IN HIS KEEPING: CLAIMED

Boredom had set in!

Sylvie slept most of yesterday, waking up around 4 pm.  That’s when she realized there was nothing to eat or drink in the house but water.  She was lucky she made it here alive.  She’d sobbed nonstop; from the time she picked up the car, to the time she arrived at the cottage.  Her vision was blurred by tears the whole way.  There were times she was so distraught she hyperventilated and feared she’d pass out behind the wheel and crash.  When Sylvie arrived she didn’t bother unpacking the car; just walked through the door, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers over her head.  Sylvie kept telling herself she’d done the right thing leaving him, but her heart was breaking.  It felt like she’d been sucker punched, all the wind knocked out of her.  Sleep when it came was fitful.  She’d dreamed about him.  In her nightmare he was a dark, looming, evil presence.  He was terrifying.  She awoke nauseous and shaky.

What few stores there were in the area tended to close early on Sunday.  If she was going to get food and other provisions for the house she had to get a move on.  Her face was a mess; she was embarrassed to be seen out in public looking like she did.  Her eyes bloodshot and swollen.  Her nose chapped and red.  Dark circles under her eyes.  She was so pale she looked like one of the walking dead.  Her hair resembled a rat’s nest, but she didn’t care.  She didn’t need to impress anyone anymore.

Sylvie did a quick inventory.  What did she need?  Anything with color!  The whole place was monochromatic.  Everywhere she looked, things were either beige or white.  She went through the kitchen cupboards, finding that the bland color scheme carried over here as well.  The dishes were white too!  Roxanna must have thought Sylvie would be entertaining a lot because she had place settings for eight.  There were a corresponding number of water and wine glasses, both the large goblets for red and smaller ones for white.  Looking through the drawers, she found all the silverware, utensils, and knives she’d ever need.  She’d located a small pitcher and two black kitchen towels, but couldn’t find a cutting board, bread and fruit basket, a canister set, storage containers, or a corkscrew.  The last was an absolute necessity since she intended to open a lot of bottles and stay drunk a good long time.

The living room required a bright blast of color and so did her bedroom.  A couple of throw pillows might help to perk things up a bit.

She went through the bathroom writing down all the things she should buy: a hairdryer, razor, toothbrush, soap…you name it she needed it.  She wondered if she really had to get a razor.  Who was she shaving her legs for?  She was an independent woman now.  Maybe she should just go au naturel and let the hair on her legs grow.  Who cared if she looked like a furry ape?  No one was going to see her.

As for the little room that would become her office, first thing she had to do was make sure there was an extra telephone jack in there.  Nope, it was occupied by one of the old-fashioned phones her aunt used to have.  The heavy, black, rotary dial kind.  She was surprised that it had survived the roof falling in and the deluge of water that followed; but evidently the old phones were nearly indestructible, because its mate was sitting on the bedside table just like it was when her aunt was alive.  The dingy, yellow wall phone that had hung in the kitchen ever since Sylvie could remember had broken and been replaced by a new cordless model.  Pearly had told her it was essential she have one old-fashioned corded phone in case the power went out–which it often did.  With the power off, cordless phones were useless and cell phone service was so spotty it was best to have a backup in case of emergencies.  In order to hook up the computer to the phone line she had to get a splitter and an extension line.  Same thing for the living room, so she could work while sitting on the couch.  She’d grown up using a dial-up service and hated it.  It was too frigging slow, but she didn’t have a choice right now.  Tiz didn’t have a computer.  Old school, she’d conducted all her business over the phone.  Sylvie was pretty sure Berta had one though.  She’d have to ask her how she got online.

The closest Walmart was in Naponoch, not far from the state prison.  It took her over an hour to get there, not because it was that far away, but because she’d driven around looking for an open liquor store.  For the most part, the few little mom and pop liquor stores in the area were closed on Sunday.  It took a while, but she finally found one and picked up six bottles of Pinot Grigio.  Her priorities were a little screwed up, but right now making sure she had wine in the house was more important than having food, toothpaste, or tissues.  Funny, she’d never been much of a drinker before she met Connor.  He’d been her downfall.  Now look at her.  He’d driven her to drink!

Sylvie was worried the Walmart store would close before she got a chance to shop, but was pleased to learn it was open late.  She hurried up and down the aisles, filling her cart to nearly overflowing.  This was the first time she’d set foot in a store in months.  And the first time she could actually shop without worrying about how much things cost, or if she had enough money to pay for everything, since before she left home.  It was liberating!  Hoping to add a little pizzazz to the bland colorless living room, Sylvie bought several throw pillows in bright blue, to match her aunt’s urn; and orangish ones, to go with the terra cotta figurines.  She got a cookie jar in the shape of a big, red apple and a black, ceramic canister set with clamp-top lids for the kitchen.  The popcorn tins she’d given her aunt had rusted badly when they got wet.  She found some smaller, decorative replacements in the ‘holiday gift’ aisle.  She settled on three.  One was blue with stylized flowers on it in orange, pink, blue, and yellow.  It contained chocolate chip cookie mix and had a large wooden spoon tied to it with a blue plaid ribbon.  The other two were dark red and had an oriental design: branches of pink cherry blossoms, with colorful butterflies, and what appeared to be chickadees flitting around them.  They were shaped like small, square pagodas, with gold edging at the base and around the unusually shaped, two-tiered lid.  They each contained tea bags and a dozen round almond tea cakes smothered in powdered sugar.  She revisited the home décor department and grabbed two more pillows, this time red to match the cans she was putting in the bedroom.  That was easy…decorating done!

Next, she outfitted her office with a new wireless printer, electric pencil sharpener, metal mesh file holder, stapler, and all the supplies necessary to run an efficient and productive home-based business.

Sylvie headed for the women’s department and snatched up all kinds of stuff: flannel lounge pants, some long sleeve tees, a couple of pairs of jeans, two sweaters, a sweatshirt, two thick fleece jackets, and a pair of cheap boots for winter.

She managed to get everything on her list, including the nightlights.  She was ashamed to admit it, but she was still afraid of the dark and liked to sleep with a light on.  Especially if she was alone in the house.

Browsing the grocery aisles, Sylvie bought a few more things.  But except for the little, single-serving cans of veggies, a couple of boxes of mac and cheese, a six-pack of ramen noodles, and a half-dozen cans of the thick hearty style soup she liked,  most of the grocery items were sold in quantities meant for families, not skinny singles like her.  Same thing with the toilet paper, paper towels, and napkins.  Besides, the cart was so full she didn’t have room for anything else.

