Part Three

VIII.

She was a fitful sleeper. Though she slept deeply, her body thrashed around continuously during the night, seeking what, Elizabeth didn't know. And it wasn't because she had been raped as a young woman; memories of that night, though they could still terrify her, didn't control and paralyze her any longer. And her inability to lie still didn't stem from the fact that she was currently a much sought after member of the witness protection program. No, instead, she had always been restless, even as a child.

Her nanny growing up had always teased her about her penchant for tossing and turning, smiling indulgently at her youngest charge and claiming that Elizabeth just had too much life in her to even settle down at night. Her older brother had also found it amusing, but he had given her nightmares for a week once when she was four by telling her she must have had giant bed bugs attacking her at night for her to make such a ruckus. And then there was her sister, too. Sarah had always hated the trait about her, telling anyone who would listen that it was just another one of her younger siblings attempt to bring attention upon herself.

Yes, like Elizabeth had really wanted to roll out of bed every night for two months straight.

Eventually, though, her movements became somewhat more tamed, but she never stopped tossing and turning while asleep. For some reason, periodically throughout the night, she would wake up into a semi-conscious state, realize that either one of her arms had fallen asleep because she had been holding it at an odd angle or that she was simply bored with her current position. So, she would fluff her pillow, mumble to herself about something unintelligible, and then fall back asleep, never to remember the moments of interrupted to her REM cycle. Often, when she woke in the mornings, her bedding and pajamas would be twisted around her body in an uncomfortable way, and sometimes there were things knocked off her nightstand or evening pieces of clothing removed and thrown across the room, but it was just one of her quirks, and she accepted it. After all, what other options did she have?

On that particular morning, she was slightly more cognizant than she usually was, perhaps because she had already slept for eight hours, but, knowing that she didn't have to be at work until early afternoon and not wanting to face the day that was waiting for her or the people in it, she rolled back over, sighing contentedly to herself as her body fell just a little bit deeper into the down duvet. Except it wasn't as comfortable as she had anticipated it being, and, in fact, there was something entirely off about the whole movement.

Jack hammering up in bed, she attempted to regain her bearings. Eyes practically swollen shut with sleep, she lifted a lined and wrinkled hand to rub away the cobwebs, grimacing when the bright light of the morning sun shining through her windows pierced through her otherwise groggy state. Hair in disarray and half matted to her head, she lifted a hand to brush it away from her forehead when she found the source of her discomfort.

There was a piece of paper taped to her face.

"What the…"

"A to-do list," a rather amused voice informed her from across the room. Immediately embarrassed, not to mention startled, Elizabeth collapsed back down onto the mattress and 

pulled the blankets back up over her head. Though his voice was slightly mumbled by the weight of the duvet over her face, she could still hear her husband perfectly clear. "I thought I'd put it somewhere that it couldn't get lost in all the clutter."

"Why are you in my bedroom?"

Jason laughed, ignoring her question. "You're really not a morning person, are you?"

Suddenly too infuriated to remain hidden where it was much safer for her pride, she threw the covers back again, this time for the last time, and sat up to face the man taunting her. Through gritted teeth, she asked, "what to-do list?"

Taking his time to answer, the former enforcer leaned back against the open door jamb of her bedroom, sticking his free hand in his pocket while the other one leisurely lifted his coffee mug to his mouth. He took a long drink from the cup, perhaps savoring the taste of the bitter, black concoction or just delaying the moment to piss her off even more, Elizabeth wasn't sure which. "If you'd un-tape the note from your forehead and read it, you'd know what to-do list I'm talking about."

Shooting imaginary daggers in the exasperating man's direction, she ripped the piece of paper off her forehead, grimacing when it pulled slightly at her sensitive skin. "Only you would think to do something so offensive as to tape a note to a woman's face, Morgan."

"Thank you."

In that moment, she would give just about anything for the chance to wipe the crooked grin off his arrogant, self-satisfied countenance. But she knew better than to try. Jason would just simply hold her off with one hand placed strategically in front of him while she kicked and sputtered and wind milled her arms in his direction, managing only to hit the air that separated them. Focusing her attention on the piece of paper in her hand, she read over the various chores listed, her mood becoming more volatile, more antagonistic with every bullet point.

