Today he wasn’t just driving past. Jess had called him to do a job. John owned his own business in Durango—McElroy Property Services—which included home maintenance and repairs, landscaping and a very fine nursery, and Jess wanted to know if now—early March—was too early to plant a flowering plum tree. Though his business had incidentally or accidentally become successful, he still considered himself a handyman and lawn maintenance person. He could not only bring her a flowering plum, but also change the faucet on the sink, hang wallpaper, install a hot tub, pour a cement patio. Or have one of his employees do it.

“No, it’s not too early,” he had said. “Not as long as you’re willing to protect it from a possible late freeze and pay the price of having some poor slob try to dig into the hard ground.”

“Only if that poor slob is you,” she cheerfully replied. “I really have my heart set on seeing those blossoms outside my bedroom window this spring.” And then she had sighed. John had never before heard a wistful sound from Jess. Sentimentality was not in her repertoire.

Jess Wainscott was sixty and had been widowed for eight years. At fifty-two, a ripe age for a woman of sound health and strong looks, she had lost her mate, but not her vitality. Jess chaired both the Friends of the Library board of directors and the Women’s Council of the First Presbyterian Church. Additionally, she served on many committees and worked for several charitable causes. She could be found at almost every art fair, fund-raiser, ball game, black-tie dinner or barbecue in town. And she skied, which was where John saw her most often, because he was on the volunteer ski patrol.

“Cal told me if he came back after death he’d be a hummingbird and suck the nectar out of the blossoms outside my bedroom window,” she told John. John grunted as he hauled the can holding the plum tree from the back of his pickup. He let it drop with a bang. “I have to get something planted and see if he was putting me on.”

“You’ve been widowed quite a few years, Jess,” John pointed out. She was the fourth and newest member of a group of vivacious women who referred to themselves as the widows’ brigade. They were best friends, seen together all over town, and John did handiwork for all of them. Peg, Abby, Kate and Jess. He had many clients, not all widows, but these four women were his favorites. They all overpaid him, pestered him, tried to feed him like a son.

“Eight years,” she said. “I tend to procrastinate,” she laughed. “Until now, I didn’t want his interference.”

The cars lining the driveway indicated that Jess had company. “Meeting of the brigade?” he asked.