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and the back of my neck too bare, too raw without the hair that had always been there. I tied off the sheared end of the braid as though it was an umbilical cord, making it neat and then laying it carefully on the counter. Almost a foot and a half of golden hair, which would now spend eternity in Chris’s hands.
    No one questioned what I’d done. When Jo got up, she helped me to even out the hair that was left, tears streaming quietly over her cheeks. At the church I’d clung to her and Gran; Elaine held Clint, who was solemn and pale. Jackson had brought Camille, Tish and tiny Ruthann to his mother’s house. I was vaguely aware of the faces of everyone we knew, but I felt a thousand years old and probably looked it, with my shorn hair. I didn’t speak, though I felt later that I should have said a few words at the service. I was too overcome; it took all of my strength to walk up to the open casket and place my braid into my husband’s still hands. Jo walked with me, supporting me. On the way back to our pew, the waves of crying seemed to flood my ears like icy rain.
    â€œI want Daddy,” Clint said, petulantly, as my knees gave out and I sank to the wooden seat beside my son.
    I curled my arms around him and he clung to my neck. I thought, I want your daddy too, baby, all I want in the whole world is your daddy.
    Joelle stayed for another week, though Jackson had to fly home by Monday. She stayed with me in the house, the two older girls bouncing between my place and Shore Leave.
    â€œI’ll never love again,” I vowed in my kitchen. My voice was sandpaper gritting over gravel.
    Jo, opposite me at the table, didn’t contradict anything I said.
    â€œHow can I keep going?” I asked her.
    â€œYou will,” she told me, her voice soft and certain, holding my hand too tightly. “You will, Jillian.”
    â€œBut how?” I insisted. I wanted answers.
    â€œBecause you will,” she said, the kind of non-answer you’d give a child.
    â€œI’m a widow,” I said. “Our house. He was going to build it for us this spring, Jo, this spring.”
    Again Jo said nothing, just kept holding my hand on the tabletop.
    â€œJo, why didn’t I see? Why didn’t I stop him before he went? I should have known…why didn’t I know?” My voice was a tortured whisper.
    â€œBecause you’re a human, not a god,” my sister told me. “You can’t predict everything. If I ever hear you say such a thing again, I am going to be really angry.” As though her anger was something to truly fear. I almost smiled.
    â€œMove home,” I said then, which was a pretty lowdown tactic.
    Jo’s eyes were edged with shadows of exhaustion. Her shoulders drooped and she looked agonized. She whispered, “I wish I could, Jilly. I so do. We’ve talked about it before. But Jackie wouldn’t make near the money back here.”
    â€œSo?” I pressed. “Please, Jo, I’m begging you.”
    â€œJilly,” she moaned. “Maybe someday.”

Chapter Six
    July, 1995
    â€œHey, you need help with that?” asked a voice behind me, and I turned to see Justin, who momentarily abandoned his shopping cart to jog over to us.
    â€œYeah actually, thanks,” I told him, grateful for the help; I’d been trying to load the Rug Doctor I’d just rented from the co-op into the back of the station wagon, while Clinty watched with interest from the backseat. Though at seven years old, he wouldn’t have provided much assistance. In the years since Chris’s death, Justin had become a friend…a different sort than the teasing boy of our youth. He was always at Shore Leave for coffee with Dodge on summer mornings; that first June when I could still barely force myself to get up to face another day, he’d taken to treating me a bit like a cross between a mental patient and a beloved little sister, quietly and