Marsha and Gary Blackwell
There was a soft tapping on my shoulder. At first I thought it was my wife, then I remembered it was late Monday afternoon and the tapping was coming from someone else. I rolled over; it was Varina Jefferson, wife and part owner of the Antique shop where I’d bought some furniture. She was smiling at me. “Wake up sleepy head,” she whispered, “it’s after 4:00 p.m. My husband will soon be back, and I have to reopen the shop.” I half leapt off the old sofa, “Varina ... I ... we...” “Not now...