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insurance, she’d paid off the mortgage and, if she was frugal, she could live on the remainder for a time. His investments and bank pension were for her old age, a long time into the future.
    “I know Bert wanted you to sell the house.”
    “You seem to know a lot about what my husband wanted.”
    Bernice stopped chewing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I’m going to find a job.”
    “You’ve never worked.”
    “Yes, I have.”
    “A bowling alley when you were a kid. And all you have is high school.”
    “All you have is high school.”
    “I have a trade. I’m an expert in -.”
    “Making dough.” Angie automatically finished the tired joke. Through the window facing the backyard, she watched the red arbutus shake in a sudden gust of wind.
    Bernice wiped chocolate smears from her fingers. “They say after you’ve lost someone, you shouldn’t make important decisions for at least a year. Because you’re not yourself.” She dropped the napkin and gave the teapot an experimental shake. “You are grieving? In your own way?”
    “It’s empty.”
    “Oh, my dear, of course it is.”
    Angie pushed herself from the table. “The pot’s empty. Give it to me; I’ll make more tea.”
    ~

    Ed Whyte, owner and manager of Whyte’s Groceries, positioned himself with a clear view to the door and stood next to a cart of honeydew melons. What had Bert Buchanan told him years before at the bank? I’m sorry, but we are unable to accommodate your request for a loan.
    And now Mr. Big Shot Buchanan’s wife was coming to him for a favour. Well, what goes around comes around. Ignoring the arthritic ache in his knuckles, Ed squeezed a melon.
    The electronic bell rang and there she was, hesitating by the magazine rack. She wasn’t a bad looking woman, though he preferred more on top. The collar points of her grey print dress aimed straight at her narrow chest. After staring toward the rear of the store, she lifted her chin and headed for his office.
    Ed took his time emptying the cart before he, too, marched into his office, perched his skinny bottom on the edge of the swivel chair as though pressing matters could cause him to fly off. “Good morning.” He took a ballpoint pen and worked its end with his thumb like a man priming a pump.
    “I need a job.” Now why had she blurted it out?
    Ed scowled at his desk as though the correct response could be found in a stack of papers.
    Was he having a bad day? Angie shouldn’t have come. No one would hire her. “That is, if you have one.”
    Ed looked up. He would drag out the interview before tossing a rejection onto her lap. Sure the woman was a widow, but she was a Buchanan. And he resented being asked to hire someone unattractive. Why did she wear such awful clothes? Maybe Mr. Big Shot had been too stingy to give her money for nice things. Ed had given his wife nice things, yet she’d still left him.
    When he met Angie’s eyes, he saw how right now, he was all she had. “I could use a cashier three days a week. I don’t suppose you know how to work a till.”
    Both surprised, they reached across the desk and shook hands.
    ~

    Angie began training the following Thursday. She checked out groceries while standing at the till for seven and a half hours. Once home, she warmed herself near the fire in the living room and drank a glass of Scotch, which no longer tasted like gasoline.
    It took a long time to diffuse the day’s tension, filled with small talk and the sympathetic comments from customers.
    Mrs. Warner stopped in at Whyte’s Groceries often, rummaging through her coin purse and counting out change with stiff fingers. Invariably she bought something small like a pack of tea, a bag of marked down bread. “I still miss my Tony,” she told Angie one day, while blinking back nonexistent tears. “I know just how you feel.”
    I feel like slapping your face.
    After she drove home that day, Angie took a hot shower, donned heavy pyjamas and a hooded coat. She