Four

She gazed at pearls she'd never wear,

A bliss she would not taste.

Reflected in the window glass,

She fingered beads of paste.

Andrea woke the next morning to the dog barking. She was glad they had Buddy; he'd been a good watchdog. Old Dickins had been nearly blind and deaf in his later years and not much protection. Andrea grabbed the silk robe she had abandoned the night before, wrapped it around her bare body, and hurried downstairs to the back door. The fuss turned out to be a squirrel that had discovered the bird feeder and was teasing the dog by staying just out of reach. She opened the door to quiet Buddy, though such efforts had always proved useless.

"Hush," she said.

Buddy came to her with tail wagging, then returned immediately to his post; while the squirrel looked down from a nearby tree. As she stood at the open door, Andrea sensed something different in the early morning breeze that brushed against her face, some­thing auspicious. The barking resumed when she closed the door.

The commotion woke the kids, so Andrea's day began early. It would have been pleasant to linger in bed and try to recapture the fantasy of the night before, but it wasn't to be. She had promised Brian pancakes for breakfast, and Andrea suspected he might try to make them if she didn't start.

Her mind wandered as she mixed the batter and pretended to listen to the kids give a detailed recital of their day at Grandma's.