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If Dahlia Montgomery Jarrett ignored the fact that it was her husband she was burying three days before Christmas, it was as good a day as any for a funeral. Sky overcast but no rain, temperature not too hot for her black Ellen Tracy suit. Typical for December in North Texas.

As the obligatory graveside ritual ground to an end, she made a silent prayer of thanks. She had shaken enough hands, said “thank you for coming,” enough times, been the dutiful spouse.

Through it all, she hadn’t shed a tear, and was proud of herself.

Because she hadn’t screamed either.

The service had been short and un-crowded. Kenneth Jarrett’s family was small. He’d had few friends. Some of her friends from work had come, but most only sent flowers. Poinsettias. A touch of the bizarre. Fitting, Dahlia thought.

She moved toward a waiting black limousine, flanked by her father and her lifelong friend, Pegine Murphy. If someone asked her to define her feelings, she could not. How could she find words a mere five days after learning her husband, the man who had vowed to forsake all but her, had died in a violent car collision at four o’clock in the morning with another woman in the passenger seat of his car.