"Is this some kind of joke? I can't get all this done in one day."

He shrugged. "Just do what you can, and, what you don't get finished today, work on tomorrow."

"Oh, you like this, don't you," Elizabeth challenged him, standing up from her bed to advance on the onetime hitman, her right index finger extended before her towards him in an accusatory manner. "You get to go off to work where you pick your nose and scratch yourself around a bunch of equally Neanderthal men, only to leave the little wifey at home to," she paused momentarily, glancing back down at the note, "to iron and hang the fucking curtains."

She didn't know why she was trying to engage him in an argument, but, after a month of living in hiding and fearing for her life, the stress was starting to get at her, and there was no better stress reliever than a knockdown, drag out, dirty fight, and who better than to fight with than the man who had been the bane of her existence for more years than she'd like to admit let alone actually think about. But Jason didn't rise to her bait; he overlooked her insults and her angry words and simply stood there, drinking his coffee, as happy as a freaking lark. If he dared to start whistling, she'd forget her restraint and punch him squarely in the nose.


At her wits end and so mad she was shaking, the blonde in front of her finally deigned it appropriate to respond. Lifting one sandy eyebrow and smirking at her, he nodded, his eyes roaming up and down her body at a furious pace. "Nice pajamas, Webber."

And that's when she remembered what she was wearing.

Instantly blushing, she turned around and ran straight towards the ensuite bathroom that connected to her bedroom, Jason's rumbling laughter chasing her the entire time. Slamming the door shut, she collapsed back against it, breathing heavily. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Hands fisted at her side, back ramrod straight, there she was in full glory starting back at herself in the mirror dressed only in a pair of candy-pink boy shorts, cut high, and a camisole so thin, so worn, it was practically see through.

"The stupid man," she fumed, stomping over to turn the shower on. Now that she was up and good and irate, there would be no going back to bed for her that morning. Standing in front of the sink, she set about brushing her teeth, mumbling and grumbling the entire time. "What the hell does he expect me to wear to bed," she rhetorically asked herself, spraying cinnamon toothpaste foam from her mouth and onto the mirror the entire time she talked. "It was seventy-five frickin' degrees last night when I went to bed, and it's not like Moron Number One and Moron Number Two thought to put air conditioning into this place for us." Spitting, she threw her toothbrush aside, so distracted with her one sided conversation she didn't notice it skid off the countertop and land between the sink and the wall. "So, excuse the hell out of me if I want to be comfortable at night! It's not like I was expecting some early morning visitor to come into my room, tape a note to my forehead, and then goad me into a confrontation." Stripping off her clothes, she let them fall to the floor in disorder, not carrying what particularly happened to them. It's not like she'd be able to wear them again without thinking of her husband, and, if there was one thing she did not need to think about while in bed, it was Jason Morgan, "the stupid man."

Sighing in contentment as the scalding water beat down on her nude form, she leaned against the tiled surface of the large, master shower, finally relaxing. As the steam enveloped her and the warmth of the spray washed away her worry and her resentment, her melancholy and her grief, Elizabeth finally allowed herself a moment to actually be vulnerable. After all, the shower was the one place where no one could see her, where no one would be able to read her inner thoughts and take advantage of them.

When she was alone, she could admit all the many things she regretted, including how she had been treating Jason since they had been forced to essentially share their lives together. Yes, there was past animosity between them, but, when she was truly honest with herself, she realized that he hadn't been attacking her that day on the beach so many years ago; instead, he had been attacking his idea of who she was. He had believed her to be a spy or an enemy out to harm Sonny, and, at that point in his existence, the only thing Jason Morgan had to live for was his job, so he took his duties as Sonny's enforcer quite seriously.

But, for a while after their encounter, seeing him and remembering what he had done to her down on the island, grabbing her from behind and covering her mouth, only triggered other unpleasant memories, memories of her rape, of the man who had snuck up behind her in the Port Charles park, wrapped his arms around her, and lifted her up off of that bench. Despite the fact that she knew better, Jason became inexplicably linked to her rapist, and, for years, he had set her on edge.

