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It was midmorning before Flora finished her chores. The beds were made, the Colonel's parlor dusted and the now wet, clinging snow was cleared from the back stoop so she could take out the trash. Only the breakfast dishes remained, but before she tackled them, there was the ritual of her midmorning cup of coffee. It had to be done in just that sequence, because only then could the percolator be scoured and her last cup washed and put away and the counter wiped off one final time. Then and only then could she tackle the things that benefited her as well as the Colonel. Today it would be a crumb cake. The Colonel liked crumb cake with his coffee almost as much as he liked the maple-flavored oatmeal. Flora wondered if these little gestures in any way revealed how she really felt about the man. |
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At precisely 10:30 she turned on the small radio sitting on the window sill over the sink. She dialed in the CBC midmorning concert and carefully poured her final cup of coffee. From where she sat she could see patches of the ice-crusted bay through the foggy mist shrouding the world beyond her sanctuary. At last, she was alone with the haunting strains of a Strauss waltz and her fantasies. |
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It was the New Year's ball. Elegant ladies in delicious, heavily brocaded gowns twirled gracefully, each escorted by handsome, uni- |
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