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When I pulled into my driveway after the ten-thirty Mass, there was a dark oil spot on the concrete where my husband’s truck had been parked for twenty-nine years.
That, and two long scrapes in the gravel where something heavy had been dragged onto a flatbed.
I sat in my Buick with the church bulletin in my lap. I was sixty-seven years old, and for a second I honestly thought I’d sold it and forgotten.
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Then I looked across the cul-de-sac.
Grant Halvorsen was standing on his front porch in a quarter-zip pullover, holding a mug of coffee with both hands. He lifted the mug at me, the way you’d toast someone at a wedding.
