"Mom!" Teddy screamed.

Marsha gasped and dove for the scarf as it slipped to the floor.

"Uh uh uh." The man coughed to cover his dismay.

"Um, um. This is Reverend Ballister. He's the chaplain here at the hospital. We thought it would be a good idea to have him here with us." Dr. Cohen only choked a little on the awkwardness and the public revelation: Old Cassie had done some restoration work and dyed her hair an awful color.

"Mrs. Sales. I'm so sorry," the reverend intoned again.

Marsha rearranged the sparkling evening scarf over Cassie's head and blue blazer as if she were a mannequin in a store window, while Cassie wished she'd gone over the banister and broken her neck.

"My husband is not a believer," she said to the minister with as much dignity as she could muster. Never mind that the appalling man had humiliated her. Never mind her ridiculous blond hair and black eyes. This was something Mitch would not tolerate. This God thing she had to nip in the bud.

"Perhaps you'd prefer a priest or a rabbi." This from Dr. Salim. "We have both nearby, practically on the premises," he said, eager to please.

"My husband is not a believer in any God," Cassie replied firmly. "He's not a religious man. He's against organized religion of any kind. He specifically doesn't want special prayers…" Her voice failed her. Her hands flew to her face. It occurred to her that Mitch really was dead, and that that was the reason they had all come together. The last family members brought to this room had lost their little girl. Mitch was gone. She stared at the four of them, her hands fluttering helplessly. She'd been waiting for him all these years, and now he'd left her for good. The future flashed dangerously in front of her. What would she and the children do? Teddy couldn't run a sophisticated business. He might be able to add, but he could barely dress himself. Marsha didn't care about money. She was in the helping profession. And Cassie herself didn't know a thing about the finances. Mitch had taught her how to stock a cellar and what to serve with what, but yelled at her if she sampled the merchandise or wrote a check.

"It doesn't matter if your husband is not a religious man. I'm here for you, for the family, to help you through this," the chaplain went on as if he hadn't heard her.

Luckily, Cassie didn't have a gun handy. She would have shot him on the spot.

"Is Daddy dead?" Teddy, still in shock over the yellow hair and stitches, was the one to blurt out the question.

Marsha elbowed him. "Shut up, Teddy."

"What's wrong with that? He's being audited. I need to know." Teddy was offended.

"Shut up, you idiot. Don't you have any sensitivity at all?"

"Fuck you, I'm not an idiot." Teddy balled up his fists for a fight.

"Go ahead, hit me," Marsha invited him softly, rolling her eyes at Wellfleet as if she'd known the neurologist all her life. She had a crazy brother, right? Wellfleet raised an eyebrow, responding to her attractions.

"Oh my God," Cassie murmured. Marsha was making a conquest on her father's deathbed.

"Now, now. Let's calm down and take a break," Dr. Cohen suggested. "Come on, kids, I know you're upset, but have a little respect." His voice was soft and tolerant. After all, he'd known the family for a long time and had children of his own.

"I have respect. She's calling me an idiot," Teddy muttered.

"Well, but think of your father," he said. Mitchell Sales had pledged several million to the hospital.

"I am thinking of him. I'm closer to him than they are."

"Idiot," Marsha spat out again.

"Well, I am," Teddy said. "I'm closer to him-I know him better than any of you. I bet you didn't even know he was being audited."

"Teddy, now is not the time for sibling rivalry." Dr. Cohen put a hand on his shoulder and moved him and the rest of the group down the hall into a conference room with a mahogany table and ten chairs. Cassie shivered as they took their places.

At this moment Cassie couldn't help remembering the intense pride Mitch had taken in all the family funerals. He'd arranged everything for the funerals of both her parents and his mother. Three beautiful affairs. She remembered that they'd served only white wine (when she'd always preferred red), a Côte de Beaune, Puligny-Montrachet, Grand Cru Vineyard Chevalier-Montrachet. She'd forgotten the vintage, it was so long ago. She hadn't had to make a single decision, or even go to the hospital to identify their remains before the bodies were cremated. Mitch had insisted on cremation. He'd taken care of everything.

And now she wondered how she was going to manage the kind of affair he'd want. Ever since the news that red wine was better for the heart than white came out a decade or so ago, red wine sales had absolutely soared. Maybe a Petrus Pomerol would be acceptable to him now. Or maybe she should serve both red and white. But which ones? Mitch's father was ninety-two and hadn't had all his marbles since 1966. Cassie hiccuped on her panic, holding back a sob.

"The good news is we've got him stabilized," Dr. Wellfleet began.

Teddy let out his breath in a whoosh. "Well, thank God!"

"Amen," echoed Dr. Ballister.

Alive? Stable? Cassie was further confused by the good news.

"We couldn't get any more time on the audit even if the old man croaked," Teddy explained, all smiles in his relief.

"Teddy!" Marsha cried.

"Well, he's had it postponed twice. They won't take any more postponements now," he said. "Ira Mandel is resigned to going ahead with it no matter what."

"I never heard anything about this." Now Cassie was confused. Why was Teddy harping on this? What did an audit have to do with anything? Mitch was alive. That meant no funeral. What else could possibly matter? Ira Mandel was Mitch's accountant. He also happened to be Teddy's boss. Nepotism was rampant everywhere.

"You never called me when you were in a damn car accident. It's obvious you don't love me as much as her." Teddy shook his head angrily. He was back on the car accident.

Cassie thought she was going nuts. Audit, stabilized. These words were not in her vocabulary.

Dr. Cohen glanced at Dr. Wellfleet. Wellfleet was lifting his eyebrows up and down at Marsha à la Groucho Marx. Cassie was shocked. They were connecting. Her daughter and the skinny neurologist. Dr. Cohen broke the silence.

"Let's stick with your father for a moment. He's in critical condition. It was touch and go for a while there, but we gave him TPA in the ER, and we've got him stabilized for the moment. Oh, and Dr. Salim is here on consultation. In case there's a need for emergency surgery."

"On what?" Cassie's head spun.

"TPA is the drug that halts brain damage after a stroke, Mom," Marsha translated softly for her mother. "Surgery would be for, like, bleeding, or a blood clot. It would be brain surgery, of course." Marsha put a protective hand on her mother's arm.

Dr. Wellfleet gave Marsha a melting smile for understanding the medical situation. "I'm afraid your husband had a stroke," he confirmed to Cassie.

"A stroke!" That was the one possibility that hadn't occurred to her. Life or death was all that had been on her mind. She swallowed hard. A stroke was a long-term kind of thing.

"Of course he's going to recover; he wouldn't want to miss his audit," Teddy quipped. He struck the pose of a madman with one eye closed and his right side drooping, hand crippled-his idea of his daddy as a stroke victim.

"Oh my God!" Marsha made a disgusted sound at the inappropriate, fifth-grade humor of her brother.

Teddy mouthed the word "bitch" at her.

Cassie was appalled. They seemed so heartless, without feeling of any kind. Suddenly it wasn't hard to understand why animals in the wild sometimes ate their young. "What's the prognosis?" she asked timorously. She had to focus on Mitch, poor Mitch struck down in his prime.