Eventually, though, that panic he instilled inside of her faded, only to be replaced by a 

whole different kind of agitation. Elizabeth started noticing different things about the hitman, softer things, beautiful things, and she began to resent him for the fact that he was the only man who could make her feel that way. It wasn't supposed to be him. Jason wasn't safe, neither physically or emotionally, and she wasn't supposed to feel anything but shy and uneasy around him. Instead, she felt attraction and interest, and she hated herself for giving into such weakness.

And then there was also his role in making her end up alone and afraid for her own life. Subconsciously, she knew it wasn't his fault, that it was Sonny's, that it was her own, that it was the entire world that the two of them had existed inside for so long, but, in her heart, she had a hard time separating logic from emotion, from impulse, and so she continued to blame Jason as well.

And, now, they were supposed to be married, hiding together and helping one another in order to stay alive. Fate was a cruel, perverse bitch sometimes. Day in and day out, Elizabeth was forced to live with the man who had, one way or another, haunted her for more than four years, and she didn't know how to deal with it. Breaking down into tears, she slowly lowered herself to the shower floor and cried until the water turned cold and her tears bitter.

Getting out, she slipped on her bathrobe, not caring about the fact that if she didn't comb out her hair right away, it would become a curly, unmanageable mess. If she and Jason were going to somehow find a way to coexist, to put the past behind them where it belonged, then she knew she needed to start meeting him halfway and that included apologizing for her behavior up until that point. But when she got downstairs to the kitchen, her husband was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was hot water in the coffee pot waiting for her if she wanted to make herself a cup of tea or some hot chocolate and another note.

"E," it was addressed, and she started reading it out loud to herself. "Maloney and Houston came up with that to-do list, not me. If you don't feel like unpacking, that's your business, and I would never tell you what to do or how to live your life. However, I will ask you to do something with me tonight. It's nothing special, so don't go spending a lot of time getting ready or doing… whatever it is women do. I'll see you tonight, and I'm sorry about this morning. – J. P.S. You should probably destroy this after you read it."

It was short, it was succinct, but it was sincere, and it made Elizabeth realize just how lonely she truly was.

IX.

It was one thing to pack up your life, to toss all your personal possessions in a box without absolutely any regard to order or reason, but it was a completely different story to unpack a life you no longer were allowed to have. Elizabeth had simply heaved her things together in a matter of minutes before she had officially disappeared from her previous existence. Clothes went into suitcases and boxes without being folded, mismatched and at tandem. Most of her personal belongings, those that could be traced back to who she once was, were now in the possession of the FBI, safely locked away in a security box, they reassured her. Her life's work, though it was still unpresented to the public, her paintings, were carelessly shipped to a storage facility in rural, Eastern Virginia, and she feared that she would never see them again. Everything else – her collection of books and movies, her impersonal knickknacks, hell, even her dishes were scattered about in the rest of the boxes, making each new container a potential emotional landmine when she opened it.


Deciding to start out safely, she had first tackled finally pulling out and putting away all of her clothes. Both because she had been ordered to unpack and also because she wasn't sure just how long she and Jason would be staying in Dovetree, she hung up and put in her various dresser drawers not only her summer clothes but also her winter ones as well. For some reason, perhaps call it common sense, she suspected bringing down one of the most powerful and connected crime bosses on eastern seaboard would take longer than a mere season.

When the clothes were finished, she moved onto shoes and other various accessories. It was almost like going on a large shopping spree, finally getting to access her own extensive wardrobe. Having been previously limiting herself to whatever she could find in the nearest box to wear during the past month, even simply having her own clothes and things spread out her bedroom made her feel more at home, less like a stranger in her own house. With her various jewelry boxes on the dressing table, her perfume and cosmetics lined up for easy access on the bathroom countertop, and even the occasional stuffed animal or two tossed onto the chair in the corner, reminders of a childhood long since passed and so easily forgotten, it was also as if she was back in Port Charles. The only thing missing from truly making her feel welcome was artwork on the walls, but with little to no ambition to create and even less supplies, she was just going to have to be content with what she had.

It was when she was unpacking her old college textbooks when the illusion of peace she had been weaving that morning around the house shattered and broke into thousands of unrecognizable pieces around her. With a stack of books obviously too high for her petite self to carry, Elizabeth had trekked across the room anyway, perilously balancing the heavy tomes between her extended arms and her chin. She had been just mere steps away from the already partially filled bookcases containing row after row of Jason's travel guides, when the stack of books fell and scattered to the floor.

