a muted gray softness； sifted
over the deep greens of the hillside。 The power of the land was an
awesome one； embodied in the proud posture of the pines on the hill； the
free flow of the river winding through the valley； the gaiety of the
orange Indian paintbrush swaying with meadow grass in the breeze。
Darkness was only a thin veil over this primal beauty。 Seeing through
it； Anne Boulton felt blessed； and doubly grateful that she had left the
city。
The summer had been an oppressive one in New York。 Heat and humidity had
rivaled each other； stubbornly clinging to highs that beaded foreheads
and furniture with sweat； and made everyone and everything sticky。 As
the sky scrapered congestion closed in on her； so had wellintending
friends and family； coaxing her out to lunch； when she wanted a tall
cola and a salad at home； dragging her to the theater； when she craved a
quiet evening alone； spiriting her away for a weekend of busy
panionship； when she fancied a good book and healing solitude。 In the
end she wanted Jeff； but Jeff was gone。
Now； cocooned by darkness； she curled in a large upholstered chair。 The
wood fire in the hearth offered the only light； its orange and gold
flames flickering hypnotically before her dark eyes。 This was her first
evening here。 If the isolation； the peace were a harbinger； she had made
the right decision