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narrow worldview. There wasn’t much room in it for sisters who liked girls or who hired dates. Not that it was any of her business.
    “I just go out. Have a good time. That’s all. I’m not dating anyone regularly enough to bring him around the family, that’s all. If I ever do, you’ll be the first to know.”

    Probably the easiest way to figure out if you’re doing something you shouldn’t is if you can tell your family about it. There was no question about me telling my family anything about my dates. Hell, I’d never even told my closest friends. I wasn’t sure they’d understand the appeal. The satisfaction of it. No worries. No hassles. Nothing to lose.
    “Boyfriends take a lot of work, Hannah.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Try having a husband.”
    “I don’t want one of those, either.”
    “Of course you don’t.”
    I couldn’t win for trying. Her sniff told me what she thought of that—it might be fine for her to complain about her spouse, but for me to say I didn’t want one was like saying she was wrong to be married.
    “I like my life.”
    “Of course you do. Your life,” she said like an insult. “Your simple, personal, single life.”
    We stared each other down. After another long moment in which we battled with our eyes, she let hers go pointedly to my neck. I kept myself from touching the small bruise I knew Sam had left.
    Much unspoken hung between us in the way it does with families. Hannah changed the subject finally and I let her, relieved to be past the awkwardness. By the time we parted, the regular balance of our sisterhood had almost been restored.
    I say almost because the conversation clung to me for the rest of the day. It left a sour taste on my tongue. It made me clumsy and forgetful, too, refusing to be put aside even though I had a meeting.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Stewart?” I folded my hands on top of the desk my father had used, and his father before him. At my left, I had a pad of lined paper. At my right, a pen. For now I kept my hands folded between them.
    “It’s about my father.”
    I nodded, waiting.
    Dan Stewart had regular features and sandy hair. He wore a suit and tie too nice for the meeting, and probably was what he wore to work. It was too nice for an office job, which meant he was either a corporate bigwig or an attorney.
    “He’s had another stroke. He’s…dying.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.” I might not believe in a chorus of heavenly hosts, but I understood grief.
    Mr. Stewart nodded. “Thanks.”
    Sometimes they needed prompting, those who sat across from me, but after a second Mr.
    Stewart spoke again.
    “My mom doesn’t want to deal with it. She’s convinced he’s going to pull through again.”
    “But you want to prepare?” I kept my hands folded, not picking up the pen.
    “Yeah. My dad, he was always the sort of guy who knew what he wanted. My mom…”
    Stewart laughed and shrugged. “She does what my dad wants. I’m afraid that if this isn’t prepared in advance, he’s going to die and she’ll have no clue what to do. It will be a real mess.”
    “Did you want to begin the planning now, yourself?” It could be awkward, planning a service without the spouse.
    He shook his head. “I just want to get started. Thought I’d take some stuff home, talk about options with my mom. Talk to my brother. I just want…” He paused, his voice dipping low for a moment and I understood this was for him more than anyone else. “I just want to be prepared.”
    I slid open my file drawer and pulled out the standard preplanning packet. I’d revised it myself, one of my first tasks when I’d taken over. Printed on ivory paper and tucked inside a demure navy blue folder, the packet contained checklists, suggestions and options designed to make the process as easy as possible on the mourners.
    “I understand, Mr. Stewart. Being prepared can be quite a comfort.”
    His smile transformed his face from plain to stunning in seconds.