The next morning I walked into the kitchen and Jeff was sitting at the table drinking a coffee and reading the newspaper.

"You're up early." I said to him. "and you made coffee."

He looked up from the paper. He watched me as I poured my coffee and then stirred in a teaspoon of sugar. I held the spoon still for a moment and kept my eyes on him. "Where did you go last night? After I left for the meeting?"

"I went back to the studio."

I took the spoon out and laid it on the counter. "It just dawned on me that it was strange that you'd come home just for that short time."

"What are you getting at?"

I walked over to the table and took a section of the paper. I sat down with my coffee. "I don't know. It just occurred to me that you were getting home when I left and then you didn't eat your dinner or—"

"To be honest, I'd forgotten you had your meeting. I had hoped we'd go out to dinner together." He shrugged. "So I went out by myself. Then I went to the studio."
I studied him. I'd like to have said I knew when he lied, but it was very possible that he was constantly lying. "It doesn't matter," I said. I looked down at the paper and pretended to read about the oil crisis.

He touched my hand. It sent an electricity through me. I must have been so conditioned by the pattern of his infidelity. He'd make it obvious, I'd grow hurt or angry and then he'd draw me back. But, I didn't even know I'd stumbled into it.

"Eve, look at me."

I turned to him, took a sip.

"I told you it was over. I'm not seeing her."

"Honestly, I wasn't suggesting--"

"You told me you'd do the same with that guy, stop seeing him. Matt."

"I wasn't having an affair. I didn't sleep with him."
"But you told me you weren't going to see him anymore."

I pulled my hand away. "I told him, all right?" I looked back down.

"It sounds like it was very upsetting for you, Eve. The fact is you slept with him for seven years. Going out with him a couple times a week now is worse than sleeping with him."

I shook my head. I wanted to tell him that yes, it was very upsetting, that Matt was a close friend and what I had with him was no where near the same as the affairs he'd had. Instead I looked at him. "I know when you're lying you know."

He let out a breath. "What am I lying about?"

"I know you're lying."

"Well I'm not."

"I don't care."
"It's obvious you care very much."
"Don't be so sure."

He swallowed down the last of his coffee. "I have to go to work."
I shrugged without looking at him. I turned the newspaper page and pretended to read. "Go ahead."

He stood and started to walk away but then stopped. I felt him just behind me. He put a hand on my shoulder and bent over and kissed my cheek. "I adore you, even when you're being a bitch."

I pulled away from him. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

He touched my cheek. "Kiss me." He said. I looked down for a moment and he ran his hand over the back of my neck, guiding my hair to the side. He leaned close to me.

I met his gaze. He waited a few seconds and then I kissed him.

After he left I got dressed in old clothes for cleaning and chores. I'd planned to bring down the last few boxes from the holidays and then get some chores done. I had a list running in my head from the Christmas ornaments to ironing. I walked into the dining room where I'd stacked three boxes of ornaments and other Christmas items. I carried them down into the basement and stacked them on the floor while I reorganized the other boxes on the Christmas shelf. I had so many things stored down there and going on twenty years in that house, I'd lost track. Not to mention all the junk I'd brought back with me after the divorce. I realized I should just go through them once and for all and then call someone to take the things we don't want to the dump. It sounded sexist but most of my friends—even the staunch feminists—would be engaging in such a project with their husbands on a Saturday afternoon. If we were a normal couple, I'd go through the things and he'd bring the unwanted boxes of junk over to the dump.

