Late afternoon, too humid to move quickly, a terrible storm rolled in and toppled her ruffled peonies; and, after the air cooled, she sat in the shadows facing the lake, staring at the bleed of sky and water. The ice in her rocks glass cracked when she’d swirl her gin and tonic; thin wedge of lime, like her mouth, turned down, and her big diamond, like an anchor, scrapping the bottom. So much to hang on to, but nothing held her steady. Her daughters made her into a cruel joke to their father. She heard them fighting over her ring.