THE FUNERAL PLANNER

Chapter One: Reflections of a Failed but Still Determined Entrepreneur

Chapter 1

The closet is dark all right.

Claustrophobic-dark. Suffocating-dark. And, well...casket-dark.

I plunge through racks of limp, hanging clothes, riffling for one particular outfit, wondering why all closets symbol­ize darkness.

Doesn't the very word itself—closet—connote a sense of obscurity, a feeling of entrapment, or a space for conceal­ment? And furthermore, why don't closets have automatic lights? Closets with instant lighting would completely do away with their negative connotations. Think about it.

If you grew up with closets that blasted light every time you opened them, you might have a completely different association. One related to openness, illumination and optimism. On that note I ponder, why can't caskets have power-generated lights inside so the dead don't have to feel so alone in the dark? Okay, so they're dead, they might not know the difference, but still...it might make their after­life adventure less intimidating if they could see, metaphor­ically speaking, where they were going. It's not such a far-fetched notion. I've heard stories of family members placing battery-powered cell phones inside the caskets of their loved ones. So why not internally-lit caskets for eter­nity?

Theories on darkness and light free fall in my mind as I stand solo in the narrow closet of my one-bedroom apart­ment in Los Angeles, unable to prepare for a task that I must prepare for: packing appropriate clothes to wear for a funeral in the dead of winter in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

I scan my phone's list of free apps looking for one that might give me clues on what to wear and where to get it but apps that start with the word fashion intimidate me and I quickly let the phone fall to the floor. 

I lift a wrinkled black linen skirt off a hanger and place it against my five-foot-three-inch frame. I stare at myself in the mirror. "Madison Banks, what are you doing? Linen in win­ter? Highly impractical." I lower the skirt and face myself in mismatched underwear and bra that have both seen better days. I'm still in great shape. Lissome and toned, with dark brown hair and eyes, and oh, yes...a brain that never stops.

The whole experience of packing is one big déjà vu. It was only one year ago to the day that my cousin, Smitty, passed away. And now on my dresser sit two yahrzeit candles; both purchased last night at a local grocery store.

You're probably wondering, what's a yahrzeit candle? Wax and wick minijars that represent a Jewish custom for hon­oring the dead. The immediate family of the deceased lights one Y-candle on the anniversary of a loved one's death and recites a prayer called kaddish. The candle burns for twenty-four hours in memory of the departed.

Granted, I am not a member of Smitty's immediate family, but Smitty left a mark on me, and though I'm not a prac­ticing religious Jew, I do have a great affinity for ritual.

Every day of every summer when I was a kid I went sail­ing on Clark Lake with my Uncle Sam. I'd sail the Sunfish to shore, place a daisy in the bow, and thank it out loud for bringing us safely home. Rituals are what give me a sense of stability. They're the only thing.

So when the one-year anniversary of Smitty's date of death faithfully appeared on my computer calendar, I bought a Y-candle for him. The reason I bought two candles? Well, one was for Smitty. One was an afterthought. I had never pur­chased a Yahrzeit candle before and was surprised to discover how incredibly inexpensive they are. I never expected to re­ceive another call with the same message of death: last year my cousin Smitty; this year my former classmate and friend, Tara Pintock. I couldn't help but admonish myself for buy­ing two candles. What if I hadn't? Would Tara still be alive? I knew it was a silly thought. But still...what if?

I glance at the Y-candles, blanching at the thought of picking up the phone on this very day next year, fearful an unwanted pattern may have begun. Neither Smitty nor Tara was supposed to have died. Smitty was a vibrant forty-two-year-old artist whose oil paintings were getting recognized in major museums. And Tara—Tara was only thirty-one years old, with a whole life ahead of her. A freak strike of lightning got Smitty. A faulty inhaler for an asthma attack took Tara. I fume with anger. Even more so because Tara had just taken the painful and liberating step of leaving her father's multimillion-dollar business in mortgage-lending to pursue her true life's passion: music.

My knees wobble at the thought of reliving the funeral scene all over again in the same cold winter, at the same fu­neral home, on the same Sunday, at the same time, only with a different cast of characters. Last year, the ensemble was comprised of family; this year it would surely include my fellow graduates from U of M's Entrepreneurial Studies Pro­gram, whom I hadn't seen in over nine years. Never mind running into people you really don't care to see at this stage of your perennially budding career, but ugh, the very thought of attending a funeral, let alone sitting through one of those interminably long, canned eulogies that rarely do justice to the deceased.

