FAR ABOVE THE CITY STREETS

By Karen Mason-Richardson

"Hi, it's Russ." The slight woman winced and held the receiver afew inches away from her right ear.

"Hi, and you don't have to talk so loud. I'm OK."

"Sounds like it. I take it everything went smoothly."

The masculine voice on the other end of the line dropped in volumeto a normal tone, and she returned the receiver to her ear.

"Yes. The specialist worked his magic. Dr. Tarrant was quite...correct to insist I see him."

"It was about time you did something."

The woman shifted uncomfortably and tugged at the neckline of hergreen Japanese silk kimono. "Please, let's not go into that againright now."

"Yeah, you're right, I'm sorry. Listen, how about a littlecelebration? I know this great place in the Village where --"

"That sounds nice, but could we maybe make it some other time? I'mjust not in the mood tonight."

Silence fell, and she heard him sigh. "You can't keep hiding,Lydia. Not forever. It doesn't work, you know that."

"I know. Not for forever, just... I need some time. There havebeen so many changes lately. I just need to get used to things."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No. Not really. Please don't worry, Russ. I'll be fine, but thankyou for thinking of me."

"Listen, if you change your mind, just give me a ring. I've got noreal plans tonight."

"I'll do that."

Russ' rich tenor softened with concern. "You take care ofyourself."

"You, too."

The light click of the telephone receiver settling into its cradlesounded so... strange. Really, everything did. She was so used to thequiet.

Finely boned fingers caressed the telephone stand. The intricatelycarved antique mahogany table gleamed with rich red undertones, thewood lustrous and well cared for. It was just one of the many thingscollected on their travels. This piece was from... Calcutta wasn'tit? Or was it Jaipur? She couldn't remember.

How could she have forgotten that? Have forgotten any of it?

It felt like a betrayal...

Thank God for Russ. He had been a rock during the past threeyears. He had always been there for her, lending a hand in any way hecould, supporting her. She didn't know what she would have donewithout him, how she would have coped.

Her refusal of his invitation had hurt him. She knew that. Heasked for so little and gave so much. And he wanted so much more. Hetried to hide it, but she knew him too well.

She squared her shoulders and turned to face the apartment. Itseemed so small, especially now, crowded with haphazardlyplaced furniture and unpacked boxes. The living room ended in araised dining area, one that received bright morning sun throughFrench doors. To the left of the dining area was a tiny kitchen.White louvered doors led to a large bedroom and ensuite bath, andanother set of French doors leading to the balcony.

It was the perfect apartment for a single person.

* * * *

The sun was setting and the balcony was in shadow, but some heatstill remained, radiating from the concrete floor. Catherine wriggledher bare toes against the warmth appreciatively.

It felt so good to be outside! Air conditioning was well and good,especially in the soaring heat of late July, but the air alwaysseemed so... dead. Her balcony was a refuge on such days. Morning sunbeamed directly into the apartment, but as the day wore on thebuilding blocked the worst of the afternoon heat and the balconystayed relatively cool - a fact that in winter wasn't the greatest,but in summer was wonderful.

She set the tray and its heavy glass pitcher of iced tea carefullydown onto the metal table before turning to close the French doors.It would be full dark soon. Anticipation gave her movements a leashedtension as she placed thick green and white striped cushions onto thenew chairs. Her old stuff, quite feminine and chic, had not been verycomfortable to sit on for long. No wonder they had often ended upusing pillows on the floor! Last year, when she had bought herrosebush at the garden center she had noted the large display ofpatio furniture. A sale flyer in Saturday's newspaper had been atimely reminder and she had placed an order that morning. The new sethad finally been delivered yesterday. The heavy iron rockers were agood choice, substantial enough to easily support the weight of alarge man.

The note she had received with her lunchtime sandwich was safelytucked away in her purse. He was coming above tonight.

Ice chinked as she poured herself some tea and settled into one ofthe chairs to wait. Moisture condensed on the glass and dripped abead of cold water onto her bare leg as she lifted the glass for along swallow. It was still hot. This July had been a realscorcher. But after a long winter and damp, chill spring spentwrapped in layers for warmth, it was nice to be able to lounge aboutin just a light T-shirt and cut-offs.

And, although he would never admit it out loud, she knew Vincentliked to see her in cut-offs...

* * * *

"Lydia Naughton?"

