless.
    â€œExcuse me,” said Amy. Then she walked back fifty feet to the sleek, Armani-clad manager. If she had spoken to him in English, the man might have been able to maintain the ruse. But Amy’s French was better than Peter’s, and more importantly, she had mastered the sardonic little twist of the head, so important in any Gallic conversation. The man twisted his own head in response and quickly gave up.
    â€œNice try,” she shouted back over her shoulder to Peter as she followed the manager back to the front desk for the new room keys. “You didn’t think I’d figure it out?”
    Peter trotted to keep up. “I didn’t think you’d want to.” Which was the perfect answer. She didn’t even pretend to be mad at him.
    Their guests began arriving later that afternoon. The only