The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(8)

“You were an asshole,” she muttered, her face still to the wall. “What you did was just completely inexcusable.”

The telephone outside the door finally gave up. She heard soft steps out on the stairs. She sighed. They had paid her airfare; there were limits to what she could get away with. But today was out of the question. And that telephone was their business.

Someone knocked again at the door. This time it sounded different. They knocked again. “Hello.” A female voice. The woman called her name and knocked one more time, gently but insistently.

Ilka rose from the bed. She shook her hair and slipped it behind her ears and smoothed her T-shirt. She walked over and opened the door. She couldn’t hide her startled expression at the sight of a woman dressed in gray, her hair covered by a veil of the same color. Her broad, demure skirt reached below the knees. Her eyes seemed far too big for her small face and delicate features.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Sister Eileen O’Connor, and you have a meeting in ten minutes.”

The woman was already about to turn and walk back down the steps, when Ilka finally got hold of herself. “I have a meeting?”

“Yes, the business is yours now.” Ilka heard patience as well as suppressed annoyance in the nun’s voice. “Artie has left for the day and has informed me that you have taken over.”

“My business?” Ilka ran her hand through her hair. A bad habit of hers, when she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

“You did read the papers Artie left for you? It’s my understanding that you signed them, so you’re surely aware of what you have inherited.”

“I signed to say I’m his daughter,” Ilka said. More than anything, she just wanted to close the door and make everything go away.

“If you had read what was written,” the sister said, a bit sharply, “you would know that your father has left the business to you. And by your signature, you have acknowledged your identity and therefore your inheritance.”

Ilka was speechless. While she gawked, the sister added, “The Norton family lost their grandmother last night. It wasn’t unexpected, but several of them are taking it hard. I’ve made coffee for four.” She stared at Ilka’s T-shirt and bare legs. “And it’s our custom to receive relatives in attire that is a bit more respectful.”

A tiny smile played on her narrow lips, so fleeting that Ilka was in doubt as to whether it had actually appeared. “I can’t talk to a family that just lost someone,” she protested. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve never—I’m sorry, you have to talk to them.”

Sister Eileen stood for a moment before speaking. “Unfortunately, I can’t. I don’t have the authority to perform such duties. I do the office work, open mail, and laminate the photos of the deceased onto death notices for relatives to use as bookmarks. But you will do fine. Your father was always good at such conversations. All you have to do is allow the family to talk. Listen and find out what’s important to them; that’s the most vital thing for people who come to us. And these people have a contract for a prepaid ceremony. The contract explains everything they have paid for. Mrs. Norton has been making funeral payments her whole life, so everything should be smooth sailing.”

The nun walked soundlessly down the stairs. Ilka stood in the doorway, staring at where she had vanished. Had she seriously inherited a funeral home? In the US? How had her life taken such an unexpected turn? What the hell had her father been thinking?

She pulled herself together. She had seven minutes before the Nortons arrived. “Respectful” attire, the sister had said. Did she even have something like that in her suitcase? She hadn’t opened it yet.

But she couldn’t do this. They couldn’t make her talk to total strangers who had just lost a relative. Then she remembered she hadn’t known the undertaker who helped her when Erik died either. But he had been a salvation to her. A person who had taken care of everything in a professional manner and arranged things precisely as she believed her husband would have wanted. The funeral home, the flowers—yellow tulips. The hymns. It was also the undertaker who had said she would regret it if she didn’t hire an organist to play during the funeral. Because even though it might seem odd, the mere sound of it helped relieve the somber atmosphere. She had chosen the cheapest coffin, as the undertaker had suggested, seeing that Erik had wanted to be cremated. Many minor decisions had been made for her; that had been an enormous relief. And the funeral had gone exactly the way she’d wanted. Plus, the undertaker had helped reserve a room at the restaurant where they gathered after the ceremony. But those types of details were apparently already taken care of here. It seemed all she had to do was meet with them. She walked over to her suitcase.

Ilka dumped everything out onto the bed and pulled a light blouse and dark pants out of the pile. Along with her toiletry bag and underwear. Halfway down the stairs, she remembered she needed shoes. She went back up again. All she had was sneakers.



The family was three adult children—a daughter and two sons—and a grandchild. The two men seemed essentially composed, while the woman and the boy were crying. The woman’s face was stiff and pale, as if every ounce of blood had drained out of her. Her young son stared down at his hands, looking withdrawn and gloomy.

“Our mother paid for everything in advance,” one son said when Ilka walked in. They sat in the arrangement room’s comfortable armchairs, around a heavy mahogany table. Dusty paintings in elegant gilded frames hung from the dark green walls. Ilka guessed the paintings were inspired by Lake Michigan. She had no idea what to do with the grieving family, nor what was expected of her.