After paying for her items and loading up the jeep, she headed to the Shoprite, a mile away in Ellenville, to get the rest of what she needed.  She got some staples, but not many: a two pound bag of flour, a one pound box of sugar, a little bottle of olive oil.  She didn’t think she’d be doing much cooking for herself.  She searched the shelves for the smallest jars of mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup she could find, but they were nearly as expensive as their bigger counterparts so she got the larger ones.  She should just swipe a couple of extra packets of them the next time she went to McDonald’s or Burger King.  That’s what she used to do in college.  Sylvie got some milk, a jug of ice tea, bread, a carton containing a half dozen eggs, an eight ounce package of butter, and a small box of cereal.  She tossed a couple of cans of tuna and canned chicken into the cart, then stocked up on instant rice, pasta, a jar of spaghetti sauce, chicken pot pie, chips, single serve microwave popcorn, and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.  When depressed…eat ice cream!  She also picked up a pound of hamburger and a package of precooked chicken in addition to all the paper goods and cleaning stuff she needed: one roll of paper towels, two single rolls of toilet paper, and a pack of 50 napkins, the smallest she could find.  She wandered over to the produce aisle and selected four fat baking potatoes, two onions, two bananas, two apples, an orange, and a pear.  In deference to the holiday she even got herself a Hungry Man roasted turkey dinner complete with cranberry sauce to eat Thursday and a quarter pound of sliced turkey to have on Friday.  She was hoping it would give her that ‘leftovers after Thanksgiving,’ cheerful holiday vibe.  But she tended to doubt it.  She didn’t feel very cheerful.

It was nearly 9 pm by the time she rolled into the driveway.  It was pitch-black outside and she had to keep the headlights on just so she could see her way to the house.  She hadn’t remembered how desolate this place was at night or how spooky.  Next time she’d remember to turn on the switch so the lights would come on automatically with the motion sensor.

It took her nearly 15 minutes to haul all the stuff in and another hour to decide where to put it.  She was exhausted by the time she got around to opening a can of Campbell’s Chunky Soup: Grilled Chicken and Sausage Gumbo, her favorite.  She heated it up, but after four spoonfuls, decided she didn’t have much of an appetite.  Putting it in a container, she shoved it in the fridge for tomorrow.  Sylvie was used to eating alone, but something about sitting at the table by herself had filled her with sadness.  This is your life.  Get used to it, she told herself.

Sylvie uncorked the pinot and brought the bottle and a glass into the living room and proceeded to drink herself into a stupor.  She fell asleep on the couch.  At 3 am she got up and checked to make sure she’d locked the front door.  She hadn’t!  Then she pushed two chairs up against the kitchen door so it would make a commotion if it opened in the night.  After that she dragged herself into the bedroom and passed out on the bed.

Sylvie was up at the crack of dawn with a horrible hangover and a splitting headache.  That’s to be expected when you drink too much wine.  She consoled herself thinking at least she hadn’t puked on herself last night.  The morning, however, might be another matter.  She decided to go outside and dig the phallus figurines out of the garden and see if any of them were salvageable before she called the buyer.  In wasn’t that she was all that industrious, but rather that she felt queasy and was worried she’d throw up.  She wasn’t going to escape last night unscathed and Sylvie didn’t want to hurl in her neat as a pin, little house.

She’d cried while she dug up the 200 or so penises.  She’d lucked out: it was cold, but the ground hadn’t frozen yet.  She thought of Connor the whole time she was digging…they were pricks…so was he!  And not in a good way!  She was angry with him, yet couldn’t bring herself to hate him.  Not really.  Every time she jammed the pitchfork into the ground to loosen the soil and retrieve a figurine, she imagined she was poking him in the ass.  He certainly deserved it.

Out of 200, there were only 42 complete figurines, the shafts on the rest of them were missing.  It appeared as though Tiz had broken off the bulbous heads and just shoved them into the soil.  They were covered in green and brown algae and some had powdery white spots on them.  Unless you knew what they were, you wouldn’t realize they were penises.  They looked like misshapen, reddish-orange mushrooms.  How many people actually decorated their flower beds with dicks?  Not many she imagined.  But what the hell!  Sylvie didn’t want them going to waste so she put them back, spacing them out every few inches in front of the brown withered flowers.  Sylvie, Sylvie quite contrary how does your garden grow?  With flowers and seeds, bushes and weeds, and dicks all in a row!  Tiz would be pleased!  Sylvie was carrying on the tradition.  Of the 42 figurines, only 30 were intact.  The rest were damaged in some way, either cracked, chipped, or flaking.  She reburied rejects and tried to figure out how she could clean the salvageable ones.  The heads were a different color than the shafts.  The crowns were for the most part green with algae and the shafts were a brownish black having absorbed the color of the dark soil.  Sylvie didn’t think they were saleable in their present condition.  She needed to get the crud off them.  She washed them off in a bucket of soapy water, but it didn’t do much good.  She needed bleach and a good stiff scrub brush to get them really clean.

After she was done, she set them out on the porch to dry.  She couldn’t understand why her aunt hadn’t sold them.  Though not exactly straight, they looked fine to her.  It wasn’t like they were leaning like the tower of Pisa or anything.  They were pretty much straight, just not exactly perpendicular to the base.  Her aunt was a perfectionist and overly critical of her work; so for whatever reason, she’d tossed them in the garden.  But if the buyer wanted them, Sylvie would certainly sell them.  Fame as an artist had eluded Tizzy in life, but now that she was dead, people were clamoring for her work.  Terese Potter would become famous for her figurines if Sylvie had any say in the matter.  Sylvie didn’t own a camera, so she used her phone to take a picture of the linga lined up on the porch.  She wanted to send it to the art buyer.  The photo wasn’t very clear, the dicks were fuzzy and out of focus.  The camera in her phone was crappy.  Only three megapixels.  But what did she expect?  The phone only cost 20 bucks!

She opened up the shed to see what was in the boxes Pearly said were stored inside, but it was too dark to find anything.  Something was wrong with the light; it wasn’t working.  Either the lightbulb had burned out or the switch was bad.  Unfortunately, she didn’t have a flashlight.