I emptied one of the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined that section of the basement. I arranged all of the boxes and small trunks on the floor. I began putting the Christmas items up and noticed a few boxes that I didn't recognize. They could have belonged to my friend Mary's who'd passed away when Charlie was still a small child, but more likely these were from Jeff's first marriage. The old fashioned cursive on top of the box told me it was, in fact, from his first marriage. Christmas Items. I had a feeling it wasn't Mary's. I opened one box and it was full of items all wrapped in white tissue paper. I picked one up. It was heavy. As I unwrapped it I saw it was a sterling silver ornament, the shape of a snowflake. It was beautiful with intricate detailing. I opened several more of the tissue paper packages and they were also silver snowflakes. Each one unique, obviously hand crafted. Each looked more like fine jewelry than a Christmas tree ornament. I knew just by looking at them they were expensive. The box was deep and I carefully felt down deeper and found several thin boxes, when I retrieved one and opened it, I saw a crystal ice cycle. The box was full of them and they were magnificient. Even in the dim light of the basement it caught the light and glistened. Even after all those years stored away. I imagine the tree they'd trimmed at one time; Jeff, Margaret and the children. I wondered if she'd decorated the house for the holidays while she was married to Jeff or if these were simply family heirlooms that her mother had sent with her in her hope chest. I'd read old journals of hers I'd found many years ago. They were full of pain, regret and heartache. I knew she was so lonely with Jeff and his affair with me was excruciating for her. Not because she'd loved him –I didn't believe she had—but because it increased her sense of oppression. Because of the pregnancy she'd been forced to marry a man she didn't love. It seemed despite how handsome and charming Jeff was, particularly back then, she'd held nothing but contempt for him. His affair with me must have bolstered his self-confidence. I looked into the dusty shelves; the basement was lit with only one bare bulb on the ceiling. It gave enough light but that amber light but was no match for the tomb like feel down there. The floor was cement but looked more like dirt, and had stone walls; all of it gave the feeling of a grave or prison cell. I let out a breath and put my hand over my eyes for a moment. It felt ominous to me, finding all these things. It felt as though someone had put them there for me to find at just that time in my life. Why wouldn't I have seen them before? It was true, our housekeeper from the old house had packed much of the items that had belonged to Jeff before our marriage so that part made sense, but I'd been with her when we unpacked and stored them. There they had been all those years, right beside my own collection of ornaments, stockings and Santa figures. Why hadn't I seen them? I stood and put the ornament back into the box. I questioned whether to keep them and decided I should, for Jeffery and Clara. At least to see if they wanted these heirlooms from their mother's side of the family. Certainly there would be no other inheritance either sentimental or monetary from them. Her parents had disowned her when she'd become pregnant at 19. They never went to her wedding or saw their grandchildren. I knew from Margaret's journals that added to her desperation and sadness. Whenever I'd looked at the old pictures or read her personal writing I'd felt a combination of sympathy and –if I were honest with myself—disgust. If she'd been so miserable why had she stayed with him? I felt a bolt of hypocrisy shoot through me. Of course, it had always been different with me; I had always been in love with him. "In love" the phase rolled around in my mind as I carefully lifted the box of ornaments and slid it into the back of the deep wooden shelf. I contemplated whether to examine the contents of the second box. She was a ghost and I could feel her presence. She was standing right there next to me. The feeling was not one of compassion, it was a different kind of haunting.

I pulled the second box down. I sat back on the stool and held it in my lap as I lifted the cardboard top. Folded neatly on top were two knitted stockings with the names Jeffery and Clara monogramed on them. I felt jealous because they were my children, I'd raised them not her. What a ridiculously childish feeling. I traced the red letters "Jeffery." Had she knitted them? His had a Santa standing by a chimney. Clara's was a decorated with a white angel against a red background. The angel's blue embroidered eyes resembled Clara as did its curly red locks. Beneath the stockings, I was surprised to find two leather bound books. I realized as soon as I opened the first page they were more of her personal writing.

December 2, 1949

I'm afraid. He's going to kill me.

I stopped. Had she gone crazy before she'd taken her own life? I knew she was referring to Jeff. She had no one else. I knew there was likely some truth either in her fear or in her feeling. I knew Jeff was capable of murder. What a thought? To say my own husband was capable of such an atrocity, but still I knew. My mind returned to the night at the lake fifteen years before when he'd thought I'd had an affair. His rage had turned him into a madman. It wasn't just the violence, which back then was frequent and unpredictable. It was the sadistic look on his face. "I'm going to kill you Eve."

"What are you doing?" It was Jeff's voice.

I jumped and let out a small cry. Instinctively I lifted the two stockings and placed them on my lap over the book. "God, Jeff you scared me."

"I'd been calling you for five minutes upstairs. I didn't know where you were."
"I'm down here putting away the Christmas things. I started organizing them."

He glanced down at the mess before me. There were boxes pulled out from nearly every shelf, stacked one on top of the other. Margaret's two boxes of belongings were open. He didn't seem to notice the things I'd been pillaging through were hers. He didn't seem to notice I'd been reading a journal.

"Go up and take a bath, get dressed. I want to take you out. I'll finish up here."

I laughed. "You'll finish? Since when do you do household chores?"

"I'm capable of putting a few boxes up on the shelf. Go up and start a bath."

"Don't be silly. I'll do this. I won't be a minute. Why don't you go and fix us a drink? We can have a drink before I get ready to go out."

I'd convinced him. I watched him ascend the stairs and then I could hear him moving about in the kitchen and livingroom. I held the journal for a minute. I had an obsessive need to read the rest of her words. I knew I didn't have time in that moment, but before I put the journal back in the box and covered it with the knitted Christmas stockings I opened it once more.

I'm afraid. He's going to kill me.

He wakes me when he returns home. I always know where he's been, but nonetheless he'll say my name until I open my eyes from a deep sleep. He knows I have no escape, no reprieve but to sleep but still his selfishness drives him. His childishness. He wakes me to ask me how I am or what I've done during the day. He says he wants to talk to me. I tell him I have nothing to say to him, that I hate him. I tell him to leave me alone. Then I woke just last night, he wasn't calling my name, he had his hands around my neck. I woke with a start and tried to sit up, but I couldn't. He was sitting on the bed beside me and when I tried to move he kept his hands there.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, barely able to speak I was so frightened.

