side of me, and had no intention of changing that.
I had not anticipated problems when I had decided for the first time in my life that I would build, but whether it had been the slate roof, the brick pavers or the color of my front door, it seemed everyone had a criticism. When it had gotten to the point where my contractor's frustrated telephone calls were interrupting me in the morgue, I had threatened the neighborhood association that I would sue.
Needless to say, invitations to parties in this subdivision, thus far, had been few.
"I'm sure your neighbors will be delighted to see you're home," my niece dryly said as we got out of the car.
"I don't think they pay that much attention to me anymore." I dug for my keys.
"Bullshit," Marino said. "You're the only one they got who spends her days at murder scenes and cutting up dead bodies. They probably look out their windows the entire time you're home. Hell, the guards probably call every one of them to let 'em know when you roll in."
"Thank you so much," I said, unlocking the front door.
And just when I was beginning to feel a little better about living here."
The burglar alarm loudly buzzed its warning that I had better quickly press the appropriate keys, and I looked around as I always did, because my home was still a stranger to me. I feared the roof would leak, plaster would fall or something else would fail, and when everything was fine, I took intense pleasure in my accomplishment. My house was two levels and very open, with windows placed to catch every photon of light. The living room was a wall of glass that captured miles of the James, and late in the day I could watch the sun set over trees on the river's banks.
Adjoining my bedroom was an office that finally was big enough for me to work in, and I checked it first for faxes and found I had four.
"Anything important?" asked Lucy, who had followed me while Marino was getting boxes and bags.
"As a matter of fact, they're all for you from your mother." I handed them to her.
She frowned. "Why would she fax me here?"
"I never told her I was temporarily relocating to Sandbridge. Did you?"
"No. But Grans would know where you are, right?" Lucy said.
"Of course. But my mother and yours don't always get things straight." I glanced at what she was reading. "Everything okay?"
"She's so weird. You know, I installed a modem and CD ROM in her computer and showed her how to use them. My mistake. Now she's always got questions. Each of these faxes is a computer question." She irritably shuffled through the pages.
I was put out with her mother, Dorothy, too. She was my sister, my only sibling, and she could not be bothered to so much as wish her only child a happy New Year.
"She sent these today," my niece went on. "It's a holiday and she's writing away on another one of her goofy children's books."
"To be fair," I said, "her books aren't goofy."
"Yeah, go figure. I don't know where she did her research, but it wasn't where I grew up."
"I wish you two weren't at odds." I made the same comment I had made throughout Lucy's life. "Someday you will have to come to terms with her. Especially when she dies."
"You always think about death."
"I do because I know about it, and it is the other side of life. You can't ignore it any more than you can ignore night. You will have to deal with Dorothy."
"No, I won't," She swiveled my leather desk chair around and sat in it, facing me. "There's no point. She doesn't understand the first thing about me and never has."
That was probably true.
"You're welcome to use my computer," I said.
"It will just take me a minute."
"Marino will pick us up about four," I said.
"I didn't know he left."
"Briefly."
Keys tapped as I went into my bedroom and began to unpack and plot. I needed a car and wondered if I should rent one, and I needed to change my clothes but did not know what to wear. It bothered me that the thought of Wesley would still make me conscious of what I put on, and
I had not anticipated problems when I had decided for the first time in my life that I would build, but whether it had been the slate roof, the brick pavers or the color of my front door, it seemed everyone had a criticism. When it had gotten to the point where my contractor's frustrated telephone calls were interrupting me in the morgue, I had threatened the neighborhood association that I would sue.
Needless to say, invitations to parties in this subdivision, thus far, had been few.
"I'm sure your neighbors will be delighted to see you're home," my niece dryly said as we got out of the car.
"I don't think they pay that much attention to me anymore." I dug for my keys.
"Bullshit," Marino said. "You're the only one they got who spends her days at murder scenes and cutting up dead bodies. They probably look out their windows the entire time you're home. Hell, the guards probably call every one of them to let 'em know when you roll in."
"Thank you so much," I said, unlocking the front door.
And just when I was beginning to feel a little better about living here."
The burglar alarm loudly buzzed its warning that I had better quickly press the appropriate keys, and I looked around as I always did, because my home was still a stranger to me. I feared the roof would leak, plaster would fall or something else would fail, and when everything was fine, I took intense pleasure in my accomplishment. My house was two levels and very open, with windows placed to catch every photon of light. The living room was a wall of glass that captured miles of the James, and late in the day I could watch the sun set over trees on the river's banks.
Adjoining my bedroom was an office that finally was big enough for me to work in, and I checked it first for faxes and found I had four.
"Anything important?" asked Lucy, who had followed me while Marino was getting boxes and bags.
"As a matter of fact, they're all for you from your mother." I handed them to her.
She frowned. "Why would she fax me here?"
"I never told her I was temporarily relocating to Sandbridge. Did you?"
"No. But Grans would know where you are, right?" Lucy said.
"Of course. But my mother and yours don't always get things straight." I glanced at what she was reading. "Everything okay?"
"She's so weird. You know, I installed a modem and CD ROM in her computer and showed her how to use them. My mistake. Now she's always got questions. Each of these faxes is a computer question." She irritably shuffled through the pages.
I was put out with her mother, Dorothy, too. She was my sister, my only sibling, and she could not be bothered to so much as wish her only child a happy New Year.
"She sent these today," my niece went on. "It's a holiday and she's writing away on another one of her goofy children's books."
"To be fair," I said, "her books aren't goofy."
"Yeah, go figure. I don't know where she did her research, but it wasn't where I grew up."
"I wish you two weren't at odds." I made the same comment I had made throughout Lucy's life. "Someday you will have to come to terms with her. Especially when she dies."
"You always think about death."
"I do because I know about it, and it is the other side of life. You can't ignore it any more than you can ignore night. You will have to deal with Dorothy."
"No, I won't," She swiveled my leather desk chair around and sat in it, facing me. "There's no point. She doesn't understand the first thing about me and never has."
That was probably true.
"You're welcome to use my computer," I said.
"It will just take me a minute."
"Marino will pick us up about four," I said.
"I didn't know he left."
"Briefly."
Keys tapped as I went into my bedroom and began to unpack and plot. I needed a car and wondered if I should rent one, and I needed to change my clothes but did not know what to wear. It bothered me that the thought of Wesley would still make me conscious of what I put on, and
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