“What are we having for dinner?” I ask, stepping into the drawing room.

Melissa, my maid, stands near the tall mahogany cabinet by the fireplace where my late husband’s urn is sitting.

My eyes briefly settle on the urn.

Jonathan always hated being ignored.

Funny. Now he has no choice.

Melissa looks as if she’s paying her respects to her former master, but the moment my voice echoes through the room, she turns around with a quick, practiced smile.

No tears. No mourning.

“Pasta,” she says, her gravelly voice dropping on the last syllable. “Italian standard.”

I roll my eyes.

She loves tagging countries to her cooking, a pathetic little...