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calories he consumed from accumulating. He went home every day from the office at seven o’clock to stay sane. And he never touched alcohol or cigarettes. Those were the rules. He did, however, smoke cigars, about eight each week. And when he did, he always talked as many dupes as he could into joining him. Tonight Andy and Ian sat puffing away with him on the patio beside the pool. Harley was in the TV room playing video games with The Impresario.
    “So let’s talk about this funeral,” Mitch suggested, after exhaling smoke from one of his newly arrived Cubans, bought not-so-legally via the Internet. “When is Sam coming to LA for the lecture series?” he asked Andy.
    “Next week.”
    “But I’ll be in Cleveland next week,” Ian said.
    Mitch thought for a moment. “No, that’s too soon, anyway. I don’t think I could pull it all together by then.”
    “Please, Mitch, let’s not overdo it,” Ian said with a slight wince. “Just something simple. What about getting together at the end of the month?”
    “I’m in Amsterdam the last week,” Mitch said.
    “And whatever we do, we need to give Lilly some notice,” Andy reminded them. “Especially if she’s going to bring the whole family.”
    The complexity of gathering them all together at one time took the life out of the discussion. Andy savored the Swisher Sweet smoke in her mouth and waited to see what else the boys had to say on the subject of their father. When the discussion seemed on the verge of petering out, she decided to wade into the waters that had been troubling her.
    “Did Tilda really say nothing about how your dad died?” she asked Mitch.
    “Nope. I guess she thought we wouldn’t care how it happened. “
    “Well, do you?” Andy asked.
    Mitch shrugged. “Heart disease. Liver failure. Does it make a difference?”
    “Maybe not,” admitted Andy. “But I, for one, would like to know.”
    “Okay, point taken,” Mitch agreed.
    “And what about a will?” she asked. “Did he have one?”
    Mitch shrugged again. “Look, the woman’s a sorceress or something. She thinks his children are heathens, and all we care about is money.”
    “I don’t care that much about money,” Ian protested.
    “Right. You care about your art. But we all know that money is my drug of choice. So I sure as hell am not calling her to ask about a will,” he said. And then, as an afterthought, “Don’t we have to be notified if there’s a will?”
    Andy considered this. She’d never inherited anything or been involved in any probate and wasn’t sure. “I suppose,” she said. “But it would be foolish of us not to at least find out if he made a will, no matter what’s in it, don’t you think?”
    “I don’t know,” Mitch said. “Frankly, this whole thing makes me feel a little foolish. The guy’s my dad, but I only talked to him a couple of times a year. I’ve never met his wife, and I know nada about his health issues. Now I’m the one left holding a carton of his ashes. Makes you question your value as a son, you know.”
    Oh, let the guilt begin, Andy said to herself. How was it that Mark had walked out the door one day, never to return or place a phone call to any of his children, and they were the ones grappling with feeling guilty?
    “You’ve done more than anyone else to stay in touch with your dad, Mitch. You have no reason to feel bad about your relationship,” Andy said. “I thought he used to ask you about investment ideas.”
    “He did. Whenever I’d call. We haven’t talked that much since he got married this last time.”
    “But he had assets,” she said, more as a statement than a question. “Don’t you suppose he left you all something?”
    Ian laughed. “Hey, maybe I could use my inheritance to pay off the IRS.”
    “Maybe you could,” she said, trying to illustrate the importance of her question about a will.
    Mitch smiled. “Look, the man never gave any of us money when he was alive, and none of us expects