I am beginning to realize that I have no clue how to cope with death. It is full of...grief! And that is one department I have little if no experience in. Yet, it's a natural part of the life cycle. So how come in junior high or college, they don't have courses on how to deal with it? How was algebra, home economics, biology or entrepreneurial studies supposed to help me deal with bereavement?

I stop the outfit search and stand quietly among the hang­ing layers of dated pantsuits, sundresses, shirts and Dockers jeans. I feel numb. I know the feeling is temporary and that in due time it will fade to make way for the grief that is in­evitable, but I wish it would linger forever.

Loss of any kind is something I prefer to avoid. Of course, loss is part of growth, which is part of change, and that is something I fully embrace—or at least try to...I think.

I sink to the bottom of my closet. Branches of loose fab­ric drape around me, forming a jungle of uninhabited human parts. I'm thirty-one, like Tara. I live alone in L.A., far from family. And I haven't had a lucky break career-wise in a really long time. I know deep in my soul that I was born an entrepreneur. Even before I knew the definition of the word entrepreneur—an individual who can rapidly identify an op­portunity and act upon it—I knew who I was. Someone who's willing to take risks through experimentation, willing to learn by trial, willing to fail by error, and then start all over again. You have to be tenacious, unwilling to accept "no," and capable of discovering and connecting dots others miss. And that's what I do all the time: connect the dots between the most unlikely marriages of elements and then pursue them—relentlessly.

I grind my teeth as I sift through the dated textiles, brush­ing aside any hangers that drip with color. "Orange will never do. Where's that black wool top and matching skirt?" I ask aloud. But it's too dark in the closet. I redirect the reading light attached to the bed frame toward the innards of the closet, where I continue to search like a surgeon seeking the right nerve ending to cut. Okay, so it had been a while since I purchased new clothes. Money to buy...well, anything, had not been an option for, okay...years. But what was more im­portant, a wardrobe or honoring investors? I can do with­out. The trouble is that I have been doing without for so long that I no longer know how to do with. What a novel concept that is, I think. Doing with. I look forward to that day. All I have to do is create one successful business and I will be "there," I think.

My wardrobe smells musty, laden with cedar and stale air. I find the black wool skirt and matching top. Would it be so horrible to do a wardrobe repeat? Not that I have choices. I check to make sure no moths have bored holes in the fabric then pack it in the black Tumi suitcase that Uncle Sam gave me for college graduation.

Uncle Sam is my best friend and the only one in my whole family who knows anything about business. He used to own a small fishing-lure company because fishing is his passion. As a kid, he carved a fishing lure from a fallen tree branch, caught a bass and started a company. He hired his younger brother, Charlie, my dad, at the age of five to paint the lures for him.

If you talk to Uncle Sam, he'll tell you that by the 1940s quality fishing lures had become an American art form, the quality of the craftsmanship began to diminish once plastics came on to the market. He developed his own brand of baits known as Banks Baits with the slogan "Baits you can bank on." Banks Baits produced ten thousand lures a day. Eventu­ally, he sold the company and retired at the age of fifty.

Uncle Sam says, "Fishing is like living. It requires patience and persistence. The joy of the journey over the joy of a catch." He often reminds me, "Do the right thing in all of your affairs, conduct yourself in business as you would with family and friends, because it makes no sense to have differ­ent codes to live by for different facets of life." When I ask for examples, he follows our family's teaching traditions with a story.

"It was during the war," he begins, "before American manufacturing was exported to Third World countries— which has depleted America of its pride, but that's another story, Maddy. Now where was I? Oh, yes. I would drive to a tiny remote village in the upper peninsula of Michigan to buy caseloads of handcrafted ice-fishing lures. One day, I asked a Potawatimi Indian named Fisherman Joe, 'How much for a caseload of lures?' And Fisherman Joe said, 'Thirty-five dollars.' That didn't sound right to me. So I turned to him and I said, 'Why, Fisherman Joe, don't you know there's a war going on? I'll give you fifty dollars per caseload and three dol­lars for shipping.'"

I proudly relayed that story to a visiting professor of busi­ness marketing, who told me that Uncle Sam had been an idiot. An idiot? For not taking advantage of the ignorance of others? Incensed, I dropped out of the class, swapping it for a course in ethics but not before telling the greedy professor-meister that he was in dire need of a humanity injection.

