It was because of the books she read, their dense complications and sharp surprises, that she had applied for a job in the first place. She had a sense of her own life turning over page by page, first a girl, then a young woman, then married with two young daughters, then a member of a bridge club and a quilting club, and now, too soon for symmetry, a widow. All of it fell into small childish paragraphs, the print over-large and blocky like a school reader. She had tried to imagine various new endings or turnings for herself-she might take a trip around the world or sign up for a course in ceramics-but could think of nothing big enough to fill the vacant time left to her-except perhaps an actual job. This was what other people did, tucking in around the edges those little routines-laundry, meals, errands-that had made up her whole existence.

“You’re wearing yourself out,” Brian’s mother said when Hazel arrived for an Easter Sunday visit, bringing with her a double-layered box of chocolate almond bark and a bouquet of tulips. “Tearing all over town every day, on your feet, no proper lunch arrangements. You’d think they’d give you a good hour off and maybe a lunch voucher, give you a chance to catch your breath. It’s hard on the back, standing. I always feel my tension in my back. These are delicious, Hazel, not that I’ll eat half of them, not with my appetite, but it’ll be something to pass round to the other ladies. Everyone shares here, that’s one thing. And the flowers, tulips! One or the other would have more than sufficed, Hazel, you’ve been extravagant. I suppose now that you’re actually earning, it makes a difference. You feel differently, I suppose, when it’s your own money. Brian’s father always saw that I had everything I needed, wanted for nothing, but I wouldn’t have minded a little money of my own, though I never said so, not in so many words.”

One morning Peter Lemmon surprised Hazel, and frightened her too, by saying, “Mr. Cortland wants to see you. The big boss himself. Tomorrow at ten-thirty. Downtown office. Headquarters. I’ll cover the venue for you.”

Mr. Cortland was the age of Hazel’s son-in-law, Robin. She couldn’t have said why, but she had expected someone theatrical and rude, not this handsome curly-haired man unwinding himself from behind a desk that was not really a desk but a gate-legged table, shaking her hand respectfully and leading her toward a soft brown easy chair. There was genuine solemnity to his jutting chin and a thick brush of hair across his quizzing brow. He offered her a cup of coffee. “Or perhaps you would prefer tea,” he said, very politely, with a shock of inspiration.