I tend to write overly long pieces and consequently sometimes attempt to rein in my wordiness and write small pieces. This is one of those. I decided to try not using dialogue in this one as well. Let me know what you think.


His eyes lifted from the headstone, one last remaining reminder of his late wife, his beloved Rosalind. There standing in the shadows stood his driver of almost five years; but no, not just his driver. Sam was a friend, at times a confidant of sorts, and far too important to him to be a mere underling. So much had passed between them in the years they'd worked together and silently Christopher Foyle contemplated the weight of it all.

When Samantha Stewart first stepped into his office and announced herself, he had been flabbergasted. He could still recall the fluster he'd felt as he'd looked up at her in all her bluster. It was as if the door had blown open to admit a stiff, refreshing breeze into his drab life; a drabness he'd endured since the death of his wife. And while he still missed his Rosalind, life was ever so much more interesting with Sam around. Her presence alleviated the sting of his loss. And as he stood here, his eyes glancing between the grave marker and Sam, he realized that his grief no longer weighed on him as it had done for so many years. He still loved Rosalind and missed her; but no, the weight of it was not there. Yes, Sam had brought light back into his life amidst his grief and also his worry over Andrew.

Over the years subtle hints had been dropped by friends and family, even Andrew, that he should consider having another woman in his life. Sam had made him realize the possibility of that. It wasn't that he considered her a possibility, although a man would have to be half dead for the thought of her not to cross his mind. But he was far too old for her and he was her superior. Both were compelling reasons to cast his lines elsewhere. Trouble was, no woman could rouse him like Sam did.

But the war was still on and the timing was all wrong for... anything really, with Sam or otherwise. Giving Rosalind one last look, he smiled to himself. He was ready, he reasoned; ready for a new adventure of the heart. The only question that remained was with whom.

As he walked toward Sam who joined him matching his pace, Foyle's mind contemplated what his future might bring. A few steps later, he set aside those thoughts and turned his mind to the day at hand, but not before remembering a passage he'd read years before. Every grief hath that opportunity of cure; every joy that peril of vicissitude. Till time hath ceased from her travail, no man can tell her offspring's sex, whether it be rugged care, or sweet and tender joy. *

With a sly grin, he sent up a private prayer of thanks for the cure that walked unknowingly beside him and he hoped that vicissitude did not have its way. Sam had taught him to find pleasure in life again and he had no desire to lose her to any of the young men that seemed to always be around her, unless perhaps Andrew might come to his senses about the girl. No, he wasn't ready to lose her to the ever changing whimsy of fate. She gave him courage and in an odd way, perspective for the possible. Still tentative as he moved forward, contentedly unsure of how his future would unfold, he settled his ambition upon sweet and tender joy.

* Knowles, Robert Edward. St. Cuthbert's: A Novel.