The sprawling, six-bedroom colonial gasped for breath, its atmosphere thick with the cloying, aggressively sweet perfume of Casablanca lilies. These blooms filled massive crystal vases across the mahogany dining table, the kitchen island, and the entryway console. However, they were not for my father, Arthur, whose lungs failed in a sterile hospice room ten miles off. They were solely for the ‘Spring Soiree’ my wife, Eleanor, insisted on hosting just three days after his terminal diagnosis was delivered.
Eleanor, you opted for a vacation instead of Arthur’s funeral; now, this house is traded for your hotel key.