The voice had been strangely familiar, but she hadn't been ableto place it. Theirs was an unlisted number. The only ones who knew itwere friends, and it was seldom she received calls from someone shedidn't know right away.

"Yes."

"This is Dr. Tarrant calling. I'm afraid I have some badnews..."

That had been the beginning of the nightmare.

Mark had collapsed in his office and had been rushed by ambulanceto St. Vincent's hospital. She had raced to New York, driving throughthe night, accompanied only by the fevered repetition of prayer thatit would please please please all be a mistake and nothingreally serious at all.

Prayers that went unanswered.

Making her way to the kitchen, she absently filled the kettle withwater, set it on the stove, and turned the burner switch tohigh..

Cancer. The very word held such horrifying overtones. It raisedthe specter of a long, wasting death, one that stole your vitality,inevitably squeezing it out of you in a prolonged day-to-day battlefor life. One for which the cure was sometimes worse than thedisease. Everyone knew the horror stories about chemotherapy; of thesickness and agony it caused. Everyone shuddered at the thought ofhaving to go through that, of having to take a chance that the curewas worth it, if it worked at all.

It had been cancer, a tumor in the upper cervical spine,pressure against nerves and blood vessels leading to loss ofconsciousness.

The cardboard box on the counter held an assortment of kitchenitems, and she rummaged through the contents until she found the teatin.

Mark had been having headaches for that last year or so. They hadboth chalked it up to stress. The import business they had worked sohard to build up had been coming under pressure from competitors andover the last few years sales had suffered. The decision to sell outhad been difficult but they both were getting older. Personally shehad thought the need to sell wasn't such a bad turn of events.

She had been after Mark to retire for years. Most people wanted totravel when they retired. Not Mark. He had loved being able to spendtime at the Vermont house. Their business had necessitated extensivetravel; after years spent in hotel rooms and airports, they had bothlooked forward to staying home, working in the garden, and not havingto go anywhere.

The Vermont house was gone now. She had tried to keep it, for him,for them both. For the memories it held and the dreams itrepresented.

A lot of things had had to be sold: the business and the antiques,as well as the Vermont house. Insurance had only paid for so much.Drugs, doctors, equipment, tests -- everything was horrendouslyexpensive. Those costs had multiplied for over a year as they graspedat any possibility for recovery. Finally, near the end, it was justto keep the pain... manageable. Not that the money mattered. Shewould do it all again, twice over, if it would make a difference.

The abrupt whistle of the kettle startled her badly and the box oftea plummeted to the floor. Tea bags scattered as the metal tin burstopen on impact. With a huff of disgusted impatience she shut off theburner, set the kettle on a hot mat, and bent to gather the bags offthe floor.

The green tea tin had come through its mishap unscathed. The tin,an old Harrods' biscuit box, had been purchased during her and Mark'sfirst trip to London. It had been on sale and she had simply had tobuy it, not for the cookies it contained, but just for the containerwith its trademark name and seal.

It was almost two years now since Mark had died.

* * * *

Catherine heard the plants rustle behind her and couldn't suppressa smile. Moments later, strong hands bracketed her shoulders and afurry nose rubbed against her ear. The soft bristles tickled and sheflinched away with a gust of laughter.

"Vincent!"

"Yes?"

"That tickles!"

"I know."

His voice was rife with smug amusement. "Meanie."

"Perhaps."

The warmth of his hands trailed up her shoulders and wrappedaround her neck. Claws lightly tapped underneath her chin and sheobligingly tipped her head back to look up at him. Blue eyes laughedinto hers as he bent down to nip her nose and drink in her answeringlaughter with an upside down kiss.

"You're in a good mood tonight."

"It's been a good day. The problem with the water main has finallybeen resolved."

"Permanently?"

He sighed and lifted his head, gazing out over the park at thebright lights beyond. "No repair is permanent, but this should holdfor a reasonable length of time." He released his grip andstraightened, glancing in askance at the new furniture.

"Do you like the chairs?"

"They look... quite nice. Sturdy."

"They are." Catherine leaned forward to pour iced tea into thesecond glass and gestured for him to sit.

Vincent removed his cloak with an audible sigh of relief anddraped it on the coat rack conveniently placed in the far corner forjust that purpose. His light cotton shirt clung damply with sweat,molding to his back as he returned to sit down. Gingerly he settledhis large frame into the metal chair, which tipped backwards beneathhis weight. He stiffened reflexively, eyes widening in surprise.

