Nothing for several seconds, then she looked at him. “I’m okay,” she said, failing at an attempted smile. “I don’t want to come back and do this again. Let’s finish it now.”

Quinn held her eyes for a moment, still unsure.

“Sweetheart, I’m fine. I’m just glad you’re here to help me.”

They had talked caskets and hymns and Bible passages and who would deliver a eulogy.

“I’d like both you and Liz to say something,” she’d told him.

He had been caught off guard by the request. Speak at his father’s funeral? What would he say that didn’t sound insincere or made up? It would be much better if his sister was the only speaker. He started to say as much, but the look in his mother’s eyes stopped him.

“Of course. If that’s what you want.”

And now here he was, slowly making his way to the podium, a piece of paper with some random scribbled notes in his pocket, but really having no idea what he was going to say.

“Just think of your mother,” Orlando had told him a few hours earlier as they were getting ready.

“I’ve been doing nothing but thinking of her.”

“You’ve been doing nothing but worrying about her, and, even more than that, worrying about screwing up in front of her.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re thinking too much,” she’d said, then kissed him on the cheek. “You’ll know what to say when the time comes.”

He’d pulled her into his arms and held on tight, needing the energy she was feeding him. So naturally, just as some of his tension was starting to ease, his phone had rung.

“Who is it?” Orlando had asked.

“David Wills.”

“Don’t answer it.”

He frowned. “You know I have to.”

Wills was a client who worked out of London. A week before Quinn’s father had died, he had put Quinn on standby for an upcoming project. With very few exceptions, if Quinn agreed to do a project, he’d do it.