Michael Malone - Weebly

And perhaps that was Winslow Abernathy's study light
across the landscaped circle. But of course she couldn't
call men at midnight.
She could refill her hummingbird feeder. She could
think of a speaker for the next Thespian ladies meeting
and a new project for the Historical Society. Mrs.
Canopy had already dusted Vincent's snuffbox
collection in its oak curio cabinet. She had glazed and
fired two clay pots, selected some clothing and antiques
to donate to an auction given to raise money for a
community theater in Argyle. It was still only 1:15 A.M
. She wound her Ridgeway grandfather clock, glanced
at Fingerpaint on a Widow's Fur above her mantel
(obviously she needed to ask Habzi, before he left for
Alaska, whether or not it would hurt to embed a few
mothballs in the fabric of her former sable), and briskly
climbed the stairs to her room. It was chilly there.
From her heirloom trunk (where a photograph of
Vincent holding his beloved terrier smiled up at her from
pressed sheets and forlorn fashions folded away with
the past) she took a lovers' knot coverlet.
Having dressed for sleep, Tracy climbed with a sigh