“Before I make a commitment,” he’d said, “I need your word.”

No doubt I patted my beehive hairdo and smacked my DoubleMint before replying, “Love, honor, cherish—the works. Just give me the ring.”

“I’m serious, Linny. Promise.”

As I recall, I tucked my chin—back when I had only the one—and forced, “I promise to love, honor, and cherish you as long as we both shall—”

“Not that. The other thing.”

Fifty-three years after the fact, I—Linnae Rose Michael—twist the marquis-cut diamond ring on my arthritic left hand. I must have given my word.

Crazy old man. Even when he was young.

Here I sit, across the desk from a funeral home director, with a periwinkle blue cookie jar in my lap. And a promise to consider while my husband’s body waits in cold storage.

“I can’t believe you’re not done yet. You’ve been working on that sermon all week.” Linda capped the bottle of polish and held her fingers out to dry. If they dawdled much longer, they’d be late to their own party.

“Still need a joke for point number three.” Larry looked up from his yellow legal pad and Bible. “What do you think of this: Knock, knock—”

“Please, no knock-knocks. No one likes them.”

His wrinkled his forehead. “But they laugh every time.”

“Only out of courtesy.”

“That’s not true. Besides, you don’t know what I was going to say. Humor me this time. Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Oliver.”

“Oliver who?”

“Oliver more with each passing year.”

A grin slid across Linda’s face. “You’re not preaching about us, are you?”