Susan put down her book, and shut off the bedside light, lying back and letting her eyes adjust to the dark. The image of a stony, cold Victor, listening to her explanation of their incompatibility, formed itself in her mind. His refusal to argue or debate saddened her, putting into perspective the years they had both wasted in a futile relationship.

Victor's image faded, replaced with Nigel's, and his endearing, boyish charm, which had captured her heart from the moment she set eyes on him. Nigel was the future, she was sure of it, and sighing heavily, she closed her eyes, holding his face in her mind until she fell asleep.

*****

The second day of fall arrived with a drizzling, chilly rain; too light to be a nuisance, but too steady to be wandering around without an umbrella. The leaves that had once been a glorious spectacle, now lay in sopping, umber clumps along the gutters and driveways, unsightly and dangerously slippery. It was the kind of weather that caused car windshields to smear endlessly, and unprotected hair to turn frizzy; a day when blouses, shirts and dresses clung annoyingly to the skin, leaving the wearers grumpy and disheartened.

Cal's Porche bounced into the lane beside the bank and splashed through some muddy puddles to the parking garage behind. He gathered up his briefcase and jacket, and went into the foyer, stopping at Tilley's desk for his messages.

"Morning Tilley, anything new?"

"Mrs. Braithwaite is waiting in your office," she said tersely, "I've closed the blinds so she could have some privacy."

He looked at her wide-eyed, not certain he'd heard her correctly. "Excuse me?"

"I thought it might be better... for the bank... if she wasn't on display to the clientele, while she waited."

"Oh. Well thank you Tilley, that was very considerate." He walked slowly to his office, looking back suspiciously.

"Hi," Melaine smiled, getting up as he entered, closing the door behind him.

"Did she say anything to you?" He canted his head toward the outer office.

"About what?"

"About closing the blinds... for privacy?" He hung up his jacket and set his briefcase on his desk.

"Well I thought it was odd, but she didn't say anything. She just closed them and left." Cal sat behind his desk, staring at the door in puzzlement. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Tilley is, but I'm not sure why. She's the last person I expected to allow the two of us to be alone in here, in private."

"Maybe we've finally cracked her resolve," she laughed, coming around the desk and sitting on his lap. "Or maybe it's just a rainy day concession."

Cal stirred comfortably beneath her, "Speaking of which, why are you here this morning anyway?"

She crossed her ankles and rested her feet on his desk, wiggling more firmly into his lap. "Milo and I have come to an understanding."

"Oh really," he said cautiously.

"Yes. After all the hoo haw over the success of the play, he went into one of his unbearable rants over being left out of the limelight. It was the last straw for me, he didn't want anything to do with it in the first place, and when it began to look promising, nobody wanted his input." She rested her head against his cheek, uttering a small snort. I told him I'd had it up to here, and that I was going to start changing my life around, which didn't include him or his pompous, self-absorption."

"You're not divorcing." Cal wrapped his arms around hers.

"No, we're not even separating, at least not in the legal sense. We'll continue living together and being a couple for important social occasions, I wouldn't deliberately do anything to damage his career, but I made it quite clear that my life and my choices would be absolutely none of his business."

"What did he say?"

"Well, in essence, after a long tirade in Milo-ese, that if I felt that way, I was to be warned that my decision cut both ways."

"And?"

"And with all the sarcasm I could manage," she said, lifting her face to his, "I said, it's about time."

"So-o-o-o, what now?"

Melaine pulled her head back to see his face. "Well I thought, in light of Tilley's gesture, we might celebrate."

"Aaah... well that's good, because if we sit like this any longer, I might preempt my own participation."

*****

At the end of September, an election was held to replace the many gaps in the town council. Milo, of course, retained his position as chair, with Amanda remaining as recording secretary. Of the other original members, only Shelia, Susan, and Allen, under orders from Tiffany, kept their posts. The five new members were, Donald Gregg, at Amanda's urging, and Ellen Richardson, replaced her husband at Milo's insistence that they keep a Paisley Path majority. Esmerelda Diggs, Hartley Meloncore, and to Milo's everlasting chagrin, Everet Polasky, whose outspoken opposition to everything Milo proposed, made for many a stormy meeting.