"Relax, they're supposed to do that."

Claws retracted as he loosened his grip on the metal chair armsand rocked experimentally.

"What do you think?"

"They're very comfortable." Eyes glinted as he glanced sideways ather through tousled mane. "Did the old set need replacing?"

"Strictly speaking, no. But I decided it did, and I boughtthese for you. The old set is in the basement storage room. SomeoneBelow can take it if they want." She noticed him draw breath to speakand could guess what was coming. "Don't say it! Don't you know by nowthat I like buying you things? It's not like I don't have themeans. So don't get all embarrassed on me. I enjoyed doing it.Besides, you were getting pretty sick of sitting on the floor,weren't you? I know I was."

Silence descended, broken only by the swish of heavy denimtrousers against the stiff chair fabric as he rocked quietly.

"Yes. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

* * * *

Steam bathed her face as she poured boiling water over the bag inher favorite tea mug. The hot moistness reminded her of the baths inBaden-Baden. A wonderful place, a German city founded on the healingqualities of its mineral springs.

She could still use some healing. It had been a long, hard roadand she hadn't reached the end yet.

Deanna had done her best, but there was only so much her daughtercould do. She had two children of her own now and lived with hermilitary husband in England. She couldn't leave them for long. Still,she had managed several visits after the diagnosis, and of course thewhole family had come for the funeral. Afterwards, both Deanna andJim had pushed for her to move to England, to be close to them. Shehad adamantly refused. She didn't want to live that life any more,moving every few years. She just wanted to stay home.

Besides, she wasn't totally alone - she had Russ. He had takenover the business while she devoted herself to Mark's care. He hadalways been there for her, for them - a helping hand, a bufferagainst the world, a shoulder to cry on.

They had been best friends since high school. She, Russ, and Mark- the Three Musketeers. Inseparable. Russ had been Mark's best man,and the three had remained fast friends through all the strangecurves life has a tendency to throw at you. He had even lived withthem for a year, after his divorce.

It had been Russ who had finally convinced her to sell the Vermonthouse and move to New York. The house was far too isolated for her tolive in alone and too big for her to maintain. It had been a havenafter Mark's death, a quiet place where she didn't have to deal withsympathizers and their intrusive concern.

Intellectually, she knew the decision to move had been the rightone. But it hadn't been easy. It still wasn't. But, to be truthful,she had needed the money garnered from the sale. It had made moresense for her to keep this apartment and sell the house.

They had bought this place when the building first been convertedto condos, over twenty years ago. It hadn't been cheap, but they hadneeded a place to live while working at their main office here inManhattan. Once the business took off and they bought their dreamhouse in Vermont, Mark had still needed to do business in the cityand had stayed here several days each week. Sometimes she would packup Deanna and come into the city instead of him having to travel home- a mini-holiday for them both. There was so much to see and do:shopping, museums, and Broadway theater. Those visits had tapered offas Deanna had grown older. Once she had left home for college, theyhad pretty much stopped altogether. As the business matured, and withfax machines and computers, Mark had only needed to spend one or twodays a week in New York anyway.

Then, the illness...

This place carried memories too. The picture on the mantel: aParis street scene purchased from an artist near the Eiffel Tower.The carved wooden mask from Kenya. A pink stain on the sofa, almostinvisible unless you knew where to look; from a glass of red wineknocked over on their tenth anniversary when they --

The walls were closing in on her.

The place was so small...

* * * *

Catherine hid her smile with a sip of tea as Vincent's eyes closedand he leaned his head back against the striped cushion. The chairshad definitely been a good idea, and a good choice. For someone whospent his life underground, being outside was such a pleasure.Vincent loved this balcony - that was the biggest reason she kept theapartment. He had told her once it satisfied a need in him to be highand look down over the city. Of course, as they got older, that wouldeventually have to change. The trip upwards, even on top of theservice elevator, would become too risky and difficult. But, for now,she loved to watch him enjoy the breeze and the fresh air.

"Court should be done by three. I'll just need to drop off somepaperwork to Rita and then I'll be free for the weekend. How's yourschedule?"

He sighed heavily. "I've neglected other duties since the waterproblem began..."

