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have a special name for me.) He thinks I’m sexy and he obviously can’t wait to get inside my panties. Hallelujah!
    And while I mentally thank Mr. Handel for his chorus, I find myself being gently led to the waiting limousine with Adam’s hand guiding my trembling (lust-induced) elbow.
     
    The service is very moving. The church is packed, and I hope that as many people come to my memorial service. I am sitting right at the front of the church because Adam, as the new Director of Advertising, is sitting at the front. And he insisted that I sit with him. I have, after all, just lost my boss of two years and am therefore practically a family member.
    As we sit on the pew, mere feet away from Johnny’s (thankfully sealed) coffin, I am breathlessly aware of Adam’s proximity as his thigh brushes frequently against mine, and as his arm brushes frequently against my breast. This is very bad of me. I should not be thinking lustful thoughts while sitting in the House of God. And this is, after all, a funeral. I glance around to take my mind off Adam.
    Babette Cray, the newlywed widow, is beautiful in the shortest, lowest-cut black number I’ve ever seen at a funeral, and is weeping copiously (but prettily) into her handkerchief. As her blonde hair falls over her bowed face, the handsome man by her side puts his arm around her shoulder to hold her up. She can barely stand, poor thing, she is so overwhelmed by grief.
    It’s so sad. To lose one’s husband on one’s honeymoon must be such a devastating blow. To have found true love, even if it is with an octogenarian nearly sixty years your senior, and then to have it snatched away, poof, just like that, before the ink is dry on the marriage certificate.
    I wonder what it’s like, having sex with a man old enough to be your grandfather? I imagine both my dearly departed grandfathers and can’t help but shudder at the thought of either of them having sex with a woman younger than me. But still, poor Babette is visibly crushed.
    There must have been more to Johnny that met the eye, because he was certainly no oil painting.
    I am quite overcome by emotion and feel my eyes fill with tears. And then Adam pushes a crisp linen handkerchief into my hand.
    “Thank you,” I whisper. Then add, “It’s just so sad. Mrs. Cray is so beautiful. So brave. So alone.”
    “And so rich,” Adam whispers back, which I think is a little callous of him. “Emmeline Beaufort Taylor, you are so sentimental. The grieving widow has a luxury apartment overlooking Central Park, plus five million dollars. That’s enough to ease anyone’s pain, don’t you think?”
    Oh. That’s a lot of money. I can’t even imagine what five million dollars looks like, never mind actually having it. The cynical part of me thinks (only briefly, because having bitchy thoughts in the House of God is also not good) that Babette got a very good deal, after being a wife for only a day.
    But, I remind myself, I like Babette Cray very much and refuse to have horrible, gold-digger thoughts about her. On the few occasions we met when she and Johnny were dating, she was very nice to me—not at all snooty or condescending to the hired help. And she also took great care of Johnny—several times she came to the office to bring his heart medication when he’d left it at home. What a shame he forgot to take it before his wedding night.
    “Good old Johnny might have been a little off the wall,” Adam says, “but he was no fool. She’s more likely weeping because the prenuptial agreement is so watertight her lawyer can’t find any cracks. You see the slick guy with her? That’s her lawyer.”
    “No. Really?”
    “Thank God he didn’t leave her any shares in the company. That would have been a disaster.”
    I wonder, briefly, at Adam’s display of cynicism, but remember that he recently had his heart broken. That’s why he’s bitter. But I will help him overcome…
    After the service, Babette is the first to exit the