“And this is what five pounds of muscle looks like.” Now the model was a trim coil about the size of Marissa’s upper arm. “See the difference? Sleek, and compact—this is what a regular aerobic workout can do for you. Turn this fat into this muscle.”

Marissa knew a sales pitch when she heard one and wasn’t surprised when Pinny drew up a plan that included three months of intensive training. The price tag was over two thousand dollars and even though she was totally motivated, she balked at the idea of that kind of investment. Heather couldn’t possibly afford that either.

“Can’t we join up and have someone show us what the machines do and propose a basic, safe workout?”

Pinny looked quite crestfallen but Marissa resisted the urge to make her feel better by getting out a credit card. She wanted to be more healthy—why did she feel like she was buying a used car?

“We do have basic enrollment but your results won’t be all they could be.”

“Could you show us those figures? And prices for training on an as-needed basis?”

“Sure.” Her smile greatly dimmed, Pinny reached for a different binder. Sounding more like Eeyore than Tigger, she added, “It’s our most popular plan.”

Heather bounced her way to her car after they’d paid their initial fee. “Thank you so much for going with me! I’d have never asked to be shown something else for prices but no way could I afford all those lessons. I’d have made some excuse and left without intending to go back. Thank you so much. You are just the best boss ever!”

Startled by the quick hug that accompanied Heather’s bouncing, Marissa let herself laugh. “If you hadn’t been there I’d have done the same thing. But we’re motivated and ready to go. So tomorrow bring a gym bag, baggy sweats and a ripped T-shirt and we’ll go after work.”

“I am totally with you. No primping for the gym. Not for at least the first twenty-five pounds!”

Marissa opted for the grocery store instead of the drive-thru and ended up having a low-fat frozen dinner. She sorted her laundry while it microwaved and discovered, with a rush of nostalgic tears, that she had Linda’s T-shirt, the pale green one with the dog dressed in snorkeling gear. She would look forward to the chance to return it. Meanwhile . . . she wouldn’t put it under her pillow or anything like that. At least not until after she’d washed it.

The lean dinner was somewhat satisfying but she only had so much willpower, however, and so chased it with two scoops of her favorite Phish Food frozen yogurt. She enjoyed every bite of her treat and didn’t think—at least not often—that it would have all tasted better if there’d been a message from Linda.

Dear Linda:

Real life arrived and it feels weird. I can still feel the sun and you. I miss you and I wish I were there or you were here.