"Oh."

"But perhaps they can wait a few more days. Everyone could use arest." His voice warmed with undisguised anticipation. "Shall I tellWilliam to expect you for dinner on Friday?"

A whole weekend together? One with no chores or responsibilities?"I'd like that."

"So would I." White fangs glimmered in the spare light as heturned and smiled at her. His furred hand slid across the table totake hers. "Would you like to --"

Claws dug sharply as his hand tensed around hers, and his eyesfocused intently on the brick wall behind her.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

His voice dropped to a rumbling whisper. "There's someone on thebalcony next door." His whole frame tightened as he released her handand rose slowly from the chair. Eyes narrowed as the feral,protective side of him surfaced and prepared to meet a potentialthreat. "A woman." His voice was a barely disguised growl.

"It's OK!" She reached up to grab his cotton shirt and tugged,drawing his attention. "Vincent, it's OK. I'm sorry, I should havebrought it up right away. There's no danger, really."

"There's never been anyone there before." He was rigid,body vibrating with alarm, but he lowered his head in response to hertouch.

"I know. I had almost forgotten another balcony adjoined mine.Since I moved here the next apartment has almost always been empty."She released her grip on his shirt and sank back into her chair. "Sitback down and I'll explain."

Slowly he resumed his seat, tension still evident in his grip onthe chair arms.

Catherine sighed and took a sip of her tea. "It's not going to bea problem, trust me. The apartment next door has been owned by theNaughtons for as long as I've lived here. Mr. Naughton used to use itsometimes during the week for business, but I hadn't even seenhim in years. Tuesday morning I met a group of movers in the hallwaytaking boxes into the apartment. I was worried about havingneighbors, so I stopped to introduce myself and see what was goingon. It seems Mr. Naughton died two years ago. His wife sold theircountry place and was moving into the city. And Vincent, Mrs.Naughton's practically deaf. You have to shout at her to get throughat all. We don't have to worry."

"You're sure?" His grip on the chair was loosening and he satback, still eying the brick partition wall with concern.

"I talked to her myself. Yes, I'm sure."

"It's going to be difficult, getting used to another presence soclose."

"Hmmm. But we're lucky, we still have our privacy."

* * * *

The temperature was comfortingly warm after the cool of theair-conditioned apartment. She had spent so much time outside inVermont, tending her flower gardens in the fresh country air. Itwould take some adjusting to get used to city life again.

Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing. Perhaps she needed thechange of pace. Yes, this place held memories, but here the memorieswere good, of the good times. The upstairs bedroom in the Vermonthouse, even two years later, had still carried the scent of sickness.Granted that was probably just psychological, but that didn't make itany less real to her.

She set her teacup on the glass tabletop and turned to look outover the park and the glittering lights beyond. The city had its ownaura, a living pulse of energy, of excitement. Hopefully, all thatlife would draw her back into life again.

Russ was right. She had been hiding, secreted away in her countryhome where no one would come to bother her. At the time it had beenwhat she needed. Once the funeral was over and things had settleddown, she had been left alone, except for Russ. He had come almostevery weekend to mow the grass, bring groceries, and badger her aboutrejoining the human race. His persistence had finally paid off&endash; here she was.

The pressure in her ear was becoming annoying and she reached upto adjust the soft plastic. It felt strange to wear a hearing aidagain, but this morning when she had her final fitting the doctor hadtold her to wear it constantly so she could get used to it again. Shehad needed a hearing assistance device since she was quite young, butwhen her last one had broken, two months after the funeral, shehadn't bothered to replace it.

Getting this new hearing aid had been one of the hardest thingsshe had done in a long time. She had seen enough doctor's offices andhospitals to last a lifetime. Just walking into one again had stirredup a fog of sick anxiety. She had almost turned and fled. After all,she had functioned fine in the country with reduced hearing. Butroses didn't talk much. In the city, being able to hear made abig difference.

It wasn't quiet any more, even when she was alone. Small noisesreminded her of other people living their lives, of something missingfrom hers. Reminded her of loneliness.

Maybe she should get another kitten. Mortimer had had to be givenaway during Mark's illness, when she had spent so much time at themedical centers in California. She still missed the big marmaladetabby. A cat would be good company. Perhaps a visit to the HumaneSociety would be in order. Knowing her though, she'd come home withmore than one creature. Maybe she would turn into one of those dottyold ladies with 20 cats who talked to them all day long and neverleft her apartment...

