I closed it again and carried it next door to Mrs. Delaney, whose grandsons were visiting for the weekend.
The first week after that felt strange.
Not peaceful exactly. More like the silence after a tornado warning when the sirens stop but everyone is still listening for broken glass.
Garrett called daily at first. Then every other day. Then only when some new practical crisis surfaced. Marissa switched tactics and sent long messages about family, misunderstanding, healing, legacy, and what James would have wanted. She underestimated how well I knew my own dead husband. James would have wanted civility, yes. He also would have told them to sell the SUV.
Toby called once from a parking garage because his card had been declined at a gas pump and he didn’t know what to do. I told him to go inside and use his debit card like everybody else. He hung up on me.
Rebecca kept texting.
Not intrusive. Not manipulative. Just small, human things.
Did you eat lunch?
Can I bring soup after work?
The azaleas near my building are finally blooming.
I found that pie server Grandpa used to sharpen with a butter knife.
She reminded me that not every thread in a family has to be cut just because some of them are rotten.
Two weeks in, Lorine came over with a travel catalog and a grin.
“We’re still doing the Blue Ridge trip next month,” she said. “And before you tell me no, remember you are suddenly no longer financing a small republic.”
I laughed.
We sat on the porch with coffee and flipped through pages showing mountain inns, little downtowns with antique stores, scenic drives, and half-day tours designed for women who liked decent mattresses and not too many stairs. When we were done with that catalog, she pulled out another one.
Italy.
I touched the photograph of a stone street in Florence without meaning to.
James had always wanted to take me to Italy. His grandfather had come over from there as a boy, and James used to say that one day he would stand in a piazza, drink terrible espresso because tourists always overpay, and tell me stories he half remembered from his father. We had planned to go in retirement.
Then his knees got bad.
Then his heart.
Then there was no more “one day.”
“You should go,” Lorine said.
I smiled sadly.
“At my age?”
“At your age especially.”
She took a sip of coffee.