TWELVE
Frank hated doing anything he himself had not arranged. This, however, was a little different.
Sarah’s mother had come to Spain as soon as she heard the news, taking over all the arrangements for the funeral. What remained of the body they laid in an ornate coffin, with brass fittings, ivory laminate sides and padded purple interior. Sarah was to be buried, not cremated, her mother insisted, not wishing to mock the horrific manner of her death by a repeat process, no matter what anyone else said or thought. Her daughter Sarah deserved some respect at least.
Frank sat beside her in the car following the hearse, grateful for all she had done. Since she’d arrived, barely a half dozen words had passed between them. He wondered what he would do now, without Sarah there, to smile and l