At first, her eyes and attention had been fixed towards the shelves themselves. Her husband had taken the very top rows and the very bottom ones for his own volumes, leaving her with the middle, more easily accessible ones. The simple gesture made a small, almost hesitant smile tug at her lips. It seemed like forever since someone had actually done something to make her feel appreciated, respected, hell, even thought of. But then her gaze dropped to the floor, to the spilled and forgotten papers that lay at her feet, and she immediately fell to her knees, quivering with a silent need to sob.

There, among the dozen or so fallen books, were the only personal belongings she had packed with her, breaking the rules by keeping them and risking not only her own life but Jason's as well. With trembling hands, she reached out to pick them up, quickly arranging them into a neat, organized, chronological pile. It was in that moment, when she was holding the only connection she still had left to her brother in her hands, that she finally broke down, and, even though it had just been hours before that morning when she had cried in the shower, it felt as if she had been holding her tears in for months. She had cried that day, too, and the reminder of that afternoon only made her sobs just that much more desperate and consuming.

It felt odd to be going through someone else's paperwork, but what felt even stranger was the fact that you could actually get to know and understand a person by simply glancing through their most important belongings. Rifling through Steven's paperwork, Elizabeth encountered his various diplomas and medical licenses, clippings and captions from his illustrious career, and even a random note that still smelled like spilled beer from his undergraduate fraternity. She would have to remember to tease him about that when she 

went to visit him the next time in…

No, she scolded herself, willing the thought away with a forceful shake of her head. Her older brother had sent her here to do something important for him, and she wasn't going to be deterred by thinking about things she couldn't change and couldn't possibly begin to fix. And, if nothing else, he needed her to remain positive. After all, with the rest of their family, if you could really call Jeff, Caroline, and Sarah that, off fighting disease and poverty in Africa, she was the only person he had left standing beside him. So, refocusing on the task at hand, she started searching through the various papers and envelopes again.

The folder she needed could be clearly seen at the bottom of the pile, but this was the first and probably the last opportunity she'd have to see what kind of things her big brother was hiding from her, and, if nothing else, she was a nosey sibling who enjoyed lording blackmail material over her brother's head. What sister wouldn't? However, the very last thing she had expected to find in the safe deposit box was proof that she was loved and had been for years.

She would have been more prepared to spot a secret marriage license shuffled in between the year before last and last year's tax return information. She had been hoping to find really embarrassing pictures of her brother, perhaps ones from when he was a teenager with unruly, curly hair, braces, and what she could only remember as the worst possible case of acne ever. And she had really been wishing for an old love letter or two, tied up with a pretty red ribbon. What she found instead, though, trumped any piece of dirt she could have possibly found on her older brother; they trumped it ten times over.

Scattered around the box were dozens upon dozens of drawings she had made for Steven growing up as a child. Little girls always painted or colored pictures, but most of them would present their cherished pieces of artwork to their parents or their grandparents – but not precocious Elizabeth Imogene Webber. No, instead, she had given her handmade treasures to her big brother, the man she had looked up to and worshipped her entire life. Elizabeth had assumed he had tossed the works out years before, perhaps even throwing them away the day she given them to him, but, as she looked through the large pile, she realized that every single one was there and that they had been so treasured, her brother had kept them in his safety deposit box.

There was her handprint turkey from preschool, its feathers a bright, fluorescent rainbow of pink, purple, and robin's egg blue. Seeing the ridiculous holiday decoration, she laughed, marveling at her own horrendous taste all those many years ago.

Then there was the self portrait she had painted in second grade. Looking at the piece now, Elizabeth could finally see what her art teachers had recognized all those years ago – she had talent, even at such a young age. While the imagine itself was distorted, perhaps because of the rather poor self-esteem she had suffered from as a child growing up in Sarah Webber's shadow, the proportions were correct and beautiful even though it was obvious the artist didn't necessarily find herself to be pretty. Seeing the painting again made her want to attempt another, perhaps more positive self portrait.

