Roxy had made it a point to skid her shoes loudly each time she walked past Lynn since she’d made that comment. This morning was no different, just in case Lynn was in the kitchen and could hear her approaching. She passed the delphiniums with their stately white blooms reaching for the sun. They shouldn’t flourish like this here. They should be wilting. Their garden club had included them on their “DO NOT PLANT” list because of their preference for cool climates.

As always, Lynn Roseworth had proved them all wrong.

Roxy reached the porch, wincing on the stairs. The pain was bad this morning. It was bad every morning. Women don’t get beaten in their mid-sixties and then decide to start taking up tennis. But the pain lessened as the day went on, and she wasn’t going to start taking those opioids that doctors seemed to give out like Reese’s cups at Halloween.

So I have some pain, big deal. And a big, ugly scar to go with it. It’s not like I’m entering Miss Tennessee this year.

“Lynn!” she called out as she entered the kitchen. “’I’ve got it! The Happy Hookers! Get it? I know Gladyce will object, but she can pull that walker of hers out of her ass. We can get bowling jackets with the name on the back and wear them in Gatlinburg. We’ll be the stars of the fall rug-hooking conference.”

Roxy went straight for the coffeepot, delighted that it was still warm. “Did you make the reservation for it yet? I prefer a cabin with a pool table. Hey, where are you hiding the sugar these days? I’m not using artificial sweeteners anymore. They say it causes dementia, and I can’t afford to lose any brain cells.”

She found the sugar stashed on the lazy Susan in the corner cabinet, mumbling that it was the least accessible place in the kitchen. Lynn had kept it in a sizeable wooden canister for decades, ready for her to dip in to at a moment’s notice should her husband come home cranky from DC. The smell of a freshly baked apple pie was always the best way to detox from the Beltway, Tom always said with a wink.

Roxy gently placed the small glass container on the counter, her hands trembling a bit. Grief was sneaky like that. Comes up like a thief, waiting for you to feel comfortable, even happy, then jabs in the knife.

Tom, she thought, closing her eyes. You stubborn, set-in-your-ways politician. I miss you.