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Michael appeared more often as a solid entity in Scarlett’s house. His arms felt warm and firm, not as she remembered him in the bad times, but as she remembered the good times.
As years ago, when Troy was a baby, she now grew to recognize the sound of her husband’s vehicle as it turned the corner. The whiskey had been a one-time slip, an occurrence she was not proud of and a slippery slope, but John was there to encourage her to quit, and the recent good solid side of Michael.
“Don’t push it,” Michael said. “You never drank at home, darling, until you reached rock bottom. Don’t start again. Remember our son, and your pride, and my love.”
He often parked his motorcycle in the driveway behind the leaning fence and the hedge. She would catch a glimpse of it at times, large and chromed
