Shelly said, “Do you think Betsy will like it here in Excelsior? This is kind of a quiet place.”

“Excelsior has plenty of things going on.” People who lived in the small town were gratefully aware of its charms and Margot was among those who worked hard to preserve them. “Anyway, I have a feeling that she was looking for a refuge. Though, of course, how she’ll like actually living in one we’ll have to see.”

Margot began pulling out the extra row. She had carved a safe niche in this small Minnesota town and stayed there content even after her husband died three years earlier.

Now Betsy was seeking a place to be safe in for a while. Apparently she had lost that zest for adventure, perhaps even grown a little afraid. Margot hoped she could give her sister what she needed. She picked up her knitting and began binding off.

Betsy wasn’t scared, not really, just ... nervous. It was one thing to be twenty-five and newly divorced, and not own a home or have a job with medical insurance or a retirement account whose deposits are matched by your employer. It’s quite another to be fifty-five and be once again in that same boat.

Betsy wasn’t averse to adventure. Crossing the mountains alone in an old car had brought moments that sent the blood rushing along with its old verve.

On the other hand, she’d spent her one night in Las Vegas at the Fremont Street light-and-sound show and having a drink in a beautiful old bar, followed by a phone call to her sister and then turning in early.

When she saw an exit sign pointing to the Grand Canyon, she did give a moment’s thought to giving the Japanese tourists a thrill by throwing herself off the rim. But she didn’t. In her experience such low thoughts, if not yielded to, tended to be brief and followed by something more interesting.

Later, crossing Iowa, Betsy remembered reading somewhere that while men are scared of birthdays ending in zero, women are frightened by birthdays ending in five. Certainly Betsy was. Fifty-five is no longer young, even when considered while you were in good spirits. Fifty-five can see old age rushing toward it like a mighty tree axed at the root. All too soon it would be crash: sixty! And if she reached retirement age with no savings to speak of, she might live out the last years of her life in one small room, fighting off the roaches for her supper of canned cat food.

But Betsy had also read somewhere that there were good jobs going begging in the upper Midwest, and she had her sister who had kindly offered to put her up until she got her feet under her again. Okay, so her sister lived in a small town; that small town was near the Twin Cities. That meant two newspapers, two job markets, right next door to one another. Twice the number of chances to start over.