Caro looked at me with her kind, dark eyes and gave a sad smile, and that was it. The tears came hard and fast, and I cried in gulping sobs that made the other folks in the café look at me, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

Caro put her arm around me, and we sat there for a long, long time, and a thought came to me. I didn’t have a great husband, and maybe I never had.

But I sure had a wonderful friend.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sadie

I got a dog. I needed a dog, for several reasons: company, of course; and snuggles; protection from murderers, since I didn’t live close enough to anyone and my screams would go unnoticed during said murder; and to run for help if my house fell in on top of me, as it seemed intent on doing.

Stoningham’s animal shelter had only three doggies—a wee little purse dog, who, though tempting, would not protect me (not very well, anyway) should a serial killer come knocking. Then there was a wheezing, balding sheepdog who was blind and deaf but also spoken for (God bless that person). And finally, Pepper.

Pepper was a mutt of House Mutt, proud descendant of mutts. Shepherd-bloodhound-rottweiler-something-something else, we’d never know. She was reddish-brown with some black markings, about thirty pounds and growing, and when I came to her little kennel, she wagged her tail so hard she fell down. Her ears were silky soft, and the top of her snout was velvety and plush. If she wasn’t going to defend me, at least I’d have a sweet, wagging pup as the last thing I saw as I slipped this mortal coil.

Her talents seemed to be licking people and pouncing on leaves. And cuddling. She was great at cuddling. Also, barking at such threats as wind, rain, the coffeepot and my cowboy boots.

I’d had her a week and now couldn’t imagine life without her. I talked to her a lot—“Do you think this bucket is big enough to catch the leaks?” I’d ask, or “Should I have fish for dinner, or popcorn?”

The truth was, I was lonelier than I’d anticipated. The temporary loss of my dad made me realize how much and how often we talked and texted. Sometimes, it was just silly things—a photo of that grimy Elmo in Times Square, or a pigeon sitting on the shoulder of a sleeping man in Central Park. Sometimes it was an article . . . I’d send him links to writing workshops, hoping he’d still give it a shot, or events that he might want to come down for. He’d send me cartoons or make Dad jokes, teasing me for not drinking more, saying I was sullying his legacy.

Sometimes he’d just call me to say he loved me and was thinking of me and wondering what I was looking at.