blamed the lunch date. She’d learned long ago that it was better to get up, have a snack and watch a few minutes of middle-of-the-night TV to break the cycle of restless sleep.
She paused in front of the fridge. She ’d bought a few groceries, but it was time to give the refrigerator a real cleaning out and do some serious food shopping.
A real cleaning …the words brought to mind Mrs. Blair. It might be nice to have her in one day a week. She could clean up the fridge and chase the dust bunnies. Maybe some other household duties, too.
The toast popped up from the toaster. She carried it , along with a small glass of apple juice into the living room and snapped on the TV. She snuggled on the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her and dragging the sofa blanket down over her legs. A fascinating infomercial selling a new facial care system played out before her. Not much, but better than a blank screen, and mildly amusing in a cynical way.
Starlight twinkled in through the gaps in the blinds. To cover the glass door, she’d fastened a sheet over the drapery rod.
Too bad it was cold. By the time the weather warmed up, she’d be back in Raleigh. Back with Laurel.
She slid down until her head rested against the back of the sofa and propped her feet on the coffee table. The smell of fresh paint lingered.
Back with Laurel.
No, she wouldn ’t.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine where else.
She could get her own place again. Maybe get a real job.
Living with Mother had been a temporary arrangement, something that benefitted them both, but was not intended to last indefinitely. Yet the temporary stay had stretched to five years.
Was she so afraid of being alone that she had allowed Laurel to make her choices? Or was it procrastination?
Waiting, that ’s what it felt like.
But waiting for what?
Chapt er Six
It was morning and her neck ached. She stretched and felt the tug of a pinched muscle near her collarbone. An infomercial had lulled her to sleep. Sales pitches had infiltrated her dreams. Not exactly restful, but still better than the recurring dreams. Like the one about the baby. A searching dream. Or a waiting dream. Sometimes one, sometimes the other, but they both reeked of loss and regret. On this bright morning she thought she might have been wrong. Whether of regret or waiting or searching, those dreams—almost nightmares—probably signaled her failure to move on with her life.
She unwrapped the blanket that trapped her legs. She went over to the front windows and opened the blinds. The morning sunlight sparkled on the water and created mirror-like depths in the wet sand.
Frannie released the sheet from its pins. She slid the door wide and let the morning rush in. The chill air came in with it. She pulled on her coat, wrapped the scarf around her neck and stepped outside. It was cold, yes, but no wind and the sky was a sharp, post-dawn blue. She loosened the scarf.
She stayed well away from the water and walked through mounds of dry sand, watching the sea birds diving for breakfast . On the shore side, rows of colorful houses mimicked the colors of dawn and sunset. The tang of salt and wet sand mixed with the smell of those weedy grasses on the dunes and tickled her nose.
She turned back. After her shower, she ’d pay a visit to Uncle Will and make a grocery run. New sheets, too. Uncle Will’s bedding was grim. But her first stop would be in Beaufort at the Front Street Gallery to take another look at the painting that had caught her eye.
****
Frannie parked at the marina and walked down the sidewalk toward the gallery. She paused to cross the street and saw Maia standing outside.
Maia was actually with someone, chatting. The woman had longish brown hair, slim, and there was something about the way she held herself. The woman was pretty, but not remarkable until she smiled. She knelt to tuck a blanket around a baby in a stroller. This was the woman who’d been leaving
She paused in front of the fridge. She ’d bought a few groceries, but it was time to give the refrigerator a real cleaning out and do some serious food shopping.
A real cleaning …the words brought to mind Mrs. Blair. It might be nice to have her in one day a week. She could clean up the fridge and chase the dust bunnies. Maybe some other household duties, too.
The toast popped up from the toaster. She carried it , along with a small glass of apple juice into the living room and snapped on the TV. She snuggled on the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her and dragging the sofa blanket down over her legs. A fascinating infomercial selling a new facial care system played out before her. Not much, but better than a blank screen, and mildly amusing in a cynical way.
Starlight twinkled in through the gaps in the blinds. To cover the glass door, she’d fastened a sheet over the drapery rod.
Too bad it was cold. By the time the weather warmed up, she’d be back in Raleigh. Back with Laurel.
She slid down until her head rested against the back of the sofa and propped her feet on the coffee table. The smell of fresh paint lingered.
Back with Laurel.
No, she wouldn ’t.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine where else.
She could get her own place again. Maybe get a real job.
Living with Mother had been a temporary arrangement, something that benefitted them both, but was not intended to last indefinitely. Yet the temporary stay had stretched to five years.
Was she so afraid of being alone that she had allowed Laurel to make her choices? Or was it procrastination?
Waiting, that ’s what it felt like.
But waiting for what?
Chapt er Six
It was morning and her neck ached. She stretched and felt the tug of a pinched muscle near her collarbone. An infomercial had lulled her to sleep. Sales pitches had infiltrated her dreams. Not exactly restful, but still better than the recurring dreams. Like the one about the baby. A searching dream. Or a waiting dream. Sometimes one, sometimes the other, but they both reeked of loss and regret. On this bright morning she thought she might have been wrong. Whether of regret or waiting or searching, those dreams—almost nightmares—probably signaled her failure to move on with her life.
She unwrapped the blanket that trapped her legs. She went over to the front windows and opened the blinds. The morning sunlight sparkled on the water and created mirror-like depths in the wet sand.
Frannie released the sheet from its pins. She slid the door wide and let the morning rush in. The chill air came in with it. She pulled on her coat, wrapped the scarf around her neck and stepped outside. It was cold, yes, but no wind and the sky was a sharp, post-dawn blue. She loosened the scarf.
She stayed well away from the water and walked through mounds of dry sand, watching the sea birds diving for breakfast . On the shore side, rows of colorful houses mimicked the colors of dawn and sunset. The tang of salt and wet sand mixed with the smell of those weedy grasses on the dunes and tickled her nose.
She turned back. After her shower, she ’d pay a visit to Uncle Will and make a grocery run. New sheets, too. Uncle Will’s bedding was grim. But her first stop would be in Beaufort at the Front Street Gallery to take another look at the painting that had caught her eye.
****
Frannie parked at the marina and walked down the sidewalk toward the gallery. She paused to cross the street and saw Maia standing outside.
Maia was actually with someone, chatting. The woman had longish brown hair, slim, and there was something about the way she held herself. The woman was pretty, but not remarkable until she smiled. She knelt to tuck a blanket around a baby in a stroller. This was the woman who’d been leaving
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