She rummaged through the Jeep, hoping to find one there.  No dice.  But she did find something else hidden under the seat…another gun: a Smith & Wesson .38 special.  ‘Jesus Christ Tiz!’  Sylvie shrieked as her fingers gripped the cold metal.  She didn’t know much about the gun laws in New York State, but she was pretty sure that hiding a gun under a car seat was illegal.  It was a concealed weapon; cops tended to frown on that!  Sylvie said a silent prayer thanking God that the police hadn’t stopped her for a traffic violation and found it.  If they had, she’d be cooling her ass in jail right now, waiting for Pearly to post her bail.  She had no idea Tiz kept a gun in her car and was just glad she’d found it before someone else did.

Sylvie laid it on the coffee table in the living room and went back out to the shed, all the while wondering what made Tiz such a gun nut.  One gun Sylvie could understand, maybe even two or three, but this was excessive.  Tiz owned a shotgun, three rifles, and four handguns; quite an arsenal for a little old lady by anyone’s standards.

Sylvie walked two steps into the shed and right into a ginormous spider web.  She screamed and ran back outside, flailing her arms trying to get it out of her hair and off her face.  She hated spiders.  The thought of them made her cringe.

After first running to the store to pick up supplies: a scrub brush, pail, bleach, a straw broom, lightbulbs, batteries, and a flashlight; she set to work.  All the lingas got washed in a solution of bleach and dish detergent, then scrubbed with the brush.  After she rinsed them off with the outside hose, the variations in color were not nearly so noticeable.  They looked much better now.  In fact they looked like the real thing.  As though they’d just been unearthed during an archaeological dig.  Sylvie lined them up on the porch again and after deleting the other picture, took another one.  Much better!  She was pretty sure the buyer would love them.

Armed with her broom and flashlight, she attacked the cobwebs, clearing a path to the bare light bulb hanging down from the ceiling.  Sylvie replaced it and turned on the light.  It worked.  The small space was packed to the rafters with bulging cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and bushel baskets…all covered with pieces of tarp, all filled with newspaper-wrapped pottery.  It took her an hour to pull everything out so she could get a better look.  Some of the baskets and crates weighed a ton.  She found out why when she took off the covering and started removing the newspaper.  They were filled with more linga, but these were enormous.  Almost all of them were more than a foot long, 15 to 18 inches she suspected.  These pieces were quite old.  If the newspapers were any indication, most were from the late 1970s.  There were Venus figurines too.  Some were small, but many were the size of a cantaloupe or honeydew melon with huge, dangling breasts, big bellies, huge asses, and prominent vulvas.  Three were the size of a small watermelon and heavy as hell.  Some crates held Moche-style pottery.  Definitely pornographic!  They looked exactly like those produced by the pre-Incan Peruvian culture for which they were named.  From their pots it appeared the Moche were a randy bunch who thought of nothing but sex 24/7.  They were obsessed with it.  Her aunt made reproductions and sold them to museum stores, art galleries, and high-end curio shops.  When she was younger and less worldly, she couldn’t believe people actually bought them and put them out where others could see them.  They used to make her blush, but now she was jaded.  Whatever you thought about them, whether you believed they were art or pornography, they were definitely conversation starters.  There were 10 large pitchers fashioned to look like huge scrotums with penis spouts.  She counted 18 that were made to look like roly-poly men with enormous erections.  The very tip of the penis was missing so liquid could pour out.  There were 25 bottle-type vessels with narrow necks.  They were really raunchy: decorated with males and females coupling in various positions, engaging in fellatio, males stimulating females, females stimulating males, legs splayed; every orifice on display.  There were depictions of women having sex with skeletons; cats, deer, and other animals getting it on; and scenes of bestiality.  Tiz had fashioned a plain cup with a large penis sticking up at an angle from the base.  There was a slit in the tip, sort of like a primitive sippy cup.  She discovered several female figurines with a large hole topped by a button-like clitoris where the vagina should have been.  You’d have to lay them on their backs in order to fill them with liquid.  Sylvie had no idea what they were used for.  The pièce de résistance, however, was a huge, anatomically correct vulva, with all the parts of its female genitalia and anus visible.  It weighed 10 to 12 pounds and was about 18 inches long, a foot wide, and four inches high.  Just what every home needed.  Not!  She wasn’t quite as blasé about Tiz’s pottery as she thought, because she blushed every time she looked at it.

She dusted them all off and lined them up on the porch with the others.  Including the 30 she’d gotten from the garden there were 137 figurines in all.  And that didn’t count the 25 or so which were on display in the house.  She had no idea what they were worth.  She took another picture and then tried to send it to the buyer.  Wasn’t gonna happen!  She had no bars.  She started walking around the yard holding up her phone waiting to find a signal.  She had to walk all the way to the road before she got some bars.  That sucked!  She sent the pictures off with a short text giving the woman her home phone number.  She had visions of having to come out in a snow storm to send texts and get messages.  She needed a better phone.  But this was such a remote location she wasn’t sure that even an expensive cell phone would work properly here.  The house was in a deep ravine between two cliffs.  Were there even any cell towers around here?  She needed to call Pearly and ask him about that.

Sylvie checked her messages and voicemails and was shocked at the number of calls and texts she’d received.  Connor had left 20 voicemails and an equal number of texts.  She only read the last one.  ‘WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?  CALL ME!’ it said.  She guessed he wrote it all in caps so she’d know he was angry and be intimidated.  ‘What do you care?’ she asked as she deleted it.  Sylvie didn’t bother reading or listening to any more of his messages.  Screw him!  He’d ignored her and treated her like crap, now it was his turn.  What goes around comes around!  She gritted her teeth and tried not to cry, but it was useless.  She started blubbering.  You can’t love someone one day and then turn it off the next.  At least Sylvie couldn’t.

She was surprised to see that Sean had called her six times.  She didn’t know what he was up to, but she didn’t trust him.  He’d always treated her with contempt.  And now he was pursuing her?  What the hell was that about?  She had no desire to hook up with another rich-boy asshole.  Once was enough!  Been there!  Done that!