Sighing, she settled into a chair and took a careful sip oftea.

"You're sure?"

The raspy masculine voice took her by surprise and she startled,nearly spilling the hot tea onto her lap. Automatically she reachedforward to catch the drips on her hand as she lowered the cup to thetable.

The sound had come from the next balcony - Catherine Chandler'splace. Such a lovely young woman; she had graciously stopped in thehall to welcome Lydia to the building, a kind gesture that had beenvery much appreciated. Even Russ had given Catherine a glance ofmasculine approval as she had continued on her way to work, a lookthat had resulted in his receiving a sharp jab in the ribs.

"Yes. Trust me. There won't be a problem."

Silence fell, and Lydia wondered if they had gone inside beforethe soft conversation resumed once more.

"So I'll come down around five, if that's OK."

"Yes. I'll come for you."

"You don't have to, you know. I can find the way myself."

"I know. But I'll still come for you."

What was the protocol for adjoining balconies? Surely they musthave heard her come outside? Did she call out and advise them of herpresence, or was that considered rude? A breeze might make adifference, but in the still air the voices carried clearly.

"Oh, that reminds me, I have to bring silver thread for Rebecca'sdress. I forgot to get it last week. So, what's on tomorrownight?"

It's Michael and Brooke's turn. I assume they are stillperforming, I haven't heard differently. It should prove...interesting."

"I take that to mean Brooke's still upset?"

"I believe she is. Michael seems to think so. He came to me foradvice yesterday."

"Don't shake your head! Why do you find that so hard tounderstand? People respect you and value your opinion."

"But Catherine, for someone to come to ask me, me, foradvice on a relationship? It still confounds me."

"Michael looks up to you. You were his teacher, his mentor, it'sonly natural he would come to you. What did you tell him?"

"Merely that some women might find it upsetting if their partnerspends a lot of time alone with another attractive young lady, evenif she is a study partner."

"Maybe that'll teach him not to go around bragging."

"He didn't brag, Catherine. He merely mentioned to some of theother young men the ample availability of... female company at hiscollege."

"No, he bragged."

A muffled masculine chuckle rolled through the air. "Regardless,he and Brooke have been on the schedule since last month fortomorrow's performance."

"Do you know what they're planning?" Catherine's voice glowed withamusement.

"A scene from The Taming of the Shrew."

Laughter rang out, bright and uplifting. Lydia smiled to herselfin response. She and Mark had seen that play in high school, aperformance of the drama league.

"That's appropriate! Who chose that one?"

"I believe Brooke did."

"So how much will be acting, and how much scripted verbalassault?"

"I'm not sure, but it will certainly ensure a spiritedperformance."

That voice! Amusement deepened its timbre, adding an underlyingrumble. It was worth the trouble of getting the hearing aid just toexperience it. For a moment, she felt a flash of guilt for listeningin on the conversation and considered returning inside. But this washer balcony, and she had every right to be here. She hadn't beensneaky about it, or attempted to conceal her presence in order toeavesdrop. Deliberately she shifted her chair, scraping the woodenleg against the concrete loudly, and cleared her throat.

"Ah, the path of true love never runs smooth... They'll have tomuddle their own way through, just like we did."

"Yes."

The voice turned sad, quiet.

"What is it?"

"Father. He used to enjoy these events so."

"The Friday night performances were his idea. He looked forward tothem all week."

"I still feel as if he's there, watching with us."

"Maybe he is. Perhaps a part of him is always present on Fridaynights."

"They were his finest hours, with his family gathered close. Heloved us all. In odd moments, often when I least expect it, thespecter of his loss still rises strong. For a time, it overwhelmsme." The voice was quiet, a telltale catch in it speaking of deepsorrow. "I still don't feel right, taking his place at thesegatherings, or in council."

"Vincent, believe me. Somewhere, somehow, I'm sure he's glad thatyou are there to fill his place. He knows that the people he lovedare safe and cared for, and they will continue to thrive. He leftthem in good hands."

"Still, it feels so strange. In council, when a question israised, I still find myself automatically turning to him, to hear hisopinion. It's almost a surprise to not see him there. I think italways will be."

"He was a part of you for a long time."

"He still is."

