“Stop it with the singing,” She almost screamed, then was so surprised by her own volume that she hurriedly sipped too much of her hot cocoa. The old diner had been crowded for most of the morning so only a few people close by had heard her. For some reason this particular spirit, Margaret, had taken to singing and had barely shut up the entire three-hour trip up to the little town.
With no small effort, she forced herself to ignore the singing and the watching eyes of the sullen faced locals and focused all of her attention on the round, fifty-something, gray-haired gentleman sitting by himself in a corner booth. In one fluid movement, she rose from her table, took five swift steps, stood in front of the man, sang as loudly as she could, and then leaned forward to look him straight in the eye. “Margaret wants you to sing Amazing Grace at her funeral.”
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