He also had her first attempt at a landscape. Sitting there in the drafty bank, Elizabeth could still remember the assignment quite clearly. Her eighth grade art teacher had assigned her class the task of drawing a landscape of something they found striking. There had been dozens of garden scenes, pastels of the ocean, and even a couple drawings of large, impressive McMansions. But she had been the only student in the class to turn in something unique, something truly thought provoking. After taking one of the city buses 

into the slums of Denver, of course without her parents' permission or her siblings' knowledge, she had sat on the sidewalk outside a block of condemned and forgotten properties. The piece had turned out quite gritty, even including vague highlights made not out of a brown colored pencil but out of dirt to contrast the sharpness of her charcoal. At the tender age of fourteen, she had been proud of the work, and, almost eight years later, it delighted her to know that Steven had apparently found it to be special, too.

And then there was the crowning piece of the portfolio she had submitted to PCU as a senior in high school in the hopes of being accepted into their art program… or at least a copy of it. It was still, even to that date, one of her darkest pieces, and, when she had created the small sketch, it had been a risk. The admissions office, among other things, had requested all applicants to submit a piece that represented an emotion. She had drawn what nothing felt like, and she had gotten into her college of choice. Steven had been so proud of her the day she had gotten her college acceptance letter in the mail. They had talked for hours that night on the phone - he at Stanford; her in Port Charles. What she wouldn't give in that moment to go back to that night…

The shrill ring of the telephone snapped her back into the present, and she dropped the few select pieces of her own artwork that had once belonged to Steven back onto the ground when she stood up from her knees. Running through the house to the kitchen where the phone was resting on the table, she picked it up, breathless both from sudden alarm and the memories she was still fighting to push back away.

"Hello."

"Ellis," another woman greeted her, the slightly questioning tone to her voice unmistakable. "Is that you?"

"Yes, Didi," she answered. "Is something wrong?"

"Well, I was just wondering if you were coming into work this afternoon, dear," her boss inquired. "Your shift started fifteen minutes ago, and I hadn't heard from you…"

"I'm so sorry," the younger of the two women apologized profusely, running towards the living room as she continued to speak. "I was unpacking, and I totally lost track of time. Give me ten minutes, and I'll be there. I promise. And I'll work over, too," Elizabeth offered, scraping together her old art pieces and shoving them into a still yet to be unpacked box before locating her shoes and slipping them on.

"That won't be necessary," the flower shop owner dismissed. "I'll see you in a little bit, Ellis."

And, without further ado, Didi Russell hung up the phone.

X.

Silently working side by side with her boss, Elizabeth observed the arrangement before her. Though she knew nothing about flowers and couldn't name any by sight other than the obvious ones like a carnation and a rose, she had to admit that she had a flair for making attractive arrangements. Because of her art training, she was a good judge of color and scale, of proportion and texture, and her arrangements were quickly becoming more popular than Didi's, despite the woman having been in the business for more than twenty years.


Surprising herself, she liked the work, too. Unlike waitressing tables, her profession of choice while she was still studying in college, working in a flower shop wasn't physically exhausting, and it allowed her to actually use her mind. Plus, it was quiet and relaxed as opposed to chaotic and oftentimes grimy, and, if pressed, she had to admit to herself that she liked the people who came into the shop, too.

"I thought we agreed last week that you'd quit thinking so loudly. Hell, even my head starts to hurt when you're this distracted."

"Sorry, Didi."

"There's no need to apologize," her boss chastised her gently, frowning slightly at her employee's rather dismal mood. "Just quit doing what you're doing. Or," she suggested, laying down her pruning shears, "instead, you could tell me what's bothering you."

Readjusting the calla lilies before her, the brunette denied, "there's nothing bothering me. I just have a lot on my mind right now."

"I assumed as much."

"What," Elizabeth started, turning to face the shop owner. "Why? How did you…"

"When I called you earlier, you sounded like you were in a whole different world, and then you told me that you were still unpacking. Sweetie, you've been here for almost a month, haven't you? How have you not gotten everything unpacked yet?" Sighing, the older woman dropped her tone to a confidential whisper. "Are you and Jack having problems? You know, I wasn't going to say anything, but there's been talk about town saying that you two…"

"We're fine," she interrupted her boss. Repeating herself, she said the words with even more conviction. "Jack and I, we're fine."

