She had been my best friend, my companion, my wife and bar none the best lover I had ever had. We had been together for over 30 years, wonderful years, except for the last one when cancer was slowly and inexorably consuming her once marvelous body. Now she was gone.
After the funeral we gathered at her sister's house, friends, family, business acquaintances. I smiled as best I could, was friendly and cordial as I knew she would want me to be and accepted their kind thoughts and condolences graciously. As the gathering began to ungather I was approached by my wife's best friend, Edwina.
"Tough day, John," she said.
"One of the worst. But I'll survive."
"I know you will. Life goes on."
"Thanks for coming," I said.
"When you feel up to it I want you to come to my house for dinner. Marge and I had some long talks during her last days and I'd like to tell you about them, when you're ready," she said.
"Thank you," I replied.
For several weeks after the funeral I kept busy. My business consumed my days and I spent the evenings and weekends going through her things. Some I saved, some I sold, some I gave away and some I threw away. On a Saturday morning I was at the grocery store. They had a sale on frozen dinners and I was stocking up. Frozen dinners were now the order of the day. I felt a soft hand upon my shoulder and turned around to see Edwina standing there.
"Don't you find those things to be a little bland and unexciting?" she said.
"Indeed. But they're quick and filling and there's no pots and pans to wash," I said.
"Are you ready for a real dinner and someone to talk to while you eat?"
"As a matter of fact I am. Lou Dobbs is not my first choice for a dinner companion."
"Good," she said, "how about this evening?"
"Sounds good to me. What time should I come and what kind of wine should I bring?"
"How about seven and we'll be eating Italian. Maybe some chianti."
"Any particular brand?"
"You decide."
We parted company and I made a detour through the wine section on my way to the checkout.
At seven o'clock I knocked on her door. She opened it, gave me a big smile and said, "Come in."
I followed her inside. She was wearing a lightweight, loose fitting dress, belted at the waist and she was barefoot. She was taller and fuller than my late wife but still quite curvaceous for a woman in her late fifties. I caught myself admiring her figure and mentally chastised myself for so doing.
We went into her kitchen and she reached into a drawer and pulled out a corkscrew.
"Dinner's almost ready," she said, "open the wine while I toss the salad."
I uncorked, she tossed and soon we were sitting at her dining room table. We had salad, spaghetti with meat sauce, crusty Italian bread and, of course, the wine. Everything was delicious.
"These are just about my favorite foods," I said.
"I know," she said, "Marge told me."
"Ah yes," I said, "you mentioned some conversations you had with her before she died. What else did she tell you?"
She smiled and said, "Let's take our wine into the living room and talk."
She sat on the sofa and I started to sit down in an easy chair across from her.
"Come and sit beside me, John," she said.
I nodded my head and sat down beside her.
"How are things going?" she asked.
"Pretty well, all things considered," I said, "but it's hard when you lose someone you've loved for a long time. as you well know."
She smiled and took my hand.
"Marge loved you very much," she said.
"I know and I loved her."
She paused and said, "Before she died we had long, long talks and she worried about what would happen to you after she was gone."
"I worried about that too, although it wasn't something we discussed. What in particular was she worried about?"
