“I was.” And I was thinking I shouldn’t accept a cup of coffee from a strange man.

“So . . . your mother?”

“Pardon?”

“Whoever you were talking to—that was your mother?”

“Oh—no. My cousin.”

He flashes a grin and she notices his nice white teeth. “I figured it had to be family by the way you were trying to shake her.”

“I wasn’t really—”

“Oh, come on, sure you were.”

“Sure I was,” she finds herself agreeing, returning his grin.

“Yeah. Thought so. Been there, done that, a million times.”

“I guess every family has one of those.”

“Mine has many. And they’re all in Cincinnati. I was thinking even twenty-four hours is a lot of time to spend with them, so . . . if there’s anyone who doesn’t particularly mind this flight delay, it’s—”

“That guy?” she quips, pointing at a college-age kid stretched out on the floor nearby, peacefully asleep.

“Him, too, I guess. Seriously, I wouldn’t mind if we sat here for hours. Oh, by the way, I almost forgot—” He pulls a couple of creamer and sugar packets out of his pocket, along with a plastic stirrer, and offers them to her.

“Thank you. Really.” She peels the plastic lid off the cup. “I got up so early that I really do need this.”

“Same here. And between being tired and what’s waiting for me when we land, if we don’t take off soon—not that I want to—I may have to switch over to something stronger.”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she wants to bite them back. Does it sound as if she wants him to buy her a drink now?

No—of course not.

She’s just not good at this . . . solo travel.

Her phone rings. She jumps, almost spilling her coffee.

“Careful there. Here, let me hold that for you.”

He takes the cup, and she pulls out her phone, sees Rob’s cell phone number in the caller ID window.

“That’s my husband,” she says—maybe a little pointedly, and answers the phone. “Rob? Everything okay?”

“Everything is fine.”

“Oh, good.” She presses the phone to her ear with her shoulder as Mr. Coffee hands back the cup, gives a little salute and goes back to his seat.

“Tucker can’t find any of the shirts he needs for work,” Rob tells her, “and I looked everywhere—”

“Hanging up behind the door in the laundry room?”

“—except there.”

“Go check. I’m pretty sure that’s where they are.”

She dumps a sugar packet into her coffee as he goes to look, resisting the urge to tell him that she reminded him where to find the shirts when they were on their way to the airport this morning. And, of course, she told Tucker last night. Twice. But neither of the men in her life can ever seem to find anything around the house.

“Got ’em,” Rob says a few moments later. “Thanks. I’ve got to get him moving or he’s going to be late. Do you know it took me fifteen minutes to get him out of bed?”

Welcome to my world, Rob.

“He’s not really a morning kid,” she points out unnecessarily, stirring her coffee.

“Yeah, no kidding. I’d better go give him his shirt. He’s probably sleeping again.”

“Probably. Love you.”

“You too,” he says—sincerely, if hurriedly.

Mr. Coffee is busy on his laptop when she hangs up. He doesn’t even glance her way.

Relieved, she goes back to her magazine.

It’s much too early to check in when Kay arrives at the hotel on the suburban outskirts of Cincinnati. She drives past it, making note of where to turn later, and then decides to head on down the road to familiarize herself with the place where Meredith’s service is being held.

McGraw’s Funeral Parlor is a squat yellow brick building set back from the two-lane highway. Next door on one side there’s a bowling alley with a neon sign and a gigantic satellite dish that sits right on the property perimeter. On the other side sits a boxy duplex with an aboveground swimming pool in the small yard.

It bothers Kay, for some reason, to think of people swimming and bowling and watching TV in such close proximity to dead bodies and grieving families. She wishes the funeral—Meredith’s funeral—were being held elsewhere.

Meredith’s funeral . . .

Dear God.

She turns around in the empty parking lot and backtracks toward the hotel. For a moment she considers jumping right back onto the interstate and heading home.

No, don’t do that. You’re much too tired to drive, and hungry, too. You’ll feel better if you get something to eat and relax for a bit.

There are a couple of restaurants near the Wal-Mart shopping plaza. It’s too early in the day for Applebee’s or Chili’s, and she bypasses Starbucks as well. She entered one back home a few years ago, wanting a plain old cup of coffee, and was immediately intimidated by the sleek decor, unfamiliar beverages on the overly complicated menu, and the impatient girl at the register, who asked rapid-fire questions that might as well have been in a foreign language: “Tall, grande, or venti? . . . Blond, medium, or Bold Pick? . . . With or without room?”

Shuddering at the thought of repeating that experience—and in an unfamiliar city, besides—she opts instead for a Bob Evans restaurant, a familiar chain she’s visited back home.

The parking lot is full. Inside, she finds herself surrounded by senior citizens, truck drivers, and families with small children.

“What are you doing up so early on a weekend, hon?” asks the friendly waitress, after taking her order.

“Me? Oh, I always get up early.”

“Not me. If I weren’t here, I’d be in bed until noon, believe me.”

Kay smiles at her. She’s the motherly type. Probably a grandma, too. Women like this always make her wistful—not just for what she, herself, is never going to be, but for what her own mother chose not to be. And now, for what she found, and lost, in Meredith.

“Can I bring you cream with that coffee, hon?”

“Yes, please. And real butter with the biscuits, please, instead of that spread, whatever it is.”

“You got it.”

Meredith was always blogging about eating natural foods, avoiding chemicals. She taught her so much about nutrition.

Some of the bloggers—like Elena—might argue that it doesn’t matter much at this point. Not for them. As she put it . . .

Either you’ve already fought cancer and won . . . or you’ve lost, and at that point might as well throw caution to the wind.

Meredith’s diplomatic response: To each his own.

Kay finds herself swallowing back the ache in her throat, thinking of her friend. It feels wrong to be here in Cincinnati, about to meet some of the others without Meredith.

She forces the sorrow away and notices a trio of white-haired women in the next booth. Two are smiling, chatting easily between bites of omelets and pancakes. The third is silently picking at a poached egg, wearing a dour expression.

Making eye contact with Kay, she scowls, and Kay quickly averts her eyes, wishing she’d thought to pick up a newspaper or something.

Dining out solo has never been very comfortable for her—though it’s preferable to dining out with Mother, back when she was alive. That didn’t happen very often, but on the few occasions when it did, Mother complained about the service, the prices, the food . . .

She was just like you, Kay silently tells the dour woman, though she doesn’t dare sneak another peek. A miserable human being.

Why would anyone, blessed with the gift of longevity, waste all those years finding fault with everything around her—especially with her own daughter?

But then . . .

Why did I waste all those years trying to make her see past her resentment of me; trying to make her love me?

She had known damn well that it was futile from the time she was a kid. She should have walked out of that house the moment she turned eighteen and never looked back.