 Maybe my business ethics are one reason why I'm still playing the results? I chose to put my career first and then focus on a relationship that would include marriage and children. The only problem is, nine years out of college I am still trying to put my professional life in order.

I finish packing my suitcase, a sore reminder of my exo­dus from Ann Arbor to L.A.—where I intended to create my own American dream...one day.

"Maddy...you there?" shouts a thick male voice from be­hind the front door.

I glance at my watch—one of those bare-all watches where the Lucite encasement reveals the naked ticks and tocks of its internal mechanisms. I wear no other kind. I like to know how things work.

"Coming!" I call out. I zip up the suitcase and dash through the narrow hallway to open the door for my sort-of current boyfriend.

I've been hanging out with Seth Wickham, a twenty-six-year-old, extremely good-looking, out-of-work stuntman, for four months, during which time I've realized I can't fully commit to him. Yes, he is amazing in bed. But I've learned that aside from incredible endurance in the bedroom, stunt­men tend to enjoy putting themselves in harm's way, whether they're on the job or not.

I open the door. Seth takes me in his tattooed arms and kisses me. That part is lovely. Too lovely. I feel myself getting lost in him, lost in the comfort. And I fear that too much comfort will compromise me.

He halts the kiss and throws me a wink. "How ya doing, Bulston?"

Bulston is one of his nicknames for me because he thinks I possess looks and manners reminiscent of Sandra Bullock, Jennifer Aniston, Drew Barrymore and Reese Witherspoon.

His monikers range from Anilock and Bulston to Withermore and Barryspoon. At the moment, he's in a Bulston mood.

I scrunch my face and look at him. "It's Banks. Madison Banks."

"When you do that serious and funny thing at the same time...turns me on." He grins.

Before I know it, he's kissing me again. All thoughts pleas­antly evaporate until his voice lulls me back to the present.

"Like my new tattoo?" He lifts his shirt in one sweeping motion, displaying a back laced with intricate designs.

"It's stunning, Seth. Incredibly artistic." What else can I say except that all those tattoos, as beautiful as they are, will pro­hibit him from ever being buried in a Jewish cemetery. If he was Jewish, that is.

His eyes glint with lust and he dives in for a French kiss. When it comes to Seth, I find myself overly preoccupied with sex, which distracts me from my professional goals, which delays me from accomplishing my personal goals.

"Where are your bags?" he asks.

"In the bedroom," I reply, softly rubbing the base of my neck where he unwittingly grasped a thick mound of locks.

Seth saunters into the bedroom and picks up the suitcase. "That's it?"

I nod, then glance at a week's worth of Financial Street Journals stacked in the corner. "Oh, and the FSJs. Can't forget those."

"You pack light," he says, grabbing the papers with his free hand.

"Actually, I pack efficiently. I don't like to take anything I don't have use for." As I utter these words, I can see a cer­tain metaphorical truth with regard to Seth and me, and know that somehow, sometime soon, I will need to do some­thing about it.

* * *

The long stretch of road on the way to the airport is void of other vehicles. Seth turns to me with a wily smile. "How about a three-sixty?"

"I prefer not." I quiver.

He offers a salacious grin, then swiftly jams his foot against the brakes of his Jeep Wrangler. He dramatically twists the wheel like a conductor orchestrating a sudden flourish of symphonic sounds. I find myself jammed against the pas­senger door, my heart thumping. The car swerves and weaves in a circle, then pulls out of a fishtail and veers into a straight arrow. We rock back into place.

Seth grins at me. I smile back, trying to be a good sport, realizing that impromptu three-sixties are not something I wish to include in my repertoire of experiences.

"Did you like that?" He smiles.

"Not particularly. I just established a corporation, regis­tered the URL for a new Web site and finalized a PowerPoint and a Prezi presentation. I'd like to stick around to finish what I started."

"Wow. Busy Barryspoon. Is that that Artist Showcase you've been working on?"

"Artists International," I reply. "I'm about to shop it to in­vestors. I've got professional artists and designers lined up to have their bios videotaped with a licensing plan in place to capitalize on cross-promotional applications. I just have to be the first to bring it to market."

"How the hell do you do...all that?" he asks, dubiously lifting a brow.

