The day her husband left for his business trip, he went out the door without turning or speaking, and that confirmed her suspicions that he was probably gone for good. She sat down at the kitchen table and had the rest of the eggs and bacon. After breakfast, she walked to the office, not the short way along the street but the long back way that took her along the edge of the creek, through the graveyard, into the large meadow that always surprised her when it appeared—it was as if the town had disappeared entirely, and this massive patch of grass put in its place, a form of starting over—and then out the back corner of the meadow into the alley that ran between the church and rectory and and deposited her at her office. She had covered ground, to the point that when she stood up at the podium to address the small conference that had assembled to hear about trends in publishing, her voice was steady and she found herself concerned more with the pain of a woman in the front row, whose could not keep it from her eyes, than with her own.
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