by Libby Sumner

I sat at the kitchen table, my fingers trailing over the picture of my recently dead husband. He had been such a wonderful and loving man, to the woman across the street (and across town, downtown, up the street a little ways and somewhere a few states away). A part of me wanted to laugh while the other part wanted to cry because, despite his indiscretions, he was good to me. I finished off the last bite of the wonderful meal I had prepared as I gazed at the picture. I sat and sipped my wine, glad he had been a tenderhearted man all of his life. After all, it had cooked up wonderfully with the rice and peas I'd picked out to go with it.


Libby Sumner, author of Morning Death, adores and admires Adam J. Whitlatch. She lives on a farm in rural Tennessee with a plethora of animals (and her husband). She's written roughly half a dozen unfinished novels ranging from sci-fi to smutty romance. (She hopes to finish at least one of them some day.)