Now, with him gone, even the simple joys of life were lost to her. Magazines she’d once loved depressed her. She detested those emaciated waifs called models, so thin, they’d blow off the page in a strong wind. Still, though it sickened her even to inhale the aroma of fast food, or to gorge herself at Millie’s, she could not stop.

This is it.

If Terry were alive, perhaps he’d have been an inspiration to cut back. Even though it never seemed to be a big deal to him, he always told her to mind her weight, which she had failed to do to the tune of thirty new pounds since his passing. Several reassuring friends convinced her that she suffered from an addiction, like an alcohol or drug problem. She appreciated their opinions because addiction meant disease, and disease meant her weight problem was not entirely her fault. But her plunges into Weight Watchers and Overeaters Anonymous were utter failures, as was the drawer of half-empty pill bottles from various TV infomercials.

And blaming her condition on bad genetics was like blaming her parents, whom she loved, and who weren’t even alive to defend themselves. Making matters even worse, John Meacham, that sorry excuse for a doctor, had blown his top over her failure to lose weight. People who once were supportive and sympathetic to her now eyed her with contempt. She had actually gotten several notes—anonymous, of course, and simply left in her mailbox—blaming her for his death.

If you could have kept to your diet, those people would still have their lives, one had actually written.

She simply could not stand being overweight another day.

Liposuction was clearly the answer. Roberta had arrived at this decision after extensive research and before the insurance company arrived at theirs. By the time her request was denied by them, she wanted liposuction more than she wanted air. But fighting Terry’s illness had taken all their savings, and the price tag of twelve to twenty thousand dollars was more than she could handle. She could sell all her figurines and still cover only a fraction of the cost. Then what? Sell all her furniture, too? Take out a third mortgage on the house?

Fortunately, there was another way.

She could quite literally cut out the fat without incurring any of the expense. She had found the answer on the Internet during her hours of research. Terry would have been so proud of her resourcefulness. He would never have approved of such an expenditure.

Never.

But free was a different story.

Roberta returned to the kitchen and the checklist she had meticulously put together. She then covered a portion of the linoleum floor with a faded bedsheet. She was not feeling the least bit nervous. The commitment to alter her life in dramatic fashion had replaced any fear and trepidation with euphoric waves of adrenaline.