“I was checking to see if you were still obsessively Googling Michael.” She rolled her eyes.
“Well, I’m glad you’re both so confident about my chances, but no. We won’t be picking out casket lining tonight.” He gave me a look that warned we would be talking about this later. “I wanted to discuss a party.”
“A party?” I began uncertainly. “Right now?”
He nodded. “Yes. A party. Before I go in for the high dose chemotherapy. I wanted to discuss it with the two of you because we only have six days. The idea didn’t occur to me earlier, otherwise I would have started planning sooner.”
“Oh. Well, what do you need us to do?” I asked, looking to Emma. I hoped she wasn’t mad at me for my outburst of snitchery.
“I don’t want it to be an insanely large gathering. Twenty to thirty people, at most.” He sat back as one of the kitchen staff slid a plate onto the table in front of him. Emma and I did the same, murmuring our thanks. Neil continued, “Emma, you know most of my friends. I’d like to put you in charge of the guest list. Go over it with your mother, to make sure I haven’t left anyone out.”
Emma’s eyes flicked to me.
“I don’t know many of Neil’s friends,” I said with a shrug. “This will be a good opportunity to get to know them, though.”
“And, of course, go over the guest list with Sophie, as well, so she’ll handle that sort of thing in the future, I assume,” Neil added, not meeting my gaze. He knew he’d done it again. This time, I could forgive him, since at least there was a practical reason behind it. “But in the meantime, darling, I’d like you to work with the kitchen on the food. Our staff has the number of a very good caterer.”
“That’s not fair,” Emma piped up. “That’s the bulk of the work, and you’re dumping it on poor Sophie. Why? Because it’s kitchen related and therefore a woman’s work?”
“I’m dumping it on Sophie because she was once assistant to the most notoriously picky boss in New York City,” he said dryly.
“He’s talking about Gabriella, not himself,” I quipped.
“And I know she can handle it,” he finished. “I’m not sure I like the two of you getting along, by the way. I feel rather ganged up on.”
“Well, tough. I like her.” Emma frowned and lifted a piece of dehydrated green from her plate. “Kale chips instead of fries? Dad, even I am not this vegan.”
Neil caught my eye, and his pleased smile warmed me all over. He’d told me before that it didn’t matter to him if his daughter didn’t like me. I’d known it was bullshit even back when we were casually dating; his daughter was the most important person in his life, and he wanted desperately for her to think well of me and vice versa.
“So,” he began cautiously. “What is all this funeral nonsense you wanted to talk about?”
“Well, it does strike me as a bit odd that you haven’t mentioned your wishes on the subject,” Emma said, swallowing a bite of burger. “Unless you’ve spoken about it with Sophie. And I’m fine with that, really, I would just like to know what will happen to you, should you die from all this.”
“All this kale?” he quipped.
“She’s got a point, baby,” I said quietly. “You haven’t told me what your wishes are. Do you have a burial plot? Do you want to be buried here? Do you want to be cremated? Or have a Viking funeral or something?”
“I think a Viking funeral qualifies as cremation,” Emma said with a snort.
“I left instructions with Alan,” Neil said, dodging two subjects at once.
My face grew hot, and I swallowed down my anger. “And these instructions... I assume you spoke about them with Alan and Valerie at the same time you were discussing the will?”
He didn’t answer.
I nodded. “Ah.”
Emma’s gaze flicked back and forth between the two of us like she was a bomb technician trying to decide whether to cut the blue wire or make a run for minimum safe distance. I could have sworn she was sweating.
I considered my options. I could scream at him. I could storm off. But I was really hungry and the burger smelled good. And I’d done enough of the embarrassing confrontations over Emma’s mother with Emma present. Those weren’t fun.
“I understand. This is a difficult subject to talk about,” I said, reaching over and putting my hand on his knee beneath the table. “How about I make it a little easier. You either tell me what these funerary plans entail, or you buy me a plane ticket and I go back to New York tonight.”
He took a breath. “Sophie—”
“I’m mad. I’ll be less mad if you just tell me about the damn arrangements.”