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kick box classes, too.”
    “Ooh, I’m scared.”
    “What about a job?” Laura asked, “Have you thought any more about going back to work?”
    “What’s the point?” I asked bitterly, “I don’t need the money thanks to Sam’s insurance policy.”
    “Fuck the insurance policy!”
    “Laura!” I said with a laugh. I always found it so funny when Miss Prim and Proper used a four-letter word, which wasn’t often, trust me.
    “Not for the money, Emma. Work would give you self-worth, satisfaction, and the feeling of productivity.”
    “I know. You’re right,” I said, “But I’m not ready. Besides, I like staying home with Isabelle.”
    “Who’s in school most of the day,” she answered.
    I didn’t say anything for a few moments. I just sat there with my head down. Then, I looked at my sister. “Did I ever tell you my last words to Sam?”
    “Why are you bringing this up again?” she answered, exasperation in her tone.
    “I hate you,” I said coldly, “Those were my last words. I hate you.”
    “Oh my God! Are you going to blame yourself for the rest of your life?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Laura took my hand across the table and with tears in her eyes, my dear, sweet, gentle sister said softly, “There’s a light that shines on your face. You’re a beautiful woman. And yes, I’m sure it will be years that you will grieve Sam’s death. I think that’s okay. But you’re wasting good years lamenting about what you think your role was in Sam’s death. Emmie, you didn’t have a role in his death. Do you understand that? How many times do I have to say it? You didn’t kill Sam. Come to terms with it. Please.”
    “Thanks,” I smiled, letting those words roll right off of me, as I usually did. At that moment, Laura had a look of defeat on her face.
    Our conversation shifted and for the rest of our lunch we talked about fun things such as celebrity gossip, real people gossip, and Izzie, and by the time we finished eating, my sister and I found ourselves laughing and giggling and in pretty good moods, given the circumstances. Of course, both of us were pretty buzzed.
    “Well, at least we managed to forget about our problems for a little while, right?” Laura said.
    “Yup. We celebrated your birthday, Laura. We celebrated your life.” I held up my wine glass and with tears in my eyes I said, “Cheers to your forty-four years of life.”
    Laura held up her glass. “To life,” she said with a smile, “To BOTH of our lives.”
    Upon hearing my sister toast my life, pain and guilt enveloped me as it so often did now, as if I didn’t deserve to have a life, since my husband didn’t have one anymore.
    As if my sister could read my mind, she said, “Stop it right now.”
    Over coffee, Laura said to me, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll consider getting divorced if you agree to go on a date.”
    “Tell you what. If Bradley Cooper calls me, I’ll go out with him.”
    “That’s not an option. You need to go out with a guy. A real guy.”
    “Bradley Cooper’s not a real guy?”
    “Em, please?”
    “I’ll think about it,” I giggled, pulling out my Blackberry, “Right now, I’m calling us a cab.”
    Laura took a sip of her coffee, motioned to my lips and declared, “I have to go get that lipstick.”
    I smiled and gave her a wink. “Lancome counter… Bloomingdales…free gift with purchase.”

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    Chapter 3
    E arly the next morning, Izzie was sitting on the kitchen counter playing chef’s assistant like she always did when I made salsa. This was becoming an almost daily ritual now. For some odd reason, experimenting with different salsa recipes was therapeutic for me, and whenever I felt sad or depressed or bad about myself (which was most of the time), I did one of two things. I either planted new flowers in my garden or I made (and ate with vegetables or chips) some kind of salsa. After yesterday’s visit to my sister’s house, my garden had several new flowers in it and my