Jameson, her new employer, called twice.  She thought he wasn’t going to call her until the end of the week, give her time to get settled.  He was jumping the gun a bit; it was only Monday!  She didn’t know how she felt about him.  He seemed nice enough.  But then she’d thought Connor was nice too and look how that turned out.  One thing she knew for sure, her relationship with Jameson was going to be strictly professional.  She’d learned her lesson.  Drake made Jameson sound creepy.  He said the man suffered from an almost pathological case of envy and resentment when it came to Connor.  Drake warned her not to trust him.  Connor had said something similar.  But she wasn’t about to form an opinion based on them.  Jameson was friendly and polite.  He’d come to her defense when Drake had tried to embarrass and humiliate her.  He’d even taken the time to introduce her to a number of people in the publishing business.  Based on her first impression, she thought he was a good guy.  But then recent events had proven she didn’t know diddly-squat about men.  She was obviously a lousy judge of character.  How else could she explain what happened with Connor.

Oh joy!  Just what she needed: Justin Frommer texted her three times. That was definitely a nonstarter!

What was with these rich guys?  Why were they suddenly so interested in her?  It made no sense.  She wasn’t rich.  She wasn’t pretty.  Surely there were enough debutantes around to ‘see to their needs’ that they didn’t need to bug her.  Perhaps they assumed she was just another promiscuous bimbo Connor had discarded, like Deidre and the others.  Then again maybe they were just bored with drop-dead gorgeous rich bitches and wanted to see how farm girls did it.  Maybe mounted from behind animal-style like horses, cows, or rutting sheep?  Whatever the reason, she wasn’t going to bite.  She wouldn’t be returning any of their calls either.

It looked like just about every member of her family had tried to reach her.  Sara was the worst.  She’d texted Sylvie 10 times and left eight voicemails in 24 hours.  Don’t these people know how to mind their own business?  Sylvie thought she’d made it very clear that she wouldn’t be talking to them until after the holiday.  But apparently, they hadn’t gotten the message.  Sylvie knew Sara meant well, but really couldn’t deal with her right now.  Her feelings were too raw, too painful.  She was barely holding on by a thread.  One word from her sister and she’d fall apart.  Lose it completely!  Sylvie turned off the phone and walked back to the house.

One by one she carried the figurines into the house, trying to find places to put them all.  She couldn’t decide which ones to sell.  Each of the Moche pieces was unique.  She wanted to keep a few of them.  As for the Venuses, she’d hold onto about a half-dozen or so of those.  And the linga?  She’d been exposed to enough dicks of late to last her a lifetime.  She didn’t need a reminder.  Still, she wasn’t going to divest herself of all of them.  She’d keep some for old times’ sake.

She’d spent the next hour arranging figurines on the built-in shelves on either side of the mantle.  First she did boy parts on one side of the fireplace and females on the other with the Moche pottery on the lowest shelves of each side.  She didn’t like the way it looked.  She took them all off and started again.  This time she did one shelf with boy thingies and the shelf below it with Venuses.  It looked too fussy!  So she alternated them…boy girl, boy girl, but she ran out of female figurines before she finished.  In the end, after an hour and a half of fiddling and futzing, she came to the realization that she wasn’t going to get the display to look perfectly balanced no matter what she did.  There were so many figurines she had to squeeze them three and four deep in places on some of the shelves.  The overflow was placed on the windowsills and kitchen counters with the rest, the heaviest pieces, sitting on the floor in a corner of the living room.  Grimacing, she consigned the oversized female crotch to the coffee table.  Whatever the buyer offered…it was hers!

She cut the tags off her pillows and put them on the couch and chairs in the living room.  She agonized over which pillows should go where.  Did she want to put two blue and two orange on the couch and then one blue and one orange on each chair?  Or did she want to do two of the same color on each chair so it didn’t look too matchy-matchy?  She opted for one of each color on either end of the couch and on each chair.  This was the first time she’d ever had a place of her own that she could decorate the way she wanted.  She’d always lived with roommates who’d decorated before Sylvie even moved in.  Everything done to their taste not hers.  She glanced at the shelves covered with her aunt’s creations and shook her head.  Not much had changed.  This time at least she got to pick the pillows!

She tackled the bedroom next.  She placed the red pillows on the bed then grabbed the popcorn tin that held the ammo and brought it into the kitchen.  She opened the two red tins and removed the tea and cookies.  Then, after wiping them out, she began to transfer the ammunition.  Shotgun and rifle shells were put into one and bullets for the handguns in the other.  Sylvie retrieved the Smith & Wesson off the cocktail table, as Tizzy used to call it.  She checked the cylinder and removed the bullets, then looked it over thoroughly.  It could use a good cleaning.  She reloaded it and looked around for a place to put it for now.  There was a small, shallow drawer in the middle of the coffee table so she stashed it there until she could decide what to do with it.  She was definitely going to get rid of some of the guns.  She didn’t want the cottage turned into an arsenal.  The house was secluded…in the middle of nowhere.  Her nearest neighbor was nearly a mile away; so there was good reason to keep a gun in the house.  She needed it for protection.  But how many guns was enough?  She wasn’t planning on having a prolonged shoot out with anyone.  She liked the shotgun because it was big and scary looking.  Nobody would dare attack anyone holding a double-barreled shotgun, especially the big, bulky, old-fashioned kind like Tizzy’s.  Unless, of course, they were suicidal!  The rifles would also make an intruder retreat if he knew what was good for him.  But the handguns were small and didn’t inspire the kind of fear a longer gun did; plus the average shooter was more likely to hit their target with a rifle than with a handgun.

Sylvie returned to the bedroom with the tins and checked the guns.  There were three handguns in the night tables and four long guns in the space under the mattress.  They were all unloaded.  She put shells in the shotgun and one of the rifles.  The shotgun went under her side of the bed.  The loaded rifle under the other.  The two rifles in the middle remained unloaded.  She placed bullets in the clips of all three handguns, making sure each had a round in the chamber.  Until the kitchen door was fixed, she’d rather be safe than sorry.  Sylvie set the tin containing the shotgun shells on one nightstand and the one with bullets on the other.  They actually looked quite nice with the pillows.  The handguns were divvied up between nightstands.  One went into the drawer on her side of the bed, the remaining two on the opposite side.  She grabbed the tin with the firecrackers and cherry bombs and returned to the kitchen.

Sylvie took the ribbon and wooden spoon off the new blue tin, took out the cookie mix, and transferred the fireworks into it; but she couldn’t find the packets of wooden matches.  What was the use of having fireworks if you didn’t have matches to light the damn things?  Where had Tiz kept them?  She thought in the tin, but maybe it was in the bedside table.  She went back into the living room to see if the fireplace matches were still in the wrought iron holder by the log crib.  She was surprised to find everything gone.  Including the fireplace tools that had once stood beside the wood stove fireplace insert.  Sylvie hadn’t noticed it before.  Talk about being oblivious!  She looked around the room and realized that the two hurricane lamps that had always been on the mantle were gone too.  Tizzy always kept them filled with lamp oil in case of a power outage.  She sighed.  She’d have to make another trip to Walmart.  She put the tin with the fireworks on the coffee table next to the oversized genitalia.  Once the buyer came to get the figurines, she’d find a more suitable place for it.  Preferably near the door so it would be handy if any bear showed up.

