He nodded, more to himself than to the others in the group. He’d surprised himself, and probably them, by mentioning his poetry. He tried to cover up now, before anyone could comment, and spoke directly to Hazzley.

“How far along are you on your grief walk?”

Hazzley was stumped by the question because she’d never heard of a grief walk, which raised all sorts of images, including a memory flash of being with Lew in Cyprus decades earlier, hiking in a rural area, and stumbling across a single-file procession of villagers following a casket carried by four men. The mourners were making their way to the local graveyard, which could be seen on a hillside not far off. She and Lew stepped off the narrow dirt path and waited, their heads slightly bowed, while the procession passed. They were in no way acknowledged by the mourners.

She recovered quickly. And was able to place the man the instant he mentioned Rigmarole—an antique store she’d wandered into a few times. It was on a street that Hazzley knew because the bookstore she frequented was located in the same block.

“I guess I haven’t thought about grief in quite that way,” she said to Tom. “Shall we continue? Carry on introducing ourselves and maybe say a word about why we’re here?”

The other three were staring at the tall stalks of the cosmos and looked as if they might change their minds about being present. And Cass—was she hovering near the doorway?

“Why don’t I go next, then?” Hazzley said. “Since I’m beside Tom with no h. I’ve been in your store, Tom. I bought a reflector for an old gas lamp from you; that was years ago. It was one of those wall-mounted sconce types. I think the reflector is made of mercury glass.”

Tom was nodding. He remembered the reflector.

“Anyway, I’m Hazzley, everyone—my name was supposed to be Hazel, but that’s another story—and I’m the one who posted the notice at Marvin’s. I’ll come right out and tell you frankly that I’ve been lonely. My husband, Lew, died three years ago. Sometimes it seems he’s been gone thirty years instead of three. But there are days when I’m convinced that if I look through the kitchen window, he’ll be out there in the backyard, raking up leaves. There are days when I can hear soft scraping sounds as he rakes.”

Several people were nodding. This, they understood.

“I carry on. I have things to do. I work part-time as an editor. I freelance from home and love the work. But there are things that are undone. Unfinished, incomplete.” Her words slowed. “And maybe never will be complete.” She thought of the two rooms she had emptied. She thought of the boxes in the basement, hidden away under a tarp after Lew’s death, cardboard boxes filled with empty bottles, the flaps taped shut. She had not dealt with those. She had never talked about the boxes—not to Cass, not to Sal, even though Sal had been aware of her father’s drinking. Hazzley could not bring herself to load the car and drop the boxes off somewhere. Or put them out on the curb. Or drive country roads until she saw a sign for a garbage dump. Or hire Sam the Man with Truck to haul them away. Many times she’d imagined a man arriving in a truck, the expression on his face when he looked at the boxes and heard the rattle and immediately understood the quantity of liquor that had been consumed.