Seven. It was too early to get up, but there was no point in her staying in bed any longer. She’d tossed and turned the whole night through, just as she had every night since she and Jed had made love. That was five long nights ago. Sighing, Maggie shoved back the covers and sat up. The collar of Jed’s shirt slipped over her shoulder and she shoved it back up. She’d worn it to bed every night, unable to make herself wash it, store it away or return it to him. It was cowardly, but she didn’t care. She’d been avoiding everyone for the past few days. Even Rhiannon and Esther. Their messages were piling up on her machine, their pleas turning to demands. But Maggie just wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened with Jed. She knew if she didn’t contact them soon, they’d come looking for her. On the upside, she was painting again. This past week, she’d started the most ambitious project she’d ever undertaken.
