He’s incredibly fit for a man his age, although he’s barrel-chested and thick-necked, and has the breathless look of someone who could suffer a heart attack at any moment, especially in the heated vinyasa classes he attends. Hot yoga in the desert? Sherri is perpetually amazed that that’s really a thing.

“Still fretting about what to wear in Siberia?”

“Stop calling it that.” She yanks out a satiny pink dress with a bow at the neck and holds it against her torso.

“No,” Bayard says. “Too Melania.”

“It’s awful, I know. Nothing’s right.”

He pauses, stands behind her, sets his hands on her shoulders and smells her hair. “You’re scared to go back there, aren’t you? You’re scared of all those people.”

“I’m not scared.” She says this quickly—too quickly. She’s terrified, and he knows it. “I just want to look my best.”

“You always do.” He moans with pain—he’s wearing his Slendertone belt, which zaps his abs with an occasional electric jolt—kisses her on the forehead, and disappears. A few seconds later she hears him shout “Found ’em!” with delight in his voice, followed by the chime of the security system indicating that the front door has opened and closed. Finally, she hears the hum of his Audi sliding into the quiet desert streets. She is grateful for Bayard, and as she gets older and experiences the loss of friends, she grows increasingly grateful for days when the worst thing that happens is misplaced gym shorts.

Sherri’s gaze drifts over to Nell’s dresses. She eyes a tasteful white Alexander McQueen A-line with cap sleeves and tiny ruffles near the hem. She slips it off the hanger and discovers that the tags from Bergdorf Goodman are still attached. Nell paid fifteen hundred dollars for this thing? It was like pulling teeth to get her to donate half as much to the museum’s annual campaign. Bayard said she wouldn’t even put dill in her famous potato salad because she thought it cost too much.

She slips it on. It fits, although it feels stiff. She stands in front of the mirror and smooths the fabric over her hips. This is the kind of dress a woman her age would wear to a courthouse wedding—maybe she can even wear it to her own if she ever decides to take Bayard up on his proposals. Imagine marrying someone in his dead wife’s dress! She’s always felt she was married to one man: Arthur.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Val’s Beloit house is an old Victorian with chipped purple paint and turquoise blue shutters. It sits perched on a small hill with a view of the Rock River and, beyond it, the main street downtown, with a hippie co-op. There are antique stores, and even a sushi restaurant.