At the end of the first session, Hartley Meloncore resigned, claiming too much stress from such a volatile atmosphere; Serge Tressore, an incurable, gossip predator, eagerly took his position. In spite of the Pathway's majority, Milo found he'd lost his command to the four women and Serge, and the decisions taken began benefiting the town rather than his own agenda.

*****

With Serge actively involved with the council, Antonio found his schedule more demanding, spending fewer evenings at home and more in the back of Fawn Do, struggling to create the 'Gallaria Look', which had swept the town.

Gertrude spent her days as usual with shopping, trips to the hair salon, and an increasing number of hours writhing with Arthur on the grand old, leather-topped desk. Carmela embraced her new freedom, with frequent visits to Ivan, in the garden shed.  Unfortunately, while enjoying one of her sorties, Carlos, while looking for his mother, stumbled across she and Ivan during a particularly strenuous encounter in the garden shed, and angrily added to Ivan's already intense beating with one of his own.

Outraged, Carmela marched her son by the ear, the full length of the garden to the house, in her exotic, dominatrix costume, snapping her whip angrily and berating him for his interference. Ivan meanwhile, made it to the house and dialed nine-one-one before collapsing in a bruised heap on the carpet.

Arlene, who had been waiting in the house for Carlos, sat open-mouthed, gaping at Carmela's costume while listening to her explain the facts of life to her son, in no uncertain terms. When Carmela was finished, Carlos apologized, commiserating with his mother's reason for her behaviour, and in the end, applauding the act of her defiance of his oppressive father.

The two youngsters left in Carlos' car, eagerly discussing whether or not, equipment such as his mother's, might be available in Ashton Hills.

Ivan roared off to the hospital in an ambulance, received treatment for a number of bruises, cuts and abrasions, and was then dispatched back to his home in a taxi, with instructions to be more circumspect when working alone in his garden shed, advice he took with a half-hearted, "Bully".

*****

Victoria set her paper down as Nigel dragged into the atrium, puffy-eyed and still half asleep. She watched him flop down at the table, draw his bathrobe over his lap and shiver noisily before offering any greeting.

"Good morning to you too, nephew. Bad night?"

"Nightmare would be more like it. All that stuff we talked about last night just wouldn't go away." He yawned and knuckled his eyes.

"Still feeling responsible are you?" She clucked.

"No... well, maybe some of it... I don't know..."

"Nigel, Nigel. The perennial keeper of brothers. We should erect a statue of you in the park... Nigel Stainway, moral repository."

He glowered through his sleepy state. "Well maybe if I'd never come here in the first place—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, nephew!" She tossed the paper aside and waddled out to the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. "Change your name to Sun, why don't you, since you think everything revolves about your own little universe." Dishes rattled and banged, and after a few moments, she returned with a tray of coffee, cereal and toast. "Here, fill your face and wake up to the real world."

He took a bite of toast, watching her as she retrieved her paper and continued reading. "Okay, look Victoria, I'm wrong and you're right. But don't belittle the fact of my sense of morality as- as- some kind of turpitude."

She lowered the paper and pinned him with a look. "Then don't drag it out every time someone on the planet takes a different fork." She folded the paper and set it aside, speaking more kindly. "Let's talk about something more relevant while you eat your breakfast. For example, how long do you plan to stay here, and what are you going to do about gainful employment?"

The cereal spoon wavered inches from his mouth, returning slowly to the bowl as he considered the brutal reality of her question. "I- I don't- I haven't thought..."

"Yes, well I have." She folded her hands on the table and fixed on his eyes. "After trolling through the labyrinth of programs on the government web site, I've found several that offer grants for various sectors of the arts, including writing. If you are serious about pursuing this field, you can draft an application and see if you qualify. Some of them are quite generous; it's galling in a way that our tax dollars are so generously dispersed, but since they are, you may as well take advantage.

"And since your brewing relationship with Susan seems to be at the bottling stage, it would make sense to try to establish a little economic security. As for staying here, well, I'm a lonely old woman in a very large house, who appreciates the company very much." She reached across the table and took his hand with a questioning look.

"I take back what I said about first coming here. Truth is, I've never felt more comfortable staying with anyone... parents included." He patted her aging fingers while the lump in his throat subsided. "While it's caused some hairy rides, your advice has never hurt me Victoria, and I'd be a fool six ways to Sunday if I started ignoring it now."

"Bravo nephew, now finish your breakfast and we'll see about getting hold of some of those applications."

THE END