Sandy sat in one of the big wing chairs, recently re-upholstered in the same sort of smooth pale yellow fabric in which it had always been clothed. Mama claimed the furniture in the sun parlor should be covered in pale colors, so as not to show the fading, inevitable from all the sunlight pouring in through all the windows. Thus, the day bed that, along with Grandma’s old secretary, monopolized the one wall with no windows had a white slip cover; the love seat was a striped yellow and white; and the two chairs picked up the yellow in the love seat. However, having recently made the decision to start using this room again, she’d discovered the ignored furniture was badly in need of reupholstering, the pale colors having not only faded but also yellowed with age. Sending it off to have that done had been the perfect excuse to postpone the inevitable: having to actually sit out here, in the evenings, after dark, as Owen had instructed her to do.
The furniture now returned, this was the second evening in a row she’d brought her book out here to read. Last night, she hadn’t lasted long but had been spared a visitor. Tonight would be different. No more than ten minutes had passed when the familiar scratching and light tapping at the window began. She ignored it, focusing all her energy on the pages in front of her. Those noises were nothing more than one of the many overgrown tree branches being blown by the wind. To believe otherwise was completely irrational. She knew that; she’d spent so many hours discussing with Owen the difference between rational and irrational thoughts. Nobody was out there, staring in at her, keeping an eye on her; he didn’t exist. What did exist was an anxious temperament that could lead to irrational thoughts and fears such as this one. Still, she refused to look up from her book, didn’t want to direct her attention to any of the windows. Still, she was beginning to feel the hair rise on the back of her neck.
(To Be Continued)