As they passed, Alice busied herself with a tissue in her apron pocket. Peter noted the uncertain look on her face; she was all too familiar with the course that Ivy's stay was taking.
* * *
Dressed in a violet silk camisole, Greta Locke sat on the edge of their large bed and brushed down her thick chestnut curls. As she did this she observed herself - her hair, her face, but never the movement of her hands - in the mirror above her bureau. Though it was early, she had nonchalantly followed Matthew upstairs to the bedroom when, after dinner, he had said he was going turning in early. She had a modest face that she considered robust rather than pretty. It was satisfactorily oval in shape, though a little too fleshy in the cheeks. Her nose was sized accordingly, yet if it had been a little longer, straighter, perhaps she would have been a real model - but then again, her face had never been her selling point…
While she scrutinized her complexion, her right hand, as if guided by its own vision, encountered the crystal lotion dispenser resting on her bureau. With a light press she dispersed two long, corpulent worms of Lancome lotion into her hand. Working one hand over the other with systematic precision, she performed the evening ritual without ever once looking at them. On this occasion she focused her vision, through the mirror, on the lighted bathroom doorway at the opposite end of the bedroom suite. Finishing up, working again on the familiar motions without directly needing to - without wanting to - watch what she was doing, she reached into a drawer and retrieved a pair of fine, exclusively tailored white silk gloves. Just as she was pulling on the second glove the bathroom light snapped off.
Matthew appeared, wearing light blue Oxford cloth pajamas made of the same material used to tailor his business shirts. That was her husband, she thought with a tinge of malice, all business both in and out of bed.
Greta snapped off the lighted mirror and climbed beneath the cool sheets, folded the layers of bedclothes to just below her breasts. Matthew settled on top of the sheets, sealing her in on one side, and clamped his hands together behind his head. Straining her peripheral vision, she saw that he was staring at the ceiling.
She turned on her pillow to face him. "Darling, don't keep thinking about tomorrow." Softly: "Try to relax."
Taking her advice, she watched as the puzzled, problem-solving frown on his face slackened and was replaced by a vague yet unwavering gaze.
She stretched across him to turn off the antique bedside lamp, her breasts barely an inch from his chin. As she drew back, she gently settled herself on his chest.
Through the windows beside the bed, the valley shone brightly. Orange and yellow pinpoints of light, far in the distance, glowed and shimmered in the cool summer night. She felt a sudden urgent desire to get out of bed and close the curtains, shutting out the view of the damned valley.