"I'm just figuring this out Margaret. That's all." He remove—

"Eve?" Jeff called from the top of the stairs and I dropped the journal. "Eve, come on up now."
I looked in the direction his voice had come. I saw his long shadow down the stairs.

"All right. I'll be right there." I hurriedly packed up the boxes and slid the one with the journals in the back of the deep shelf next to the other. I lifted several other boxes and pushed them in front of Margaret's. I put my hand to my heart. It was beating out of control. I felt like I couldn't breath. I didn't want to go upstairs. I wanted to keep reading. These journals were just a few months before she'd killed herself. I realized as I turned off the light and started up the stairs: She was stark raving mad.

Jeff was in the living room sitting on one of the couches. He had two glasses of scotch on the coffee table in front of him.

"Look at you," he said when I walked into the room. "How can you still look pretty, dressed in work clothes and after cleaning all day?"

I smiled at him.

"Come sit with me," he said. I felt I had chains attached to me, a marionette. I was being pulled by him, every movement orchestrated by him. But now there was a heaviness. Had I always followed along with his wishes because I was afraid of him? I sat down next to him and picked up my scotch.

"I feel like getting drunk." I said. I looked at him.

His blue eyes stayed fixed on me. "We haven't been drunk together in a long time."

"No." I was tracing the rim of my glass.

"You're silly when you've been drinking." He moved closer and lifted my chin. "look at me darling."

I didn't realize it but I was shaking. I looked at him. All I could see was his face in the dark. I was back in a place and time I'd never been. I was there watching him sit beside Margaret, his hands on her neck. I was there watching shadows of branches cross his face as the wind blew outside their bedroom window.

"You're shaking. Has something happened?"

"No. Maybe I'm not feeling well."

"Are you feeling sick?"

I shook my head and took a sip.

"You're behaving very strangely."

I looked at him. "Did you ever love Margaret?" I blurted. I hadn't meant to say it, I didn't even know I was wondering it.

He laughed. "That was over twenty years ago. What has gotten you thinking about her?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I was wondering. I mean. You love me, don't you?"

He touched my cheek and smiled. I could see amusement in his eyes. It was the way he used to look at me when I was young, as if he found me absolutely silly and naive. As if it was something that made him want me and love me. "I love you more than anyone. I've always loved you."

"Don't be angry, but you loved Anna too. When you were married to her."

His affect changed. His face had a hint of irritation. It was in his eyes. I always saw what he was feeling in his eyes, despite what he said or what expression he had. "What are you asking me Eve?"

"You loved her otherwise, you wouldn't have married her. Isn't that right?"

"Anna was a professional wife. She was Goddamned brilliant at it."

I looked at him and rolled my eyes. "Forget it. That's not a nice thing for you to say. It isn't kind to either one of us."

"She wouldn't be insulted. You shouldn't be either. It was Goddamned irritating."

"What I'm getting at was –I want to know why you disliked Margaret so much."

He gulped down some of his scotch. "Why do you care?"

"I'm trying to have a conversation with you. You're acting like you're on trial."

He raised his eyebrows and looked at me. It was intimidating. I looked down and then back at him. "I'm sorry."

He moved closer to me, "don't ask me about her. I don't want to talk about her. It was a terrible situation, I felt very sorry for the girl." He kissed my cheek. "all right?"

"All right." I whispered.

"Look at me, Eve." I raised my eyes to his. "was there something downstairs that made you think of her? Pictures or something you found?"

I felt myself wake up to the situation. "No. Of course not." I knew it was perhaps coy, but I wanted to disguise the truth about the boxes and Margaret's journals. "Sometimes I'm feel jealous of her for being your first wife, for being Clara and Jeffery's mother."

He finished his scotch and pulled me close to him. He kissed my neck. I knew even saying I felt jealous caused him to want me. He started unbuttoning my shirt. I fell under his spell as he continued kissing me. I realized that what she'd written was a lie, or the confused, contorted words of a crazy woman. He'd always awakened me at night too, but not to frighten me. He was childish --as she'd written-- but in the middle of the night, he wanted to be sure I loved him. He was the one who was vulnerable.

I let out a sharp breath, moved his hands away from me "I better go." I whispered. I was growing dizzy from his touch.

"Stay here with me."

"No." I moved away from his reach and then stood up, temping him. "you have to learn to be patient. You demand whatever you want whenever you want it. I need to help you learn--"

He stood up and walked closer to me. "Is that so?"

I moved away from him, just out of his reach. I smiled and whispered. "Honestly, Can't you just wait a few minutes while I get ready?"

"No. I can't wait. I want to make love to you right now. Come back over here so I can finish undressing you."