My voice elevates in pitch as it always does when I get ex­cited. "I secure financing. I stabilize strategic partnerships with globally recognized museums. I get the media jazzed about it so they'll write articles. I create an online catalogue for curators to download artist bios for prospective clients. I design a companion convention for art dealers with sponsors—who've given me verbal commitments. Oh, and I in­clude a new emerging market called Outsider Art. It's raw, unaffected, unsophisticated and people are paying millions for it."

"Yeah, but how does this thing make money?" asks Seth.

"I license private collections of major art and design mu­seums around the world to advertisers. Museums love it be­cause the extra income helps them stay afloat. I want to do it with anime, comic-book art and video-game art, too. Any­way, it's all in the business plan that I gave to Jonny Bright."

"Who's that?"

"A venture capitalist." I pause, feeling my brow furrow. "What's that face for, Withermore?"

"I should've had him sign an NDA. Last time I shared my idea with venture capitalists and strategic partners, someone leaked it to Derek Rogers."

"Derek Rogers? The dude who burned you in college?" asks Seth.

I nod. It still gives me a bad feeling. Forgiveness is not my strong suit. And when you consider that Seth and I have only known each other for four months and he already knows the history of an incident that occurred ten years ago, well, it's pretty obvious that I haven't let that one go.

Seth cocks his head toward me. "Can I ask you something? How can you even think about business when you're off to a funeral?"

"Simple. If I don't, I'll fall apart." Then, to keep the pain at bay, I force a smile, adding, "Though I am getting to be pretty good at interment these days. Black dress on hand, there's nothing to it."

We reach the airport departure terminal. Seth parks curbside and handles my bags for me. He leans in for another kiss when I remember the envelope and hand it to him. "I to­tally forgot. Could you please pop this in the mail for me? It's for Ryanna in South Africa. I promised her a sample busi­ness plan as a template for the business she wants to start."

"Who's Ryanna?" he asks, taking the envelope from me.

"She's in my e-chapter of Start-up Entrepreneurs."

"You're always doing that—helping other people, then getting taken advantage of or getting ripped off. Why do you do that?"

"I...I don't know how not to," I say, never having thought of it like that before.

"That's why I dig you." He slips me a deep-throated kiss, then probes, "So...can I borrow some money?"

I freeze. How can he ask me that when he knows I don't have it to give? Besides, he stills owes me seven hundred and fifty for his trip to Portland to visit his six-year-old son. I can give him anything else...like my apartment or my en­tire library of books on corporate marketing, demographic trends and strategies on how to generate income. But ac­tual cash dollars—I don't have those to give. And anyway, it's a line I can't cross. Since I have less experience in rela­tionships than in failed business ventures, I proceed in the following fashion.

"You know, Seth. I really like you and you are the most amazing kisser. But this, uh, merger that's in development is turning into a high-risk position and it's affecting my bot­tom line. Actually, I don't have a bottom line anymore be­cause I went under it a long time ago. What I mean is, the proof of concept just isn't there right now because—well, because there are too many essential barriers to entry and I think that the value proposition has been, well, exhausted, and, uh..."

Seth interrupts. "Whoa. Can you pull back the reins and say that in English?"

I have to really think about it for a minute. "I propose we table the merger until our financial positions stabilize." It's the best I can do.

"So...you want to say goodbye."

"No. I did not say that word. Please, don't say...that word. I'd rather we just say, 'see ya later,' and see what happens. How's that?"

"Cool," he says. He pauses to squeeze my hand. "See ya later, Maddy." Then he throws me a wink loaded with goodbye.

On the escalator toward security I take a deep breath, hold­ing back my tears—unborn tears that represent the loss of Smitty, Tara, past failures, disappointments and now Seth. Even though I knew I had to do it, it didn't lessen the hurt any.

I board the plane for Detroit only to get immobilized in the aisle, waist-to-face with a gentleman in first class. I rec­ognize him: the iconic singer-songwriter Maurice LeSarde*, whose melodic music and happy lyrics I worshipped as a kid. Uncle Sam introduced me to his music when I was six. It turned out that Tara was a huge fan, too. It was in fact LeSarde's songs that bonded Tara and me together as friends. 

This must be a sign from Tara, I think, a message of some sort. He sits quietly next to me, his face inches from my waist. Not knowing what else to say, I whisper, "Are you Maurice LeSarde?"

He whispers back, "Yes, I am."

"I'm such a big fan of yours!" I say like a silly starstruck child. "I kept your signed photo on my wall all through ju­nior high, and high school...and college...and, well, it's still up on my office wall, in the corner of my, uh, kitchen."

