CHAPTER 8
"Jamie, do you remember La Nappe Mauve?"
I was back at work and Jeff Rappaport, a former client, was sitting across from me at the conference table asking hard questions.
I stared at him blankly. "Sorry, but I don't. Isn't that French for the purple tablecloth?" I couldn't imagine why we were discussing purple tablecloths. My strange morning was now trending into afternoon.
"Maybe this will refresh your memory," he said, pushing a folded document into my hands.
I recognized it immediately. "This is the will I prepared for your father ten years ago. Does that mean…?"
He nodded, a flicker of sorrow in his eyes. "Dad passed away in January, he was ninety-two. He'd been living with us for the past few years. You know, when someone is a part of your life for so long it's hard to