Having no room to store them and not wanting the rusty old tins to spoil the look of her tidy house, Sylvie piled them one on top of another on the porch beside the front door.  She’d have to call the town offices tomorrow to find out how and where to get a garbage dumping permit and what to do with her recyclables.  She knew where the dump was, she’d gone there with her aunt a few times.  But she’d need some sort of tag proving she was a resident in order to use it.  For now they could stay out on the porch along with her new, heavy-duty, bear-proof, metal garbage can.  Tiz had a locked wooden box on the back porch to hold her trash cans, but that got crushed when the porch roof caved in.  This one cost a couple of hundred dollars.  But Pearly told her it was worth every penny if it kept the bears away.

The woodstove in the kitchen was missing all its stuff too.  Bummer!  She wouldn’t be able to have a fire until she got some matches and fireplace tools.  She couldn’t very well be shifting burning logs around with her bare hands.  Before she went off half-cocked on another errand, she resolved to carefully inventory everything in the house, making lists of what would be needed immediately and what could wait.

Sylvie had accumulated a very long list of items by the time she got around to checking the laundry room off the kitchen.  She’d forgotten about it.  It turned out to be a treasure trove.  She found all the missing items.  Everything had been washed and scrubbed and in the case of the log crib and the fireplace tools, it looked as if they’d gotten a new coat of matte-finish, black paint.  She stared at the hurricane lamps.  They were almost the same shade of blue as her aunt’s urn.  Something was different about them though, aside from the fact that the glass chimneys were not caked with soot.  The bottoms were the same, only cleaner, without any dust or greasy residue on them; but the tops were different.  The thin, fragile glass was etched with a floral design and the top was fluted.  Very pretty actually.  Beside them were two tall, ceramic lamps that used to sit on the end tables on either side of the couch.  They’d been cleaned up too.  It looked like they not only had new beige shades, but new wiring and brass fittings as well.  They were the exact same shade of blue.  In all the years she’d been coming here she’d never noticed the color.  Who knew Aunt Tizzy was so color-coordinated?  She put out the lamps and the fireplace and woodstove stuff, then tried to decide what to do with the framed copy of the Second Amendment and the old flintlock rifle.  Maybe she’d just leave them where they were for the time being.  She found a new broom, mop, a Swiffer, all kinds of cleaning stuff, laundry detergent and fabric softener in the corner.  Several shopping bags sat atop the new washer and dryer.  Half were filled with things that had been salvaged from the destruction.  Among them, Aunt Tizzy’s trinket box that held the few pieces of jewelry she owned and a dozen letters her beloved husband had written to her from Vietnam.  There was a small, red velvet bag inside, inscribed with the words Linden Bros. Funeral Home.  Sylvie shook the contents out into her hand.  It was Tizzy’s rings.  A plain gold band, its metal worn thin from years of wear, and a 1920s era, antique ring.  Glenn had bought it for Tiz the morning of their wedding.  He’d insisted she have some sort of engagement ring, as a symbol of his love, but he didn’t have a lot of money and couldn’t afford much in the way of a diamond.  He’d found the ring at a pawnshop near the base.  It was 14 karat gold with a basket setting fashioned of floral and leaf filigree with a tiny diamond at the center.  It wasn’t much by today’s gaudy standards, where women wear a fortune on their fingers, but Sylvie had always loved the ring.  It was so dainty and beautiful.  Sylvie slipped the rings on.  ‘Don’t worry Tiz,’ she whispered in a voice fraught with emotion.  ‘I’ll take good care of them.’

There was an old photo album, several pairs of scissors, and a 1950’s vintage, brass vanity set with a hand mirror, oval brush, and a squat glass jar that held a big powder puff.  The backs of the brush and mirror and the lid of the jar had porcelain inserts painted in a floral design.

There were also two small, beige, ginger-jar-type, bedside table lamps.  Sylvie couldn’t figure out if they were old or new.  She located the lampshades for them in another bag, along with packs of 60 and 100 watt bulbs and several 3-way lights.  After setting up the lamps, she went through the rest of the bags.  A gallon-sized zipper storage bag was filled with nothing but matchbooks and boxes of wooden matches.  Another held pens, cellophane tape, little notepads, rubber bands, string, tacks, and two decks of cards.  Roxanna thought of things Sylvie hadn’t: a toilet brush, a standing paper towel holder for the kitchen counter, a soap dish, and a disposable cup dispenser for the bathroom.  Even hangers and a collapsible hamper.  She wouldn’t need to go to the store after all.

After finding a place for everything, Sylvie put the nightlights out.  One each in the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, and two along the interior wall which illuminated the living room and open hallway between the rooms.

Putting together her office was harder than she thought it would be.  Since she didn’t have Wi-Fi here, the wireless feature on the printer she bought was useless.  That pissed her off since she’d paid more to have that feature.  She’d have to run the wire to the computer every time she wanted to print something.  Sylvie got everything set up then signed on for a three-month trial of dial-up internet service for $9.95 a month.  It took her a while to get it up and running, but when she did, it wasn’t nearly as slow as she remembered.  This was the best she could do for now so she had to suck it up.

At 6:30 she was finally able to sit down and check emails.  Sylvie had reams of them.  Most were from Connor.  She couldn’t bear to look at them.  She’d been holding it together most of the day, going through her to-do list, trying to keep her mind occupied with other things…anything but him!  But it hadn’t worked.  Sylvie wondered where he was?  What he was doing?  If he was angry or sad?  She’d spent the whole damn day thinking about the bastard.  She didn’t know why she even cared.  You can’t continue to love someone who can’t or won’t love you back.  She’d ended it.  She’d had no choice really.  It was already over.  Had been for weeks.  It was better this way.  That’s what she kept telling herself.  But it didn’t stop her from missing him.  From wanting him.  Sylvie fought back tears.  She really had to stop this crap!  He didn’t want you!  Let it go!  Tears spilled from her eyes.  He was obviously angry at her.  Connor expected to be obeyed.  He didn’t allow mutiny in the ranks.  And her leaving was certainly that.  If he was angry about anything, she told herself, it was about losing a good editor, not the lover he’d banished and imprisoned for the last three months.  Lovers were expendable.  A gifted editor was not!  Except of course on those rare occasions, few and far between, when Connor showed up wanting to beat her ass and play a rousing game of hide the salami before abruptly disappearing again.  She thought they’d been making love.  But she knew better now.  In his eyes she was, and probably always had been, part of the bimbo brigade.  Someone meek, compliant, and needy, who he could screw whenever it suited him!  He didn’t give a tinker’s damn about her.  She’d deluded herself into thinking otherwise.

