Lynda Brightwell looked as pretty as her name suggested. She had shoulder-length hair the color of a sunlit hayfield, a clean healthy look, and a confident walk. Rooms brightened when she entered. Bright. That is what everyone said of Lynda. People meant both her mind and her personality. Her manner. Bright without being pushy or even perky. She turned the heads of most men, and a hell of a lot of women, too, without being stunningly beautiful in the least. She looked like the wholesome-farm-girl-next-door come to life in the city, but easy and comfortable with the transition.
She ate lunch two or three times a week at the Blue Cup Café, a few blocks walk from her workplace. She lived two towns north, and took the train in every day to her job as a manager in a local bank. Her specialty was real estate and small business loans. She escaped from her office at lunch every day. She needed the escape.
Her calm sunny exterior masked exceedingly well her struggles and her grief.