But she could not. Lew was not dead. She was not a widow and did not belong. She could only look on. She tucked her chin down and pulled her collar up, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed. She was relieved when the lights went down and a concerto began. When the concert was over, she left quickly, knowing that the widows would be on their way out for a drink or a coffee somewhere, possibly at Cassie’s.

Alone, on her way home, Hazzley could not push away the feeling of wistfulness, the feeling that she had assumed the role of permanent outsider. Outsider or enabler, she thought, grimly. Or both. She could not shake the desire to be out having fun with others who were completely alive.

After Lew died, she did not join the group because by then she had neither the energy nor the desire. There were too many things to deal with, though she knew well enough that the widows supported one another through their individual ups and downs.

TWO AND A HALF MONTHS before Lew’s death, Hazzley made the decision to travel to Toronto. She’d been invited to edit two articles on the topic of Swedish settlement in the western provinces after 1870 for back-to-back issues of a national history magazine. The writer, a Swedish academic, would be flying to Canada. The managing editor—a reliable friend to Hazzley—phoned to ask if she would consider coming to Toronto for a couple of nights to meet the man in person. That way, any editing problems could be worked out face to face. There were issues, Hazzley was assured, mainly because English wasn’t the writer’s first language. Considerable money had been invested by the magazine, and the articles were important. With a bit of diplomacy and expertise, the editor continued, Hazzley could effectively clean things up. The Swedish writer was planning to visit other parts of the country and would be going on to Saskatchewan to visit relatives after his stay in Toronto. The editor believed it would be a good idea to take advantage of his presence and get the job done to everyone’s satisfaction.

Hazzley travelled by train and planned to tack on a few extra days. She decided that she would visit the new Aga Khan Museum, which had been open more than a year. She would also walk to the Gardiner Museum and take her time over the exhibits, whatever the display. She would shop along Bloor Street and treat herself to a new skirt or sweater or coat—anything, didn’t really matter. She would stay a total of six nights. But what she wanted most was to get away by herself. Have long, slow breakfasts at a decent hotel. Read the daily paper for hours. Be sure to slip a novel into her briefcase. She pushed aside her rising guilt. Lew would have to be left alone. Sal promised to phone every evening from Ottawa.

Lew insisted that he’d be fine. “Go ahead,” he said. “There isn’t a thing I can’t handle on my own.”