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the sugar I really didn’t need, it was time to go. “Well, thanks for the loan. I’ll replace it next time I’m at the Piggly Wiggly.” As eager as I’d been earlier to trot over to the Brubakers’, I was now even more eager to trot back home.
    I turned and headed for the door with Earl trailing behind. “Sure glad I didn’t wake Rosalie,” I said over my shoulder. “Tell her I said hello.”
    “I would, but Rosalie isn’t here.”
    I stumbled to a halt, nearly tripping over the sill. “Isn’t here?” The possibility hadn’t occurred to me.
    Earl’s hand was on the door, poised to close it. “She’s in upstate New York visiting the grandkids. Should be back next week or so.”
    “I’m surprised you didn’t go with her.”
    “I’m not big on little kids,” Earl admitted grumpily. “Last time our daughter visited, her youngest picked all my prize orchids for a bouquet. Sure hope by their next visit he’ll be old enough to tell the difference between a dandelion and a phalaenopsis.”
    I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Phalaenopsis? Give me a break. Most adults, much less children, probably had never even heard the word. Poor child. No wonder Rosalie left a curmudgeon like Earl behind when she took off to visit the grandkids.
    Home again, I dumped my chamomile tea, which had grown stone-cold in my absence, down the drain. So much for it being as soothing as a field of wildflowers.
    Feeling as restless as ever, I wandered into the library. Calling the small room a “library” always seemed ostentatious. When I think of a library, I think large. Large and filled floor to ceiling with books. That hardly describes a room the size of a guest bedroom with a solitary magazine rack. Our builder kept correcting me whenever I referred to this space as a den. Dens, he insisted, were passé. Family rooms, he informed me, were now called great rooms. And every new home, he had said, absolutely must have a master bedroom suite.
    “Well, la-di-da,” I had said.
    Besides the aforementioned magazine rack and Jim’s recliner, the library/den is also where we keep the computer. Now that Jim isn’t always sitting in front of it playing solitaire, I’ve learned how to surf the Net. Who knows? Someday I might even have my own MySpace page. Wouldn’t my granddaughters, Jillian and Juliette, be impressed? They’d think their grandmother was “hip.”
    Do youngsters still use that expression? Here in Serenity mention hip and people instantly associate it with replacement .
    I powered up the computer and surfed until I found just what I was looking for. A honey of an electronic marvel called the Sandman. Clinically tested, the Sandman is a device guaranteed to help people achieve deeper states of sleep and relaxation. It emits sounds. Waves on a beach, rain on the roof, wind in the willows. It can even be programmed to sound like a thunderstorm. Not exactly Jim snoring, but I’d wager it’s a close second.
    Satisfied with my purchase, I stifled a yawn and turned off the computer. As I made my way through the darkened house, I noticed a light still burned at the Brubakers’. And once again, I thought this odd for a man who liked to retire early.

Chapter 5
    I zigged right when I should have zagged left. I zagged left when everyone else in class zigged right. Flowing Chi definitely wasn’t flowing this morning. My dantien was nowhere to be found. I sneaked a peek at Pam. Her Tai Chi moves seemed as smooth and graceful as ever. But Pam can dance the Electric Slide with the best of them, while I watch from the sidelines. I envy her sense of rhythm. I’m a klutz when it comes to coordination. That’s the reason you’ll never find me on a tennis court. I took tennis lessons—once. Never made it past the serve. A pity because I loved those cute little outfits all my friends wore. No, Tai Chi is more my speed. Concentration, flexibility, balance. To my way of thinking, these are more useful to a senior citizen