All she had wanted from the weekend was silence.

At seventy, Eleanor Bishop had developed an almost philosophical relationship with her own wants, which had simplified considerably since Henry died. She no longer chased invitations she did not actually desire. She had stopped answering calls from people who remembered her only when they needed a hem adjusted or a casserole delivered or a patient ear to absorb whatever they could not manage alone. She had reached the age at which she felt entitled to want small things: a steady chair,