"Why, thank you," he says. There's a humble smile on his face.

"So, um, what will you be doing in Detroit?" I ask, timid­ity taking over.

"I've got a concert there."

"You're performing? Wow. You haven't given a concert in twenty years."

He looks at me, my fandom clearly validated now. "Well, it's a twenty-year anniversary."

"Then it's at the Fisher Theater."

"That's right." He nods. His interest seems to pique.

"That's a great concert venue." The bottleneck in the aisle breaks up. I move forward, guided by a herd of travelers be­hind me. "Well, um, see ya later, Mr. LeSarde," I say.

Once seated, I compose a letter to Mr. LeSarde and in­clude $4.46 which I figure I owe him for unlawfully licens­ing his music at the age of six to put on a roller-skating show in the basement for which I had charged admission tickets. That was my very first business. The product was "enter­tainment," which I created and advertised by going door to door in the neighborhood and guaranteeing proceeds for a neighborhood compost site. All in all, I proudly produced two performances and raised $476, enough to build a compost bin behind the local grocery store. 

I include a few suggestions for restaurants for Mr. LeSarde to go to while in the Detroit area, namely MON JIN LAU in Troy for its Asian fusion food and hip ambiance, then neatly fold the note up and ask a stewardess to give it to him. Okay, well, that took approximately twenty minutes, which now leaves me with the rest of the plane ride—an unwanted three hours and forty minutes to think about Tara and Smitty, the only two people I have ever known who died. I don't like the feeling at all. I intensely dislike goodbyes.

I flash back to memories of Smitty and my schoolgirl crush on the divine older cousin who played drums and sketched pictures of naked people in cool shades of charcoal.

I think of Tara, recalling late-night study sessions where we created our own language called e-o-nay, which consisted of dropping the first consonant of each word. Our attempt to speak e-o-nay was a surefire way to provoke laughter. Tara was fun. She found humor in everything and had an uncanny ability to lighten any given moment with her infectious smile. She was driven to succeed, like the rest of us. And upon graduation, she entered the family's mortgage-lending business.

But a year ago, Tara summoned the courage to pursue her real dream of becoming a lyricist. When she was in school she used to make up songs in class or at the library, inspired by just about everything, even the tabloids. Her songs often made us laugh, and sometimes made us cry.

Tara had, like so many of us, replaced her desires with those of her father...for a while. How many of us do that? How many of us abandon our instincts and passions to ac­quiesce to another's vision for us, one that fits into their over­all plans? Tara's father had reacted badly to her decision, yet how lucky was Tara to have the courage to do something about it before she died. It's an achievement most of us never make, I think, as I gaze out the window into the celestial mid­night sky.

I had promised to visit her last year, but my business ven­ture went bust, leaving my checkbook empty again. Why hadn't I visited? So what if I had accumulated debt—I could have seen Tara one more time. My thoughts fill with regret, so I quickly focus again on business.

I pull out my reading materials: Business Week, Entrepreneur and the Financial Street Journal. I start with the FSJ, my business bible. I zero in on the front-page article and gasp. The article details the successful launch of a new com­pany called Palette Enterprises, specializing in digital bios of artists for the worldwide fine-art connoisseur and novices offline and online. The company is targeting Outsider Art and has deals with art museums for corporate branded licensing. Palette has taken the lead in this marketplace by affiliating with a consortium of galleries and producing a sponsor-driven annual convention catering to art connoisseurs. The sponsors and museums are identical to the ones I approached, none of whom mentioned a conflict of interest to me.

I am shocked. My current dreams swiftly shatter. It's near-perfect plagiarism of my business plan. To make matters worse, it's spearheaded by "entrepreneur on the rise" Derek Rogers, with quotes for annual profits expected to be in the hundreds of millions.

I shake my head in denial. Tears stream down my cheeks. "I don't believe it." Grief, from every source, converges upon me, finding its outlet in this moment. Had my idea been leaked, or were all good ideas simply in the ethers waiting to be plucked and implemented by the person who commit­ted to it the fastest.

In Baggage Claim, I watch stuffed luggage hypnotically thump and bump along the moving catwalk.

Maurice LeSarde taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, Madison Banks. I loved your note," he says with a warm smile.

I barely manage a grin. "Really? I'm glad." Even a one-on-one conversation with Maurice LeSarde does little to lift my spirits.

