Looking back, Widow Winslow wasn’t a very convincing recluse.
She’d only come into town Saturday mornings when she’d drive her 1955 Ford Fairlane to the Farmer’s Market where she rarely spoke to anyone other than to ask Satchel Brewster about his heirloom tomatoes or haggle with Natty Crowe for some of his sourdough buns.
Sometimes passersby would see her sitting on her front porch swing stirring the hot, country air with a cardboard fan from Grover’s Funeral Home with one hand, and giving a pageant wave with the other.
Still, when she ran off with Pastor Sidle, everyone was shocked.
Thin spiral notebook 
Gotta watch the quiet ones. Great story Tara.
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They have all the best secrets.
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That witchy widow!
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Ain’t she just?
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This gave me a good chuckle. Loved it!
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