"I miss him, too. It was as if as if I'd gained a father again,only to lose him. At least we have each other to lean on."

The scrape of metal against concrete was a harsh contrast to thesoft voices. Cool wetness coated her cheek and Lydia raised her handto wipe the tear from her eye.

Would Mark know that? Know that the ones he left behind were safeand well? Know that she was OK?

"It's sad, isn't it, that it took something that tragic to wake usup to how quickly time was passing. That we didn't necessarilyhave forever. That we had to reach for whatever we could, whenwe could: that opportunity can be wasted and lost so easily."

"Mmmm... Catherine, are you sure this chair can take both ourweights?"

"I guess we're going to find out. Be still now, I'm grasping atopportunity."

"Is that what this is called?"

Silence fell once more, punctuated by a soft moan and the wordlessmale reply. Lydia picked up her teacup rose from her chair. It wasdefinitely time to go.

"Maybe we should take this... opportunity inside?" The voice haddeepened to a low rumble, almost a purr. Shivers coursed down herspine. How long had it been since a man had spoken to her in thatparticular tone?

Years... years.

"Good idea. I have plans."

"Do you?"

"Oh, most certainly."

"Then far be it from me to thwart you."

"I hoped you'd see it my way." A muffled feminine squeak ofsurprise, underlined by masculine laughter, was followed by the softclick of doors closing.

Lydia retook her seat with a wistful smile. They sounded so happy,despite their loss.

To be honest, Mark would be disappointed with her: for hercowardice in hiding away from the world and for her fear of movingon. She had known that for a long time, but it was so easy not tothink about it, to bury those thoughts in day-to-day routine.

Well, her routine was shaken up now, thanks to Russ. She cast arueful glance at the boxes stacked against the balcony wall. Pots andgardening equipment, for a garden she no longer had. But, therewere possibilities here. Several of her gardening magazineshad featured articles on container growing, and with all the morningsun this place received surely roses would do well.

A breeze finally found its way onto the balcony. It was coolagainst damp skin, bringing up goosebumps. Gathering up her cup, shestepped back into the apartment and closed the doors behind her. Shereturned to the kitchen, poured the cold remainder of tea into thesink, and rinsed the cup.

Maybe there were more opportunities available to her than justsome roses. She glanced around the apartment. Yes, it was small,especially filled with unpacked boxes, but there was just her afterall. How much space did one woman need? Some new furniture mighthelp. Scaling down on the volume and size of pieces might workwonders in the place, open it up.

'Opportunities can be wasted or lost, so easily.' Young Ms.Chandler was right. Mark had firmly believed in that sentiment. Itwas one of the very foundations of their relationship, one that hadhelped them reach for the dream of their own business, a convictionthat took them to the far corners of the earth and had led toexperiences most people only dreamed of.

She had forgotten that belief for too long. There wereopportunities here. She just needed to open her eyes.

Russ would be proud of her.

Russ. She needed to open her eyes in that direction, too. Yes, hewas devoted to her, had been since they were in their teens. Butthere was more to that devotion than friendship. She had known thatfor years and a little part of her had always wondered - if she hadnever met Mark, what would have happened between them? Russ felt thatway too, she would put money on it. Never, in word or deed, had heever hinted at any possibility of anything clandestine. He was fartoo loyal to Mark to even have considered it, as was she.

But, Mark was gone. And she, they, were still here...

Slowly Lydia wove her way through the boxes to the bedroom.Shifting past a wardrobe carton, she leaned forward to look into thedresser mirror. A small grunt of distaste heralded the reflectionwithin. When was the last time she had had a decent haircut? Probablyjust before the funeral. It was hard to remember; those times wereshrouded in a murky haze of grief.

She could barely recall the service. She knew she had stood up infront of the crowd of friends and associates and read a letter Markhad left for just that purpose. She still had the one he had writtento her personally hidden in the back of her jewelry box, not that sheneeded to look at it to remember what it said. Short and so sweet:the fact that he had made the tremendous effort to write at all andleave her with a tangible expression of his feelings still brought asheen of tears.

Yes, the words were ingrained on her heart.

My dearest Lydia:

I've treasured my time on this earth, a time blessed with your friendship and love. I will be eternally grateful that time was spent with you at my side. I would have wished for more, but I have never wished for other.

