The phone rang at exactly nine in the morning. I was just pouring myself a second cup of coffee—weak, diluted with milk, as Dr. Bennett had prescribed.
A phone call so early never boded well, especially when you live alone and you’re seventy-two. “Hello,” I said, gripping the receiver a little tighter than necessary. “Mrs.
Windham. Merl Windham.” It was a male voice, unfamiliar but professionally polite. “Yes, that’s me,” I replied, feeling a chill run down my spine.
Calls like this at my age usually mean only one thing. “My name is Hart Pallister. I’m Everett Windham’s lawyer.” He paused long enough for me to understand the news would be bad.
“I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Windham passed away last night. Heart attack.
The doctors couldn’t do anything.”
I sank down onto a kitchen chair. Everett—dead. Even though we had been divorced for fifteen years, the news hit me harder than I could have expected.
We had been together for twenty-seven years, most of my adult life. “I’m so sorry,” the lawyer continued. “I know you were divorced, but I felt it was my duty to inform you personally.
Tabitha is arranging the funeral. It will be this Friday at two in the afternoon at St. James Church.”
“Thank you for letting me know.” My voice sounded steady, as it always did in difficult moments.
The ability to remain calm when everything inside was turning upside down was the only thing that helped me survive my marriage to Everett. When I hung up, I didn’t cry. Tears had never been my way of coping with grief.
Instead, I mechanically washed the cup, wiped the counter, and sat down by the window, looking at my small, neat garden—the garden I was able to start only after the divorce, when I stopped spending money on Everett’s bar tabs. Everett was dead. Seventy isn’t that old by today’s standards, yet his heart had finally given out.
The doctors had warned him when we were still together. The phone rang again. This time, my daughter’s name lit up the screen.
“Mom.” Tabitha’s voice was as cold as the January wind in Riverside. “Do you know?”
“Yes. Your father’s lawyer just called.”
“Pallister?” Her voice sounded annoyed.
“Why would he call you? You’ve been divorced for a hundred years.”
“Fifteen,” I corrected automatically. “I think he was just being polite.”
Tabitha snorted.
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