15 Tales of Love by Jessie Salisbury

room on Tuesday; Wednesday, clean and dust the living room; Thursday wash the floors; Friday do the baking for the weekend; Saturday do the shopping and take care of the trash in addition to any yard work or outside chores. On Sunday, she could go to church or maybe visit a cousin or a girlfriend, but most of them were married and wanted weekends for family.
    She realized she had made adjustments with the small apartment, but she held to the schedule as best she could. She had to.
    Elenora’s decision to file for divorce had been forced on her. She knew the woman’s name was Olivia. Clive had been seeing her prior to their marriage and had apparently seen no reason to give her up. He contested the divorce up to a point, but he did not deny his relationship with Olivia.
    Privately, Elenora thought Olivia must be a prostitute, although no one had ever said so. Clive had married Elenora, he said, “Because I want a respectable woman from a good family to mother my children.”
    It all left Elenora devastated, barely able to function, and her asthma worse. Her parents deplored her divorce. “How could you do that to us? All that talk and gossip! And after all we did for you. Clive was such a good catch, of good family, and had a good job. You have to make some allowances, you know, for a successful man!”
    That parental condemnation, followed by their withdrawal of all offers of help or support, had forced her to move to a cheaper apartment and find a new job.
    Elenora was now working as a receptionist at the local newspaper, answering the phone, taking orders for ads and subscriptions, and sometimes filling in as a proofreader. Once, with no reporters available, she had even covered a small local event and the editor had been pleased.
    “The doctor was right,” Ruthie had said from the beginning. “You have been depressed for years, and no wonder in that, but I think you are making progress. You have adjusted to your new circumstances very well, and now,” she said at the most recent session, “you need to move forward a step.”
    That step was to join a group session. “Listen to what others have to say. You’ll find out you aren’t alone.”
    Elenora had demurred. “I can’t talk to a group.”
    “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. Go and listen. See what happens. There will be others who don’t take an active part.”
    Elenora had reluctantly agreed to go.
    Going to a Friday evening meeting required Elenora to make a change in her routine, and perhaps that was what Ruthie had intended. She baked a pan of brownies before leaving for work instead of after supper as she usually did, and that required that she get up earlier. She considered that a small victory.
    The therapy group met in the adult reading room at the town library. “This is a less threatening environment for our newcomers,” the affable, middle-aged leader told the dozen people who gathered in the comfortable chairs. “There’s coffee over there,” she added, pointing to the back of the room, “and Jane has brought some goodies. Help yourself and get comfortable.”
    Elenora unobtrusively got a cup of coffee, found a seat to one side, as far as possible from the leader, and studied the group. There were about equal numbers of men and women, aged from their twenties to elderly. She was asked to introduce herself, and then take part if she chose. She sipped at the coffee, listened to the stories, the triumphs and slips by many of those present. She did not feel inclined to join in, and at the end of the hour, she wandered out into the library stacks to find a book to read, preferably a good mystery.
    I shouldn’t. I get into trouble when I start reading. But Ruthie said to do what I want to do.
    She found the collection of mysteries and stopped to read titles. A Nevada Barr she hadn’t read caught her attention and she reached for it.
    “Hey,” a masculine voice behind her said. “That’s my favorite author.”
    Startled, she