A new rain fell on the cold dark city. Its constant tap against the mullioned windowpane made Vida feel at ease. With familiar sounds came the sense of all things flowing into place and the kind of peace known only to those who live in darkness. She ran her long fingers across the edges of the porcelain candlesticks. Finding no nicks, she was about to place them in the center of the dining room table when a sudden clap of thunder startled her.
The noise had also surprised her German Shepherd, Bruno, and she called softly to the agitated animal whose eyes served as her own.
"It's all right, boy," she said, caressing his fine, noble head. "It's only thunder. It can't hurt us."
She felt a crease in the folds of the Irish linen tablecloth and momentarily placed the fragile candlesticks on the nearby windowsill. She straightened out the cloth, returned the sticks to the center of the square table and reached for the box of wooden matches she had left on the same windowsill. She lit the wicks and the smell of sulfur filled her nostrils. Walking the few steps to the china cabinet, she opened the doors and removed, one by one, the limoge dishes and crystal tumblers that had once belonged to her mother. They were soft to the touch and made her think of other soft, satiny things, like the negligee she planned to change into later and the feel of the rose petals in the Oriental vase on top of the fireplace mantle.
Carefully, one by one, she placed the dishes and the tumblers on top of the lacy white tablemats. Her finest sterling silverware gleamed next to them. She felt confident that now everything was absolutely perfect for Valentine's Eve dinner with the love of her life, Jonathan Scuro.
The one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan's land mark Chelsea Hotel had been her home since her mother died, more than five years before. All the things she loved were here. The poetry collections of Elizabeth Barrettt Browning and Lord Byron were all bound in the finest leather. Although she could not have read them, for none were written in Braille, the poems were as much a part of her memory as every inch of space in her home. So too were the Dresden porcelain and cut glass pieces she had inherited. They lived in beauty just as Byron's immortal words in the china closet by the window, where the rays of the sun made them shine even through the thick leaded glass.
