But what a world it was. You could lose your husband when you were in your sixties, and you could live out the rest of your days a widow, appearing quite content, and yet one day a year you could put on lipstick, crooked though it may be, and pantyhose, and you could cry over the grave of someone who had been dead for twenty years. What a world.

“You’re married to those moon pies,” Mrs. Simmons accused again on the way back. “That’s who you’re married to.” She had wiped her eyes and brushed off her knees and by the time she bobbed and weaved back to Joy the only trace of her sorrow was a smudge of her lipstick line.

“Whoopie pies,” said Joy. “And I’m not married to them.”

“You may as well be,” said Mrs. Simmons resentfully.

“Oh, Mrs. Simmons,” said Joy.

Unfinished words and music: Didn’t they all have those inside themselves, at the end?

She chose a different route back this time: Center to Beach to Corn Neck, skipping Ocean altogether. Why not? It was a summer morning, and she had a little time to be adventurous.

“Are you lost?” asked Mrs. Simmons, peering out the window.

“Mrs. Simmons. Of course I’m not lost! I’ve lived here for eleven years!”

“Well, this isn’t the route we took on the way there.”

“Don’t worry,” said Joy. “I’ll get you home.”

As they rounded the curve toward the end of Corn Neck Road, Mrs. Simmons said, “Careful, now!” and Joy slowed down, because there was a large crowd of people standing in line for—something. The line was encroaching on the road.

“What’s this crowd?” asked Mrs. Simmons. She rolled down her window and stuck out her head. “‘Grand opening,’ that sign says. ‘Free samples.’ Slow down, Joy! I want to see.”

“I’m hardly moving,” grumbled Joy. There was a pretzel of anxiety baking in her stomach. There must be at least fifty people in the line.

“Ooo la la,” said Mrs. Simmons. “The Roving Patisserie. It’s French!”

“French-ish,” corrected Joy. “I mean, really I think it’s basically a cookie truck.”

“It must be good!” cried Mrs. Simmons. Her face was alight with hope and possibility. “Look at that line.”

“People aren’t lining up because it’s good, they’re lining up because it’s free, and people love free stuff.”

“Can we stop? I’d like to see what they have.”

Joy set her lips together and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Simmons,” she said. “I’m very sorry, but we can’t stop. I’m afraid I’m due back at the store ten minutes ago.”

“Well, then you should have taken the other route home. It was faster.” A note of petulance crept into Mrs. Simmons’s voice, and she folded and refolded the shopping bag that had held the wreath.

Joy’s phone pinged. A text from Maggie: I got a job.

Joy used Siri to text back: You have a job. Maggie’s job was helping at Joy Bombs. Her other jobs were wearing her funny T-shirts and her Converse sneakers in all different colors, and being a stepdaughter to Dustin’s second wife, Sandy, while being careful not to like her as much as she liked Joy.