The mornings in my town moved slowly, and that suited me fine after Howard, my husband, passed away.
I kept my hands busy with church bake sales and Wednesday food pantry shifts, and I let the quiet of the house be company enough.
That Saturday in April, I was setting out my lemon bars on the long folding table at First Methodist when a voice behind me said my name as if it still belonged to him.
“Eleanor.”
I kept my hands busy.
I turned, and there stood Garrett, 53 years older but with the same crooked smile he’d had after kissing me behind the bleachers in 1972. He’d promised, “Eleanor, someday I’ll buy you a diamond ring.”
“You still wear your hair the same,” Garrett whispered at the bake sale.