The bartender poured the martini, tipped in olives with a custom B—for Brandon Butler—toothpick. “I’m not allowed to comment or remark on the service,” she said while shaking her head no.

“Can I tip you?” Ayanna asked. There was no jar on the table, and if they were already not allowed to comment on the funeral, it felt worth asking.

“That’s kind, but I’m getting paid very well.” She slid the drinks gently toward them. “Cheers.”

Closer to the art display, Ayanna and Jane read the informational placards that had been put up. All the work had been done by famous artists and were part of Stephen’s dad’s private collection. The roses were a prize-winning hybrid he had helped fund to be even darker than the black baccara. There was more art spread around the grounds, both inspired by the Butler family, and also to show off some of the more remarkable pieces of the collection.

“Do you think,” Jane whispered, “this is meant to be just a part of the memorial service, or do you think this is supposed to get people hyped for an auction?”

“Both.” Ayanna took a sip of her martini. “This is the first vodka martini I’ve ever liked.”

“Rich-person vodka is no joke. Baby, I love you so much that I’m turning down rich-person vodka,” Jane said. Then she looked at Ayanna. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop talking to the baby now. I know it’s weird.”

They followed the path set up. There were different stations offering water, the signature drinks, and snacks, and showing off more and more art. One area had actors performing award-winning poems from a press that Mr. Butler had funded for fifteen years before it became too much of a money sink for him to endure. A statue that was supposed to be of Stephen’s mom but looked mostly like hunks of marble with a fantastic juicy butt. There was a portrait of Stephen that captured how hazel his eyes could look under the right light, his skin darker than usual, probably from a summer spent hiking, and in the background his father holding a black umbrella and drinking a martini. The light made his white-blond hair look almost like it was aflame, the black sunglasses he was wearing made his skin look almost as pale as the hair.

“Stephen should take that photo to his therapist,” Ayanna said. “I think it would explain a lot.”

Jane kept studying it. “I feel like if Stephen had showed this to us, we would’ve understood exactly how weird his life has been.” They had not yet seen Felix or Stephen. Felix had come early to take a long walk with Stephen and keep him from drinking too much before the funeral.