All my love, always,

Mark

Her pictures were on the bedside table. They had been the firstthing unpacked. She briefly touched the photograph they had had takentogether at Deanna's wedding, when she had worn that horrid taupemother of the bride dress - what an unfortunate choice that had been.Taupe was definitely not her color, regardless that it had been theheight of fashion at the time. Mark of course looked fine, althoughto be honest, even then he had gained a few pounds.

Next to that photograph was one of The Three Musketeers, taken onthe day they had opened their first store. They stood, arms linked,under their sign, Silk Roads, Imports and Antiquities. Mark had beenthe main businessman, she had worked on décor and personnel,and Russ had been the accountant and co-investor. They looked soyoung, and so determinedly unconcerned
Really, Russ was the one who most resembled his current self in thisphoto from so many years ago. Well, except for the hair. He wasalmost bald now. Until the chemotherapy, Mark had still had a fullhead of dark hair. Granted his face had developed laugh lines and hehad acquired a tummy, but he had always been so proud of keeping hishair and had teased Russ unmercifully about his lack thereof.

They had had such good times together.

Slowly she reached forward to pick up the last picture, a framedblack and white photograph. Their wedding picture, Mark looking sohandsome in his tuxedo while she...well that style of eyeglasses wasdated at best.

There had to be some reason she couldn't get a decent picture ofherself taken. She and Mark had laughed about that often.

She stroked the glass lightly. The couple in the picture looked sohappy -- a joy that still glowed through the inevitable yellowing ofthe old photograph. . A trembling smile curved her lips as she raisedthe picture and lightly kissed his face.

She couldn't contain a self-deprecating chuckle. It would be sodramatic now, at this juncture, to punctuate her deliberations byputting this picture away, setting it into her bedside table drawerand closing it with a firm click. A tidy piece of imagery, one thatwould provide a clear dividing line between past and future. That'swhat would happen in a novel or movie, but....

She wasn't quite ready for that step. Not yet. But it wouldhappen; the day was coming. Eventually. Soon. Just... not today.

Carefully she placed the picture back on her night table. Mark wasgone. Nothing, no regrets, no warm memories, no denial, could everbring him back.

The white telephone beside the bed gleamed brightly. She hadn'tplaced a phone call in a long time. Decisively, she picked up thereceiver and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Russ? It's Lydia. I was wondering if your invitation was stillopen."

"My... my invitation?"

He stammered in surprise, and she couldn't help but smile. "Yes,to go out tonight."

"Of course it's still open! You've changed your mind?"

"I have. You've been right about a lot of things, Russ. Ihave been hiding, and I need to stop. My life didn't end withhis, although there were times... Anyway, he would have wanted me togo on, to enjoy life."

She heard him sigh, and there was an unfamiliar catch in hisvoice.

"I understand completely, Lydia, don't think I haven't. I lovedhim, too."

"I know."

She heard him clear his throat roughly. "Well, I can be there intwenty minutes if that's OK?"

Lydia leaned back to look at herself in the mirror once more. Alittle makeup would be in order, and she would need to dig throughthe wardrobe carton that held her dresses. Definitely the judicioususe of a curling iron was a necessity. She was sure she had seen herold one in a box... somewhere.

"Could you give me an hour? Will that be too late?"

"No, that's no problem. How about I'll pick you up out front in anhou?"

"Sure, that's fine. I'll see you then."

She hung up the phone gently. Maybe it wasn't much, but for her itwas a first step. Didn't they say the first one was usually thehardest?

A thrill of nervousness danced anticipation through her, and shefirmly quelled it. Abruptly she rose from the bed and started huntingfor the remembered curling iron.

Really! To think that she was getting all jittery about spendingtime with Russ! How silly!

How... exciting.

She would have to make a point to thank Ms. Chandler. She wouldn'tknow why, but it was something that needed to be done. She shouldalso make sure Catherine knew she could hear after all, toprevent potentially embarrassing situations.

With a yip of triumph, she finally located the curling iron undersome folded towels.

Russ had admired the view from the balcony. It was a lovelyone, and it would be a rather romantic spot when her roses bloomednext year and the summer evenings were warm and sweet.

She hadn't felt this alive in far too long.

Perhaps, by next summer, she and Catherine would need to work outsome sort of arrangement. One that would guarantee each of them someprivate time on their respective balconies...