Christ, it was hell growing old…older, she reminded herself. She wasn’t yet fifty and she knew a lot of women who were over sixty and looked fabulous, though they had to work at it.

“Ugh.” She eyed her figure again and told herself to buck up. She was told over and over how beautiful she was, how great she looked, and so far no one had dared tacked on the “for your age” line that diminished the compliment.

She threw a cover-up over her body, though there was no reason. The maid had left long ago, the gardener wasn’t scheduled for a few more days, Leland was out of town again wooing some big client in Palm Springs.

Hurrying down the marble stairs, she cut through the sunroom and out to the yard, where Dirk was barking loudly at the neighbor’s Chihuahuas, who were yipping from the other side of the hedge and fence. “Enough,” Shana said and dragged Dirk into the house. She stuffed him into the laundry room and closed the door.

She just needed some time alone, without the aggravation of Leland’s dog giving her a headache. These days she spent more time with the damned animal than she did her husband.

She eyed the refrigerator and thought of the chocolate mousse pie within. It was a ritual she allowed herself. Each week she bought a different decadent dessert and left it calling to her on the third shelf of the refrigerator. She allowed herself one bite of pure heaven, then left the rest to slowly dehydrate and turn dark. Lemon meringue or key lime pie, coconut or Boston cream or fudge cake or eclairs. They all rented space on the glass shelf at eye level, then were evicted on the next Saturday night.

Her ritual of self-deprivation and control.

Today she wouldn’t even bother opening the door but hurried back outside and crossed the patio to the pool. It was twilight, the pool light glowing at the far end, the aquamarine water smooth and welcoming.

She dropped her cover-up and kicked off her flip-flops near the edge of the pool. Descending the mosaic tiled steps, she slid into the warm water and relaxed as it surrounded her calves, then her hips, and finally embraced her waist.

Vaguely aware that those nasty little Chihuahuas had quit their incessant yapping, she began her nightly ritual, her second workout today, with even strokes. Freestyle to the far end, breaststroke back, sidestroke for two laps. That was one set. She’d do five sets and then, only then, would she allow herself a drink. For next to the white box containing the chocolate mousse was a pitcher of martinis, already made and chilling.

It was another test of her willpower, waiting until after her exercise regimen before allowing herself a tall drink with exactly three olives. She’d suck the pimento out of each. God, Jennifer had loved martinis.