"But I can't possibly keep your money. I'm really flattered. I'd like to offer you a pair of tickets to my concert in De­troit tonight."

"That's really nice of you, but you don't have to do that."

"I want to," he replies. He turns to a young woman nearby. "Hey, Dawn, give Ms. Madison Banks here two tickets for tonight."

Dawn manages to smile and hand me two tickets while coordinating logistics on a cell phone. "I don't see the chauffeur yet," she says into the phone, "and Mr. LeSarde wants to make sure his room is ready for an early check-in..."

I stare at the tickets, truly touched. "Thanks so much. There's really nothing more I'd like to do, but I'm afraid I have to de­cline on account of a funeral and other family commitments."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Well, take them anyway. Just in case. If you don't use them, take my business card and con­sider it a rain check." He hands me his card with his personal e-mail address on it. "And thanks for being such a loyal fan."

"You're welcome."

Dawn interrupts. "I see our chauffeur now, Mr. LeSarde." He nods."G'bye." They turn and head toward the exit. "See ya later," I say to the space left behind, slipping his card in my back pocket.

I drive a rental car through light snowfall and arrive at a large brownstone church. In an attempt to be inconspicu­ous, I don a pair of large dark sunglasses because I'm here for Tara, not to run into anyone I know, especially my col­lege ethics professor, Mr. Osaka, who thought I showed the most promise of anyone in class. The last thing I want is to see any of them and have to tell the truth—that I'm a loser.

Inside it feels cold and looks plain. A few floral arrange­ments dot the sides of the aisle upon entry. Mourners coat the pews, creating a sea of black breathing fabrics.

I find a lone seat in the front, off to the side. A shiny ma­hogany casket displays Tara lying peacefully inside. Except that Tara's hair is all wrong. Her trademark bangs are swept off to the side revealing a bare forehead. Didn't anyone look at a picture of her, for God's sake? Tara loved her shaggy bangs. Reality sets in. Shit, she's dead. She's really dead.

"We gather here today for the death of Tara Pintock," bel­lows the minister. "Death comes to all, but such an untimely death as this one brings cause for unrequited redemption of the soul to heaven."

I later cringe at his performance of a canned eulogy. Squirming in my seat, I roll my eyes. Not once does he talk about Tara's hopes and aspirations. He never mentions her gift for songwriting or her insane ability to see the good in everything and everyone. I become more and more agitated. This is an injustice; I fume inside my head, wondering where Tara's parents are and how they can allow this to happen. Maybe grief has crippled them and they are simply not capable.

The minister flares his cape, preaching, "It is not just the memory of Tara we rejoice in today, but the power of grist in heaven and hell as a sacred religious symbol!"

I sweat with irritation and impatience. This is a travesty. I can't take it anymore. As the minister's about to wrap it up, I raise my hand to interrupt as politely as I can. "Excuse me, sir. I'm Madison Banks, and Tara was one of my best friends in school. Would it be okay if I added a few simple words?"

Stumped, he glances at an impeccably well-dressed man sitting in front of him. The man must be Tara's father—but how could anyone possibly deny a person the opportunity to express their grief? The man's nod to the minister is quickly transferred to me.

Standing behind the podium I remove my sunglasses to face the chapel of mourners. "Thank you. I would, uh, just like to add a few memories about Tara." I feel myself choke up. I pause to take stock and abort my tears. "Tara," I begin again, "was not only a loyal friend but a person who made every day shine. Her sense of humor was con­tagious. And she had the ability to forgive and move on. She loved words, and to merge phrases of cultures she vis­ited into her everyday lexicon. When she returned from London all we heard for months was 'Blimey' this and 'blimey' that!"

Mourners laugh. Obviously the description revitalizes their memory of Tara.

"Tara was always making up songs. Remember the ones she wrote for our class? There was "IPO marries ROI," "The Adoption Rate Prayer Song" or "Oh, Lord, Please Grant Me a Front Bowling Pin Client." Classmates smile and chuckle. I sing the chorus and then turn to Tara in the casket. "Remember that one, Tara?" But only silence follows. I face the mourners again. "Her songs made the top of the chart on the university radio station. And she was a fierce ad­vocate of justice, helping students obtain health insurance at fair and equitable rates. She even wrote a song and distrib­uted it through the Internet. It worked like a charm—the students got the insurance. She flourished in everything she touched and I have no doubt that given just a little more time to execute her action plan, her path to profitability and per­sonal accomplishment as a lyricist would have exceeded even her expectations. Tara was a great, trustworthy friend, and a proud daughter, who loved every moment."

