She noted that the man was close to her in age, probably in his seventies. He was tall, had soft pouches under his eyes, looked familiar. He had thick white hair and long slim hands, and he wore a tweed jacket and sat with arms folded across his chest. His glasses needed cleaning, but his gaze was direct and he was taking in the details around him. Hazzley had seen him around town; she couldn’t think where. She saw sadness in his face, but she saw strength there, too. In fact, she sensed strength from more than one of the people now looking at her.

Two of the women appeared to be younger than Hazzley’s daughter, Sal, and this surprised her. Had she been expecting widows her own age? Widowers?

“Shall we start by introducing ourselves? Say a few words?”

The man, seated to her left, responded instantly, as if he’d been lit like a firecracker. He removed his glasses and rested his arms on the tabletop.

“My name is Tom,” he said. “From Tomas with no h. My wife, Ida, died eleven months ago. She died quite suddenly. Had a heart attack and died in hospital within two days of being admitted. I didn’t have time to adjust, to prepare, to think about the possibility of losing her. But I’ve had plenty of time to think ever since. I guess I can say that I was glad to see the notice at Marvin’s. Almost a year now, I’ve been grieving. I live on my own. I’m the owner of Rigmarole—it was the first antique shop in town. You can find me there four out of five weekdays and sometimes Saturday mornings. The shop is half the size it used to be and definitely more manageable. When I first opened the business, I bought the adjacent property, a long narrow space that used to sell electrical supplies. I joined the two by knocking out a wall and putting a doorway between. Now my shop is back to its original size, and the wall is sealed again. The other property has been taken over by a printing business. Once a week, usually a Thursday or a Friday, I drive for Wheels of Hope and take cancer patients to the Greenley Health Centre for treatment. I’m fine—I tell myself I’m fine.” His voice dropped. “I read, write a bit of poetry, meet with friends occasionally, but . . .”

He was thinking of a long-time customer named Kay. After Ida died, Kay began to arrive at his shop with small gifts of food sealed with plastic wrap, served on a china saucer so she’d have to make another trip to collect the dish. A slice of this, a slice of that. He never knew when she might come through the door. One day, she carried in a wedge of what she laughingly told him was “hopeful pie.” He remained polite, recognizing the message that new life begins, but he offered no particular hope in her direction. What Kay didn’t understand was that a person was missing from his life and there was nothing he could do, no action he could take, even though he felt he should force himself to move toward pseudo-optimism and usefulness. Kay did not realize the depth of aloneness she was trying to penetrate.