Forty-three years of folding Arthur’s shirts and listening to him complain about the draft coming through the pantry window is a long time to build up habits. You do not just stop worrying about a man’s chest congestion simply because he stopped breathing on a Tuesday afternoon in November. I spent the first three years of my widowhood tending to his headstone in the Methodist cemetery down off Route 12, pulling crabgrass out of the gravel and making sure the bronze plaque stayed polished.

I even kept the thermostat at seventy-two degrees in our little house on Maple Street because Arthur always swore seventy-one gave him a tick in his left shoulder.

Then my own heart gave out during the church bake sale, right after I dropped a tray of lemon squares on the linoleum. One second I was apologizing to Mrs. Gable about the powdered sugar on her shoes, and the next second the gymnasium ceiling just sort of rolled away like a theater curtain.

The next thing I knew, I was standing on something that felt less like clouds and more like a very well-swept hardwood floor that had been waxed with lemon oil. The light up there is hard to describe. It is not like noon sunlight and it is not like a kitchen lamp. It is just steady. It stays the same color all the time, which I figured would take some getting used to.

I looked up and saw Arthur standing near a white balustrade that looked suspiciously like the porch railing on our old front deck. He was wearing his gray cardigan, the one with the suede patches on the elbows that I had mended three times before the stroke took him. He looked good. He looked about fifty-five, right before his hair started thinning out around the crown, and he did not have that nagging hitch in his gait that usually meant his sciatica was acting up.

“Arthur!” I called out, my voice sounding clearer than it had in a decade.

I ran across that polished floor as fast as my newly repaired legs would carry me, my arms open wide for a proper welcome. I had missed him terribly during those quiet three winters in the house by myself. I had missed the way he cleared his throat before he told the same story about his old Plymouth Valiant for the fourth time in one evening.

“Honey! We’re finally together again!” I shouted, diving in for the kind of embrace we used to share before the arthritis made us both a little stiff.

Instead of catching me, Arthur actually stepped back. He put his hands up, palms out, just like he used to do when I asked him to help me carry the winter canned goods up from the cellar.

“Whoa! Hold on a second, Clara,” he said, holding his ground behind the railing.

I stopped dead in my tracks, my arms still half-spread. “Why?” I asked, looking down at my shoes to make sure I had not stepped in something. “What is the matter with you?”

Arthur smiled that little lopsided grin he always got when he thought he was being cleverer than the man at the hardware store. “Remember our wedding vows, Clara?”

“Of course I do,” I said, crossing my arms over my cardigan. “I stood right there in front of Reverend Vance and promised for better or for worse, didn’t I?”

“We promised to stay together until death,” he said, nodding slowly as if he were explaining a mortgage clause to a slow child.

I nodded back. “Exactly. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. We said it loud enough for the back pews to hear.”

Arthur smiled wider, looking very pleased with himself. “Well… death finally did its job, didn’t it?”

I blinked at him. The sheer nerve of the man after forty-three years of me boiling his eggs the exact four minutes he liked them. “What do you mean, death did its job?”

“Our marriage contract has expired,” he said, leaning his hip against the balustrade and crossing his arms. “The paperwork is done. The binding agreement was terminated the moment my heart stopped beating in ninety-eight, and yours just caught up. We are technically free agents now, Clara. No more honey-do lists. No more listening to me complain about the draft in the pantry. We made it to the finish line.”

I stared at him for a full ten seconds. I watched the way the eternal light caught the silver in his hair. I remembered the three winters of carrying the snow shovel out to the drive by myself because his back was too stiff to brave the wind.

Then I smiled. Not a big smile, just the small one I used whenever he tried to convince me he knew how to fix the plumbing without calling the plumber.

“Okay, honey,” I said softly.

Arthur visibly relaxed, letting out a long breath that sounded like relief. He must have thought he had successfully negotiated his way out of eternity with me. He started to turn back toward whatever view he had been admiring before I interrupted his peace.

Then I added, “But I already talked to God.”

Arthur froze mid-turn. His right hand stayed on the railing, and his neck went rigid. He didn’t look back at me right away.

“What did He say?” Arthur asked, his voice dropping an octave.

I stepped a little closer, smoothing down the front of my dress. “He said Heaven has no divorce.”

Arthur turned his head slowly, his eyes wide behind his invisible glasses. He looked like he had just swallowed a sour lemon whole. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a second.

Then the husband whispered, “Oh no…”

“Oh yes,” I said, patting him lightly on the shoulder as I brushed past him toward the arched double doors at the end of the gallery. “But He did mention it has guest rooms.”