When Sylvie was with him she felt special, but she wasn’t, not really.  She stared at the list of emails from him, but didn’t open a one.  She’d spent months trying to connect with him, sending texts and emails, leaving voicemails.  Now he’d know what it felt like to be ignored, to be left hanging.  Sylvie wasn’t doing it out of spite or revenge; she was doing it to save herself.  She’d done what she had to do.  She’d finally left him.  But the ache in her belly, the pain in her chest, made her wonder if she hadn’t made a mistake.  No!  No!  No!  Stop second guessing yourself!  You’re well rid of him!  The voice inside her cried out.  But Sylvie didn’t feel that way.  She felt lost, lonely, and bereft.

Sara was in rare form.  She’d sent her four emails all wanting to know what happened and where Sylvie was that she couldn’t call or email to tell her family she was alright.  She started each one begging, then demanding, she come home for Thanksgiving.  Sylvie felt guilty.  She didn’t want to worry her family.  She just needed time alone to think things through…figure it all out.  Maybe she’d call on Thanksgiving Day just to let them know she was OK.  She’d put on her ‘happy Sylvie persona’ and tell them she was fine.  That she was over Connor and moving on with her life.  But how could she make them believe it when she didn’t believe it herself?

Jameson had emailed her three times.  She wondered what that was about?  She hoped he wasn’t rescinding his job offer.  She read the first one written at 11 this morning.  Her eyes widened at the news.  Connor had contacted him by phone, demanding to know where Sylvie was, sure Jameson had something to do with her disappearance.  Jameson had denied any involvement and hung up on him.  She couldn’t imagine anyone anywhere having the nerve to hang up on Connor.  It just wasn’t done.  Jameson wanted to let her know that Connor was livid and that she should steer clear of him because he was ‘extremely confrontational,’ and ‘combative.’  From the tone of the email, and the smartass digs he was making about Connor’s mental condition, saying he was ‘paranoid,’ ‘delusional,’ and ‘behaving like a lunatic,’ Sylvie could tell Jameson was enjoying this.  From what everyone said, Jameson was always looking to best Connor.  And now he had.  She’d provided the ammunition.  The second one was written at noon.  Connor had called him again demanding to know if he’d hired Sylvie.  Jameson told him it was none of his damn business, but later admitted she was now working for him as an editor.  According to the email, Connor really lost it and threatened to destroy Jameson and his ‘piss-ant company.’  Connor had insisted he had a three book contract with her and that Sylvie would go to work for Jameson over his dead body.  Sylvie couldn’t believe it.  She hadn’t realized good editors were that hard to come by that Connor would actually threaten people and lie to keep her.  She sent back a quick response.

‘Jamison, I’m sorry for the trouble I seem to have caused.  I no longer work for Mr. Hudson or Hudson Publishing.  I tendered my resignation early Sunday morning.  I was indeed offered a three book contract, but Mr. Hudson is mistaken, I never signed it.  I am, therefore, free to work for whomever I like.  I hope this clarifies things and that your offer of employment still stands.  Sylvie Jenkins’

Then she read the third one which came in just after 5 pm.  Her jaw dropped.  Connor hadn’t left it at threatening calls.  He’d barged into the offices of Bookworm Press and had a verbal and physical altercation with Jameson.  Sylvie couldn’t believe what she was reading.  Words led to shoves and their subordinates had to step between them, to stop them from throwing punches at one another.  Sylvie sat shaking her head.  They were fighting over who she was going to work for?  How immature!  She didn’t blame Jameson.  She blamed Connor for causing the scene.  This was the same man who couldn’t be bothered seeing her Saturday night, who treated her like a discarded toy, a possession he no longer wanted, and now he’s threatening to fight people for her?  The whole thing was ridiculous!  Why all this macho posturing?  Saturday he didn’t want her.  Now he wants her?  Make up your frigging mind Connor!  She didn’t understand men.  If you throw something away, if you leave it on the curb, and someone else picks it up, you have no right to demand they give it back.  You don’t want it, but you don’t want anyone else to have it either?  Connor couldn’t have it both ways.  She didn’t belong to him.  He had no say in the matter.  He’d lost that right.

Sylvie decided not to respond to the last email.  Though Jameson was obviously gloating over the fact that Connor was apoplectic about Sylvie leaving his employ, she was afraid that on further reflection he might not want to get in a pissing contest with Connor after all.  Articles on the internet portrayed Connor as a ruthless adversary, a coldhearted corporate cutthroat.  From what she’d been told, he and Jameson had engaged in this stupid competition, this dick-slapping contest, for years.  Maybe it wasn’t as big a deal as Sylvie thought it was.  Maybe it was just business as usual for them.

She stared at the screen for a while then closed the lid of the laptop and began wandering the house looking for something to do.  She was used to working 14 to 16 hour days, seven days a week.  Sylvie was at a loss to know how she’d fill the time now.  There was nothing to do except maybe bring in some wood.  Then what?  Watch TV?  Diddle herself?  No!  Diddling was definitely a no-no!  It would remind her too much of Connor.  As a matter of fact that collection of rock-hard dicks in the living room wasn’t helping her forget him either.  What she needed to do, she scolded herself, was put him out of her mind and move on!

She sighed then set to work carrying in the wood.  It didn’t take long to fill both log cradles with split wood and kindling…now what was she supposed to do?

What Sylvie needed was a new purpose in life other than getting screwed by some arrogant, rich-boy asshole that treated her like shit.  She went over her possible options in that regard.

