toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet.
She'd also seen three rolls of gauze, three boxes of sterile gauze pads of varying sizes, a suture kit, and a scalpel. Odd things to keep in one's bathroom. Wariness trickling through her, she'd taken a toothbrush and ignored the surgical supplies, choosing not to dwell on them or the reasons Dain might keep such a stash in his medicine cabinet.
Heaving a sigh of relief at finding her purse on the couch—she vaguely recalled grabbing it as they left her burning house—she'd gone to the kitchen, called her financial adviser at her bank and her agent at her insurance company, and left messages for both of them. Her BlackBerry was nowhere to be found. Probably burned to a crisp along with the rest of her stuff. But she kept a small, handwritten address book for emergencies, and this definitely qualified as an emergency.
She remembered firing up the computer in Dain's kitchen, intending to create a file and document her observations of everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours. E-mail it to herself so she didn't store anything on his hard drive.
And that's where the mundane had slipped into the bizarre, because from that point on, she couldn't remember a thing.
Not a single blessed thing.
All she knew was that she'd come to herself about forty minutes ago and realized that she'd lost time again. At least it wasn't a full twelve hours like it had been before. How long? Five hours? Four?
The scariest part was that when she'd come to, her slippers were nowhere to be seen, and her feet had been ice cold. Like she'd gone out barefoot in the snow. Where? Where had she gone? What had she done?
Needing to focus on something, a task with a firmly defined outcome, she'd made a methodical search for the missing slippers and found them pretty quickly out in the hallway by the elevator.
The discovery had left her feeling frightened. Out of control.
In an effort to regain some semblance of control, she'd gone to Dain's kitchen, hauled out ingredients, and thrown together a quick dinner, one of those chicken-rice-pineapple-in-a-single-pot-ready-in-thirty-minutes meals. It was warming on the stove.
At a loss now, she turned from the window and looked around for something else to occupy her, something that would busy her hands and mind and keep her sane.
Her mom. She needed to call her mom, tell her what had happened. That definitely would not keep her sane, but she had to do it, anyway. Despite their lousy relationship, her mother needed to be told about the fire.
And maybe, maybe just this once, she'd come through for Vivien with a little support and comfort.
Picking up the phone, she dialed her mother's cell. She'd already put off the chore long enough, telling herself she needed to wait until evening because her mother was en route, flying back to the West Coast after her visit with Vivien. But the unfortunate truth was, she'd have called her mom last even if she lived on the same block.
Araminta answered on the third ring, her voice cool and cultured.
"Hi, Mom."
"Vivien? You're lucky you caught me. I just got in."
Yeah… only luck had nothing to do with it.
"How was the flight?" Vivien paced the length of the kitchen as she spoke.
"My flight? No, Vivien. I'm still in Toronto," Araminta said. "I am at the Royal York. I spent the day at an anti-aging show. Amazing the things people can do to hold on to their youth."
Vivien shook her head as the reality of the situation hit her. Araminta hadn't flown home to the West Coast. She was still in Toronto, attending a show. When she'd left Vivien standing in the road—was it only last night?—she hadn't even mentioned that she was staying in town.
Clenching her fist, Vivien wondered why the realization hurt. Why she let it hurt.
"Listen, Mom," she said, her voice cracking. "I've had a really eventful day."
After hearing a concise version of the tale, her mother was silent for so long that Vivien was tempted to ask if
She'd also seen three rolls of gauze, three boxes of sterile gauze pads of varying sizes, a suture kit, and a scalpel. Odd things to keep in one's bathroom. Wariness trickling through her, she'd taken a toothbrush and ignored the surgical supplies, choosing not to dwell on them or the reasons Dain might keep such a stash in his medicine cabinet.
Heaving a sigh of relief at finding her purse on the couch—she vaguely recalled grabbing it as they left her burning house—she'd gone to the kitchen, called her financial adviser at her bank and her agent at her insurance company, and left messages for both of them. Her BlackBerry was nowhere to be found. Probably burned to a crisp along with the rest of her stuff. But she kept a small, handwritten address book for emergencies, and this definitely qualified as an emergency.
She remembered firing up the computer in Dain's kitchen, intending to create a file and document her observations of everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours. E-mail it to herself so she didn't store anything on his hard drive.
And that's where the mundane had slipped into the bizarre, because from that point on, she couldn't remember a thing.
Not a single blessed thing.
All she knew was that she'd come to herself about forty minutes ago and realized that she'd lost time again. At least it wasn't a full twelve hours like it had been before. How long? Five hours? Four?
The scariest part was that when she'd come to, her slippers were nowhere to be seen, and her feet had been ice cold. Like she'd gone out barefoot in the snow. Where? Where had she gone? What had she done?
Needing to focus on something, a task with a firmly defined outcome, she'd made a methodical search for the missing slippers and found them pretty quickly out in the hallway by the elevator.
The discovery had left her feeling frightened. Out of control.
In an effort to regain some semblance of control, she'd gone to Dain's kitchen, hauled out ingredients, and thrown together a quick dinner, one of those chicken-rice-pineapple-in-a-single-pot-ready-in-thirty-minutes meals. It was warming on the stove.
At a loss now, she turned from the window and looked around for something else to occupy her, something that would busy her hands and mind and keep her sane.
Her mom. She needed to call her mom, tell her what had happened. That definitely would not keep her sane, but she had to do it, anyway. Despite their lousy relationship, her mother needed to be told about the fire.
And maybe, maybe just this once, she'd come through for Vivien with a little support and comfort.
Picking up the phone, she dialed her mother's cell. She'd already put off the chore long enough, telling herself she needed to wait until evening because her mother was en route, flying back to the West Coast after her visit with Vivien. But the unfortunate truth was, she'd have called her mom last even if she lived on the same block.
Araminta answered on the third ring, her voice cool and cultured.
"Hi, Mom."
"Vivien? You're lucky you caught me. I just got in."
Yeah… only luck had nothing to do with it.
"How was the flight?" Vivien paced the length of the kitchen as she spoke.
"My flight? No, Vivien. I'm still in Toronto," Araminta said. "I am at the Royal York. I spent the day at an anti-aging show. Amazing the things people can do to hold on to their youth."
Vivien shook her head as the reality of the situation hit her. Araminta hadn't flown home to the West Coast. She was still in Toronto, attending a show. When she'd left Vivien standing in the road—was it only last night?—she hadn't even mentioned that she was staying in town.
Clenching her fist, Vivien wondered why the realization hurt. Why she let it hurt.
"Listen, Mom," she said, her voice cracking. "I've had a really eventful day."
After hearing a concise version of the tale, her mother was silent for so long that Vivien was tempted to ask if
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