Steamed

exchanged proper words with the funeral attendees. Mrs. Rafferty left briefly to retrieve the cobalt blue glass urn that now held her son’s ashes, and then we made our way out to their car.
    “Chloe, dear, would you please hold Eric for me. I’m so upset I’m afraid I may drop him.”
    Her fear was, I thought, justified not only because she was shaky but because the urn was fragile. About twelve inches high and six inches wide, it looked liked a flower vase inexplicably topped with a lid. Fortunately, its blue glass was opaque. Still, gross, gross, gross! I should have been grateful that there was no revolting graveside service or, God forbid, an open casket, but holding human remains was still pretty vile.
    “Sure,” I relented. I tentatively took the urn from her and felt my Stomach roll over. I was not going to make it all the way to the Raffertys’ house holding this thing, What if the top came off and I got sprinkled with Eric’s ashes? What if we had an accident and the vase shattered? As we turned the corner at the end of the street, I placed Eric, so to speak, next to me in the rear driver’s side seat and buckled him in with the seat belt. There. Safe and secure. Sheryl Rafferty turned her head around and stared at me in horror and disappointment, clearly hoping I’d have held her beloved in my arms.
    The Raffertys and I, with Eric in his urn, made a silent fifteen-minute drive to an upscale section of Cambridge and parked in their driveway off Brattle Street. Their house was phenomenal. Really phenomenal, like old-money phenomenal. A massive old gray Victorian, the house was surrounded by a fence with an electronic gate that let us in to park. The yard was beautifully landscaped with late-blooming flowers. A bright yellow Nissan Xterra was parked next to us. I hopped out of the car quickly before anyone made me carry what was left of Eric and waited while Phil Rafferty reached in the backseat to unbuckle his son.
    I followed the Raffertys inside the house, which had crown molding, hardwood floors, and high ceilings. Mrs. Rafferty excused herself to go to the kitchen to check on the food preparations. Mr. Rafferty led me to the living room to await the arrival of the other guests. He placed Eric’s ashes on the mantlepiece, presumably to give everyone a view of the guest of honor. We sat uncomfortably together on an antique couch while I tried to think of something to say.
    “It was a lovely service. I’m sure it was just what Eric would have wanted,” I managed. A fresh crying fit overcame Phil, and I looked around the room, hopelessly wishing someone would come and rescue me.
    Someone did. Madeline swooped in through the front door. “Oh, Phil. I am so sorry for your loss,” she said as she crossed the room and seated herself in an armchair near us. “This is a terrible day for you. Why don’t you go freshen up and splash some water on your face. I’ll make sure there’s hot coffee waiting for you when you get back.” Phil nodded, rose numbly from the couch, and plodded across the room to the staircase. Madeline turned to me. “Hi, I’m Madeline Rock.” She stretched her hand out to mine. “Call me Maddie.”
    “I’m Chloe Carter. Nice to meet you. Eric spoke very highly of you.”
    “So you and Eric were...?” she started.
    “Honestly, no. But I can’t seem to get anyone to understand that. I was on a blind date with him the night he died, but somehow everyone seems to think we were much more. His parents seemed so excited about the idea, I just haven’t had the heart to try to clear things up.”
    Madeline actually laughed. “Oh God, what a mess! And now you’ve been dragged to the funeral and all this? How ridiculous! I heard you were the one who found Eric. Not much of a first date, huh?”
    “I’ve had better. Today I thought I’d just stick it out and break it to Eric’s parents later if I have to,” I explained. “You own Magellan, right? Eric had been telling me about it and how he got hooked up with Tim.”
    “Right. But between you and me, Eric made such a pest of himself at Magellan, the only good thing about getting divorced from Tim was that he got Eric. Eric used to hang around all the time, bothering the chefs and giving unsolicited input. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he was irritating. Not mean or anything, just annoying. But I couldn’t exactly say that during the funeral service, could I?” Finally, someone who