I stare at the casket and, unable to say goodbye, simply whisper, "See ya later, Tara." Someone claps, then stops. Si­lence follows as I nervously return to my seat.

Tara's father, renowned Arthur Pintock who runs the world's largest international mortgage-lending business, stands up. He clears his throat. "Thank you, Madison. Thank you for honoring the life of my daughter." He nods at the minister and sits back down, squeezing his wife's hand in an act of solidarity.

The minister faces the crowd. "Thank you all for sup­porting the Pintock family in this time of need. Do re­member to sign the guest book on your way to the reception line. God bless."

Now that I've blown my cover, I duck through the crowd for a fast exit. But suddenly, Sharon, from my leadership de­velopment class, blocks me on my left. I squeeze to the right, but Marcus from my ethics and corporate governance class appears along with Lani, president of the Venture Cap­ital Club.

"Maddy! You look amazing! How are you doing?" asks Sharon.

"Did you write that speech?" asks Marcus. "It was beau­tiful."

Lani adds, "I'm sorry to see you here on this occasion, but you must tell us what you're up to and what kind of busi­ness you're in."

"Oh, um, well, I'm in L.A. and it's going great," I say, dodg­ing the questions.

My ethics professor appears, smiling at me. "Madison Banks."

"Professor Osaka. How are you?"

"Great. I forgot you were in Los Angeles. That's perfect." "It is?"

"Yes. I'm a visiting professor at UCLA. How would you like to do some mentoring for me? I've got some students who could really use your kind of influence. They can in­tern for you. You'll enjoy it. I'll send you the info."

Before I can utter a word, Osaka shakes my hand. No won­der he had a Guinness-like world record for deal closing— it was done before you knew what hit you. But how would he contact me without having my business card? Of course, at that moment, I wasn't thinking about the guest registry I had signed or Osaka's superb research methodologies. Clasp­ing my hand, he does note a lack of jewelry. "What? No ring? A catch like you?"

"I'm practicing risk management. Besides, you're the one who taught me never to merge without the right value proposition," I quickly reply.

An unmistakable voice, sardonic tone and all, pipes in, "Nice way to get to the dad, Mad."

I turn to face my archenemy, the handsome, pretentiously charismatic Derek Rogers, as he cuts in to the reception line. I'm shocked he would be here. But of course he would— any opportunity to climb a corporate ladder and Derek Rogers is there. He would stop at nothing to find his suc­cess and do whatever it would take. The Tower of Babel had nothing on Derek Rogers. I'm mortified by the comment, remembering now why I lost respect for young, ambitious men, all because of Derek Rogers. But before I can counterpunch, he moves past me into the reception line to pay his respects to Arthur Pintock. I have no doubt that Derek Rogers will use this moment to insidiously work his way into Arthur's professional life, no doubt at all.

Outside, I'm about to climb into my rental car when I hear the familiar, soft, sweet voice of Sierra D'Asanti, a beautiful Polynesian mulatto girl and old flame from my first year of entrepreneurial studies. I turn to face her. She's beautiful and appears wiser and more mature than when we last saw each other seven years ago.

"Hey, Maddy...what you said about Tara was beautiful," says Sierra. "You made her memory a gift and we all needed it." She pauses, about to say something more but stops herself.

 "Thanks," I reply. "You don't think I was out of line?" "You're never out of line. You're Maddy."

"Guess I should take that as a compliment."

"Yes, you should."

"I'm going to miss her."

"I know...me, too." Sierra offers a hug.

I hug back for the loss of Tara's innocent life and for the grief I know I have yet to face. We break apart and she looks at me.

"I don't know what you're up to these days, but if you ever need my services, here's my card," she says, handing one over. "I've got a digital production studio and Web designing firm. You look...great, Maddy." She pauses, and then turns and leaves.

I watch the beautiful Sierra walk off, her colorful scarf floating in a whipping wind as it trails behind her. I remem­ber how tumultuous our relationship was and how Tara was always there to lighten our load. Tara, Tara, Tara. I realize that I am going to miss Tara more than I could possibly have known from my small dark closet in the heart of L.A.