Revirginze?  She’d heard the term on a reality show.  Maybe she’d look into that.  Not the surgery, just the celibacy.  She’d lived without sex for 25 years before Connor came along, and had been perfectly content.  She could do it again if she’d only stop thinking about him.  About the weight of his body resting on hers.  The way he filled her completely.  The feel of his skin, damp with sweat, rubbing against hers.  His stubble.  His scent.  Enough already!  She was never going to get over him if she kept wallowing in misery, beating her breast and crying ‘woe is me!’  If she filled her every waking hour with thoughts of him.

Maybe she should become a nun like Mother Teresa.  Join a convent of pious, cloistered sisters.  Not likely!  She’d written an erotic romance filled with images of illicit, carnal sex, bondage and discipline, dildos and butt plugs.  Chances are they wouldn’t let her in.  The Church took umbrage at such things.

What she needed to do was get back to work.  Start editing projects for Jameson.  Write a sequel to Intimate Pleasures.  Or maybe even continue her education.

She’d always wanted to get an advanced degree, but hadn’t had the money until now.  There were enough colleges within an hour’s drive of here that surely a couple of them must offer a Master of Fine Arts degree in creative writing or a Masters in English Literature.  A lot of editors had MFAs.  It might help her secure another job if being a freelance editor for Bookworm didn’t work out.  But then she wasn’t really sure how much of a future she had in the publishing industry.  Jameson enjoyed battling with Connor, but would another publisher be willing to go up against the great Connor Hudson and his corporate empire just to give her a job?  She thought not.  Was Connor vindictive?  Would he have her blacklisted?

Sylvie had some misgivings about working for Jameson.  He was too friendly.  The kiss he’d given her the night they’d met was inappropriate.  He was a prospective employer offering her a job.  His behavior was unseemly, especially the tongue action!  She had the unsettling feeling that this was going to be a redux of what happened with Connor.  The last thing she needed was another predatory boss, looking to bang an employee.  Especially not when that employee was her.  She’d already been down that road.  She wasn’t about to go there again!  With the competition between Jameson and Connor being what it was, she figured her new employer would engage in a full-court press to get her into bed.  Just so he could throw it in Connor’s face.  Regrettably, Jameson was the only game in town right now; so she had to try to make this work.

Sylvie microwaved the leftover soup from yesterday and made herself eat all of it.  She’d forgotten to eat again today.  Par for the course!  If she didn’t stop this nonsense soon, she’d waste away to nothing.  It wasn’t healthy.  She really needed to gain some weight back.  She was little more than skin and bones.  Opening the cookie jar, she pulled out two almond tea cakes and popped them in her mouth.  She wasn’t hungry, but she ate them anyway.

Sylvie was determined to turn over a new leaf.  No more feeling sorry for herself!  No more skipping meals or working herself to exhaustion.  She was going to eat healthy, get plenty of rest, and get fit.  Not eating caused her to feel weak and tired all the time.  Feeling lousy made her maudlin and depressed.  It zapped her self-confidence and worsened her anxiety.  It had become a vicious cycle.  She’d spent the last couple of months in a funk: crying, fearful, and angry.  Time to snap out of it!  Deciding there was no time like the present to banish the doldrums and get herself fit, Sylvie walked laps in the house.  Around the kitchen, through the living room, the office, and then the bedroom.  She did it ten times then began marching around the house instead.  That got old real fast so she danced from room to room, singing and humming tunes, alternating between the ‘Cha-cha Slide,’ the ‘Electric Slide,’ and a poorly choreographed Texas Line dance.  The last done to Sylvie’s off-key rendition of ‘Achy Breaky Heart.’  She stepped, skipped, slid, dipped, turned, wiggled, and kicked.  If she was going to do this on a regular basis she needed to get herself an iPod.  Her singing wasn’t going to cut it.  After completing 30 laps, she figured she’d had enough exercise for today.  Okay…now what?

She sat down in the living room and turned on the TV.  She was getting more channels than she thought she would; picking up some New York City channels, as well as Kingston, Middletown, Newburgh, and a few other places.  She wanted to curl up on the couch and lose herself in a movie.  But there wasn’t one on.  Sylvie didn’t recognize any of the shows or characters as she clicked through the channels.  She’d been so busy working to make ends meet over the last few years; she hadn’t really had time to watch TV.  Truth was, she never had the extra money to buy one.  Meagan didn’t have a TV either.  Her cousin preferred watching stuff on her laptop in her bedroom.  That way she could entertain her frequent male guests in total privacy.  Sylvie didn’t have a computer back then.  She couldn’t afford to replace her old one when the hard drive got fried.  Most nights Sylvie had amused herself reading books she’d taken out of the library.  That was a thought.  She wondered where the closest library was.  One of the first things on her to-do list for tomorrow was to find out and get a library card.  Glowering at the television, she decided investing in a DVD player might be a good idea.  She’d seen a Redbox in front of Walmart’s and most libraries lent movies now.  She loved old movies…the sappier the better.  She’d done without for the last few years: no TV, no computer, no music.  Until she went to work for Connor, her life had been focused on work, making enough money to survive.  There’d been little time for leisure.  This was going to be a new experience for her.  She’d watched a little TV now and again at the penthouse; mostly in the middle of the night when she couldn’t fall asleep.  But not very much and usually only reality shows.  When she lived with Connor they’d watched movies at night.  New releases mostly, currently playing in movie theaters.  That’s if they weren’t working on the book; or in the bedroom burning up the sheets.  No!  Don’t go there!

Sylvie turned the television off and looked around for something else to do.  She really needed to get a hobby.  Take up scrapbooking, knitting, or painting.  It was only 8:15 pm.  She could always get an early start on her Christmas shopping.  Get some gifts for her nieces and nephews, maybe a tree, a wreath, and some decorations.  Glancing out the window, she quickly changed her mind.  That wouldn’t be such a good idea.  It was starting to snow.  These backroads were treacherous after dark in good weather, what with all the curves and deer wandering through the area.  With a glaze of ice and a dusting of snow on the winding roadways, they were an accident waiting to happen.

