I ate eggs outside beneath a striped umbrella.
After breakfast, I wandered through an art market and bought a ridiculous turquoise scarf.
At eleven, Linda called.
“Are you busy?”
“I’m buying things I don’t need.”
“Excellent. You’re recovering beautifully.”
We had lunch.
Afterward, she drove me to a neighborhood in north Scottsdale I had passed hundreds of times but never entered.
A low stone sign read:
SAGUARO RIDGE — ACTIVE ADULT COMMUNITY.
I frowned.
“What are we doing here?”
“Looking.”
“At what?”
“Options.”
“I don’t need to be put somewhere.”
Linda stopped the car.
“No one is putting you anywhere.”
Her voice was gentle.
“That is the point.”
We toured a two-bedroom townhouse with white walls, a shaded patio, and a small den.
The agent talked about walking clubs, book groups, yoga, woodworking, day trips, a community garden.
I barely listened.
I was looking at the kitchen.
Not because it was impressive.
Because it was mine to imagine.
My coffee cup by that window.
Arthur’s photograph on that shelf.
Dinner for one if I wanted it.
Dinner for twelve if I invited people.
No one needing permission from anyone else.
“What do you think?” the agent asked.
