Bloor Line, in shades of Laura Secord.

Caucasian woman, 50s, with snow white bob, wearing powder blue boots, green jacket and emerald green scarf.

Last Dance, Last Chance, Ann Rule (Pocket)

Near the beginning:

But nothing changed. She sat in her chair for what seemed like months. He lay on the couch nearby, rarely leaving her alone. Sometimes it seemed to her that he was watching over her with concern, and sometimes he didn't seem to notice her any more than if she were a piece of furniture.

The bus idles at the station, the driver arranging their suitcases, his care adapted for days like this when a hip and heel is all it takes to get the luggage inside the belly. He's like them, just wants to get on the road, be home before the storm. He lumbers up the steps and into his seat. The door closes and the carriage lifts. She shifts in her seat, tries to find something that resembles padding on an otherwise dilapidated cushion, tries to picture a happier, healthier Mama. The man beside her fills in a folded Sudoku. She rests her head against the window and closes her eyes to rest. When she wakes she's facing the man, his breath soured by bottled fruit juice and dill chips. It's dark out, raining. They've taken a detour. Five missed phone calls. And she's forgotten her black dress shoes.