Edith Finlay has lived the unfinished life of any umber of women in their sixties. The question she and they ask isn't "Is this all there is?" It's more like, "When did I drop the reins?" In fact, when Edith wakes to find her husband of forty-seven years lying dead next to her, her first concern is the Christmas strata she's to bake in an hour or so. Art's death offers Edith one last chance at taking control of her life Scraps in Art's pocket send her on a search for answers to his secrets. She discovers a lover, maybe, a prostitute, sometimes, and her son, a man of secrets also. She also finds herself, the real Edith.