Sylvie left the lights on in the living room and went back to her office.  Maybe she could watch a movie on her laptop.  Meagan used to do it all the time.  Of course she didn’t have dial-up.  Sylvie sat down and started fiddling with the keys.  She noticed her picture file and stared at it a moment, then choked up.  Sara had sent her photos of her father’s wedding.  There were several pictures of Connor among them.  She opened the file and then quickly closed it again.  Seeing images of his smiling face, looking at her like he cared, would rip her heart out, tear it to shreds.  Connor had always told her their relationship wasn’t permanent, that he was incapable of love, but she hadn’t believed him.  His words didn’t jibe with the way he looked at her sometimes.  She thought…  What?  That she could bring him around?  That he’d fall to his knees and declare his undying love for her?  Didn’t happen did it Sylvie?  The voice inside her taunted.  Girls like her weren’t destined to marry prince charming.  Fact was Connor was an aberration.  Handsome men never looked at girls like her: the shy clumsy ones, the plain, skinny, flat-chested, freckle-faced ones.  She wished she’d never laid eyes on Connor.  She was fine with her life before.  She’d accepted who and what she was.  The girl who’d never had a boyfriend.  Who was destined to be an old maid.  Then he’d come into her life and made her believe she was something she wasn’t.  She wasn’t pretty or charming or witty or elegant.  She was nothing!  And that’s the way he’d treated her!  Tears flooded her eyes again.  The pity party had begun!

Sylvie wanted to crawl under a rock and die…but then she thought of Jameson, Sean, and the Frommer twins.  If she was such a loser, why were they sniffing around her?  She didn’t know, but it made her uneasy.  These guys were millionaires and billionaires.  What did they want with her?  Jameson wanted an editor and maybe a little piece of ass on the side; but what about the others?  No one was going to get a ‘little piece’ of anything from her anymore.  Her new motto was ‘no sex, no time, no how!’  She’d learned her lesson.  She kept telling herself she should be flattered by their attention.  What an ego builder after years of feeling homely, plain, and inadequate.  Four, count ’em, four handsome, make that very handsome, extremely rich men were making noises like they wanted to go out with her; take her to dinner, wine and dine her!  Five if you counted Drake’s advances at the party a while ago!  He’d certainly acted interested.  She obviously wasn’t the dog she believed herself to be.  Sylvie thought about the last two parties.  She’d looked presentable, maybe even cute.  She was never going to be a Victoria’s Secret model, but she wasn’t exactly a hag either.  She had a serious problem with her self-image.  When Sylvie thought of herself all she saw was flaws.  Her flat ‘fried egg’ boobs.  The furry unibrow that appeared every time she forgot to pluck.  Her scrawny, twig-like limbs.  Her boney knees and elbows.  Her clumsiness, paralyzing shyness, and her big feet.  She was small boned and petite; but instead of dainty little tootsies, she had big clodhoppers and crooked toes.  Ugh!  The only thing she took pride in was her intellect.  She was smart.  But most men didn’t like smart women.  In her experience they avoided them like the plague.  Still, these guys were interested in her and she didn’t think it was for her mind.  They must not think she was all that bad.  Men didn’t compete to fuck plain girls…did they?  Not when they could have their pick of any beautiful babe they wanted.  There had to be some hidden agenda at play here, but she’d yet to figure out what it was.  She didn’t know what to make of them or their motives.

What she needed was something to keep her occupied for the next couple of weeks.  Just until she got Connor Hudson out of her system.  Could finally say his name or think of him without falling to pieces.  She opened her documents and scrolled through her files and came up with the one labeled ‘classmates and possible suspects.’  Sylvie opened it and took a look at the list: there were about 250 names.  They were all students who’d attended Collegiate Boys Preparatory between 1996 and 2000, the year Connor had graduated.  They represented both upper and lower classmen.  She wasn’t doing this for Connor.  She was doing it for Ernestine Shaw.  Sylvie knew she wasn’t responsible for the reporter’s death…the killer was!  But she couldn’t help thinking that if she’d only heard the woman out, let her talk to Connor instead of hanging up on her; maybe she’d still be alive now, instead of rotting in her grave.  That decision would haunt her for the rest of her life.

By 11, Sylvie was bleary-eyed.  She’d researched each name looking for evidence of any criminal behavior, but she’d found squat.  These boys were either all pillars of society or smart enough not to get caught.  There were no tickets for speeding or reckless driving, no charges of criminal mischief, brawls, assaults, underage drinking, or drugs.  They were not only rich; they were saints!

She was about to give it up for the night when she remembered about the accident on Long Island that Sean, Drake, Alex, and Nathan had been involved in.  The one that made their parents decide not to let them go on their graduation trip to Europe.  She knew the accident happened sometime in April or May 2000, right before they’d all graduated; so she scrolled through the archives of small, local, Long Island papers, both dailies and weeklies,  until she found it.  From the pictures, it was one hell of a crash.  They were lucky they hadn’t been killed.  The article said they’d only suffered minor injuries, were treated at a hospital, and then released.  Only two names appeared in the piece, Nathan and Drake.  They were identified as being 18 at the time.  Alex and Sean were never mentioned by name, just their ages.  The article said they’d been racing on the highway and that alcohol had played a part in the accident.  But when she looked for follow-up stories about the accident and searched the town court docket, she could find no evidence that anyone had been arrested for drunk driving, that any tickets for speeding or reckless driving had been issued, or any fines paid.  She could only assume their parents’ wealth and position got the charges expunged.

Sylvie wondered if there were any similar offenses in their backgrounds.  Since she didn’t think the Times or Daily News would cover youthful indiscretions unless they were serious felonies, Sylvie focused on the local papers looking for stories about boys either arrested or questioned by the police in the previous two years.  ‘The six’ and their friends all summered in South Hampton. There was more delinquency there than she would have imagined, considering it was such a wealthy enclave.  The offspring  of the rich shoplifted, scored drugs and got drunk, vandalized cars, knocked over mailboxes, and covered buildings in graffiti just like poor kids did.  Only they got away with it because mommy and daddy had deep pockets and would pay whatever it took to avoid a scandal and keep Junior out of the hoosegow.  It seemed like every weekend the cops were either scraping kids off the pavement when they decided to drink and drive; or were breaking up drug and alcohol-fueled beach parties where someone got taken to the hospital, either for injuries resulting from fights, alcohol poisoning, or drug overdoses.

She found a story about the gang rape of a young girl that occurred on September 4th, 1999 at a Labor Day weekend beach party.  The victim had been rushed to the hospital, suffering from a drug overdose and internal injuries.  The perps, described as a group of teenage boys, from prominent families, were not identified because of their ages.

It was 2 am.  Time to go to bed.  She’d get back to work on the case tomorrow morning.  Sylvie shuffled through the house, checking the doors and turning out lights.  After changing into a pair of flannels and a long sleeve tee, she crawled into bed and switched off the lamp.  She was proud of herself.  She’d survived another day without Connor!