We sat on the porch with coffee and flipped through pages showing mountain inns, little downtowns with antique stores, scenic drives, and half-day tours designed for women who liked decent mattresses and not too many stairs. When we were done with that catalog, she pulled out another one.
Italy.
I touched the photograph of a stone street in Florence without meaning to.
James had always wanted to take me to Italy. His grandfather had come over from there as a boy, and James used to say that one day he would stand in a piazza, drink terrible espresso because tourists always overpay, and tell me stories he half remembered from his father. We had planned to go in retirement.
Then his knees got bad.
Then his heart.
Then there was no more “one day.”
“You should go,” Lorine said.
I smiled sadly.
“At my age?”
“At your age especially.”
She took a sip of coffee.
“Edith,” she said, “you’ve spent fifteen years acting like you’re on standby for everyone else’s emergency. What exactly are you saving your good years for now?”
That question followed me for days.
So did another one.
If not now, when?