I let him walk behind me, my steps slow and deliberate.

Other women in this town fight to be called virtuous. But virtue is boring. I prefer unforgettable.

And every piece of clothing I own has a purpose: to make people look twice.

I know what must be running through Josh’s head. The word widow makes people picture an old, fragile woman.

Not me.

I’m in my early forties, though I add a few years whenever I need a little more authority. But every morning, when I stand before the mirror to paint my lips, the glass whispers the same truth back at me: Devastating.

Even for my late husband’s...