Then she posted a photograph taken on Lucerne’s famous wooden bridge.
Patricia stood beside her.
Gerald stood on the other side.
All three of them were laughing.
The winter sunlight fell across the river behind them.
When Linda looked at the photo later, she noticed something that stopped her.
She looked happy.
Not politely smiling.
Not posing.
Laughing.
She hadn’t seen herself laugh like that in a photograph since Paul died.
Within two hours, her phone filled with notifications.
Old friends.
Neighbors.
Women from church.
Paul’s sister.
People she hadn’t spoken to in years.
The messages all sounded similar.
**You look wonderful.**
**Where are you?**
**I didn’t know you were traveling!**
**You look so happy.**
And several people asked:
**Who is the man?**
The man was Gerald.
Nothing more.
A retired history teacher who had killed his late wife’s roses and become Linda’s friend during a twelve-day tour.
But in the photograph, he was standing close enough to create questions.
That evening, Mark called.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“Who is that guy?”
Linda smiled.
“His name is Gerald. He’s a retired teacher from Seattle.”
“You look…”
He stopped.
“Happy?” Linda offered.
“I was going to say comfortable.”
“That too.”
There was a pause.
“I didn’t know you were going to Europe.”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Why?”
Linda thought about it.
“Because I didn’t want anyone giving me opinions about whether I should go.”
Mark became quiet.
“Mom…”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I’m sorry about Christmas.”
“I know.”
“Hannah should never have—”