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BEHIND THE CHAPTER:

This chapter is brought to you by Legacy.com, where lives live on. Legacy.com is a fascinating site, a hub for online obits and interesting stories and facts about people's lives and the human experience.  The narrative art form of the obit has become increasingly popular over the last twenty years and is now one of the most coveted beats at newspapers.

Tara Pintock's Obituary

Tara Pintock (31) loved to make others feel good, tell jokes, make up songs, and lift everyone's spirits... Now her own spirit lifts above the crowd due to unfortunate complications with asthma.  As VP of Mortgage Lending at Pintock International and with a suma cum laude MBA from the University of Michigan, Tara was primed to rise to the top and one day succeed the company's founder. But her undergraduate degree in Music & Theatre got under her skin as she recently joined an improv group to put her comedic talents and penchant for writing lyrics on stage. Indeed, some of her best lyrics and funky tunes became renown anthems of the MBA program when she sang them during a volunteering stint at Michigan Arts Radio. He's Got Black Dye Under his Fingernails and Sunflowers in the Rain became overnight hits that went viral.  She liked to practice contrarian habits such as wearing yellow on overcast days.  She adored her parents, Grace and Arthur, and exemplified the epitome of trust.  She also knit tight knots of loyalty laced with humor among her best friends Maddy Banks and Sierra D'Asanti—known on campus as The Trilogy.  She is survived by her parents, Arthur and Grace Pintock, and by colleagues and friends who can and will never forget the girl with the Sunflower. Alas, this Tara Pintock is most noted as the beloved best friend character of Maddy Banks in the trilogy of comedy novels The Funeral Planner by Lynn Isenberg.

So... the plane ride scene was inspired by real life events only the real life Maurice LeSarde was the real life Burt Bacharach. I really did meet him in a bottleneck on a plane traveling back to Michigan for my father's funeral.  And he did invite me to his concert and later thanked me immensely for the amazing restaurant I recommended which his entire entourage went to after his concert. Mon Jin Lau, is an award winning restaurant to this day at monjinlau.com.  

If you're wondering what inspired this novel--it began with my father's funeral where I felt compelled to write and deliver his eulogy.  A year later to the day (after buying a second Yahrzeit candle), my brother died. At his funeral, singer-comedienne-actress Sandra Bernhard sang acapello and in that moment everything changed. We were no longer mourning his death but celebrating his life. My college roommate turned to me and said, "Gee, I'm sorry I didn't bring my boys so they could see that a funeral doesn't have to be so sad."  Those events and that comment became the kernel of inspiration for this novel. 

Be sure to check out the other titles in the series at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Sony, Scribd, etc: The Funeral Planner Goes to Washington and The Funeral Planner Goes Global.  And if you're interested in pre-orders on my new non-fiction book visit Author Power: Profit Before You Publish at AuthorPowerPlus.com or LynnIsenberg.com.

Note: This edition is in part supported by Maddy Banks' endorsements of related brands per the story.  Please consider thanking them by visiting their sites, sending a tweet #funeralplanner, or buying things you need from them and voting/liking/hearting. 

**To plan ahead for an end of life celebration or if you know someone who needs one now, visit DignityMemorial.com.  **To send flowers to a friend, mom, grandparent, boyfriend, etc., visit 1800Flowers.com and use promocode "FUNERALPLANNER" and save 10% (it works for any ocassion, restrictions may apply).

**Lastly, TFP inspired the real life business of Lights Out Enterprises and The Tribute Network (more on those later). It also inspired a Digital Series on Amazon—featuring singer-musician Joss Stone who does a great job as Eve Gardner. Marisa Ramirez is hot as Sierra D'Asanti. And there's a cameo from Cynthia Gibb of Fame. We learned a lot from the experience to apply to the film/TV series in development with the director of Miss Congeniality and How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. NOTE: In the pilot script I wrote for Lifetime, the funeral scene continues with Maddy getting the entire congregation of mourners to sing Tara's favorite song: "I am the Walrus... goo-goo-jaboo..." In the new pitch version with the director, we changed the song to "Muskrat Susie, Muskrat Sam... do the jitterbug down in muskrat land... and they shimmy... Sammy's so skinny..." We also changed the cause of Tara's death. Tara dies instead from a rock climbing accident. (which do you prefer?)

We hope you enjoyed this chapter of The Funeral Planner!  To read the latest episodes about Maddy, Eve and Sierra and their entrepreneurial adventures The Funeral Planner Trilogy is available online at the usual suspects (Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Sony).  Also check out LynnIsenberg.com for more information.