Chapter 67

The kitchen counter is covered with platters wrapped in cellophane. Three contracts have come in this week. I keep saying, “Are you sure you want to come fishing, Muller?” Judy tells me there’s one week free. “It’s meant to be, Daddy,” she says, and then shows me a brochure she made on the computer. It’s full of floral arrangements. “What do you think?”

“Is this for Florence and Al?” I say.

“No, Daddy,” she says. “Muller and I are expanding. Every time someone calls about I function, I ask if they need flowers. People call florists right after they call the caterers. Uncle Al told me that.”

“Very clever.”

“Look,” she says. “Different flowers for each country.”

“She’s doing tulips for a Dutch job next week,” Mary says.

“That’s great, sweetheart,” I say. “I’m very proud of you. Now Daddy wants to take a long bath with my head underwater.”

“What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Your father’s been moping around all week,” Mary says. “He thinks he’s wasting away.”

“You can help Muller make papas bravas.”

“No thanks, sweetie.”

“They’re good,” Muller says.

“I could teach you to arrange flowers,” Judy says.

“One flower arranger in the family’s enough.”

“Margot says Daddy’s jealous of everyone’s success,” Mary says.

“That’s not what I said.”

“What about those singing vases of Al’s? Florence says he’s going to make a killing. Maybe that could be your raison d’être.”

“Is that like a vision quest?” Judy says.

“No, sweetie, it’s not like a vision quest.”

“We know a shaman, Sam,” Muller says.

“That’s nice. Shaman’s are good to have around.”

“Want his number?”

“You keep his number?”

“I got it somewhere.”

“Why not?”

He can’t be any worse than Krupsky.