"Well, I was just making sure…"

Turning back to their respective arrangements, the two women resumed work. Glancing at her employer out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth had to smile softly to herself. She really did like the older woman. In her late forties, Didi Russell was truly an independent force to be reckoned with. Twice divorced but with no children of her own, the tall, curvaceous shop owner claimed she didn't need a man in her life to feel complete and had, in fact, swore herself off of them forever. She was still attractive, though, with her long, naturally black hair and curious but also kind green eyes, and Elizabeth knew that, despite the florist's declarations of self-sufficiency and autonomy, there were several men in Dovetree that would happily become the third Mr. Didi Russell.

Suddenly feeling guilty for her abrupt behavior, the younger of the two women offered, "I'm just lonely."

Her employer put her shears down once again. If there was anything else widely known about the florist, it was the fact that she was perpetually unable to do two things at once. "Oh, sweetie, that's not good."

"I know."

"Have you told Jack this," Didi wanted to know, piercing the brunette across from her with a questioning gaze.

"Not in so many words," the former artist confessed, "but he knows. I think he's lonely, too. I mean, there's only so much time two people can spend with each other before they need some outside stimulation. But he has all the guys from work and his pool table…"

"Oh, now that's hot."

Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed. "I can't believe you just said that about… about my husband."

"Somebody had to," the older woman teased, winking at her employee. "Now, don't you worry your pretty little head about this anymore. Just leave everything to me, and I'll fix you right up."

"Didi…"

"Hush," the older woman ordered playfully. "And get back to work. I don't pay you to keep me company, do I?"

"Well," Elizabeth hedged, giggling when the woman beside her simply rolled her eyes in response.

"And take one of those gardenias in the fridge home with you," the florists instructed. "Wear it… and nothing else… for your husband tonight."

"I can't," she responded, blushing furiously at the very thought of doing something so brazen with a man, especially a man like Jason. "We're going out somewhere tonight, but I'll still take the flower."

"Oh well," Didi dismissed rather cheekily. "I'm sure he'd rather take the clothes off of you anyway."

With a shared glance, the two women burst into giggles, their work long forgotten.

XI.

She had been watching the new girl in town all evening. Normally, pick up softball games were not her personal choice of nightly entertainment, but Betsy Northam had made an exception that evening. For the first time since her new neighbors had moved in a month ago, they were finally going to be attending a town function, and she certainly was not going to miss an opportunity to see the young couple in action… so to speak.

She had to admit that she was intrigued by the Martins. Although, personally, she had, so far, had absolutely no interaction with her neighbors, Evelyn, at the last garden club meeting, had admitted to hearing about young Ellis from Didi. The two women, constant gossips both of them, had been talking on the phone the week before and just so happened to conveniently discuss the petite brunette. Didi had informed Evelyn that Ellis was a delightful if not somewhat shy and reserved young woman and, apparently, according to Evelyn, a flower genius.

Well, she would be damned if Evelyn Shepherd knew more about someone than she did, so, 

taking the opportunity that had just practically dropped into her lap with the softball game, Betsy slowly, cautiously made her way towards her new neighbor. Ellis was sitting alone at the top of the bleachers, and, though she was worried about how exactly she was going to get down once the game was over, Betsy threw caution to the wind and climbed the rickety, wooden structure anyway. At least if she fell, it was for a good cause.

"Your husband's quite the dish out there."

"Excuse me," the twenty-something brunette queried, appearing to be taken aback by her sudden manifestation beside her. "Do I know you…?"

"We're neighbors," Betsy answered, waving off the younger woman's concern. "But that doesn't matter right now. I know who you are, and, soon enough, you'll know who I am, too."

"Alright then," Ellis agreed with her, sounding anything but persuaded. "If you say so…"

"I do. Now, as I was saying about that husband of yours…"

"Jack," the brunette interrupted. "His name is Jack."

Betsy ignored her. "Has he been playing softball long? He's quite good."

"He's good at anything he sets his mind to. I'm sorry," the younger woman apologized, turning to face her, "but is there a particular reason for your sudden interest in our lives?"

"Just trying to be neighborly."

Ellis snorted, and she found herself wanting to laugh but denying herself the outward display of amusement. They sat in silence for several minutes, both of their gazes trained upon the man about whom they had been previously speaking of. He was catching, his jean clad legs bent in a squatting position, his back taunt with focus and anticipation, his left arm outstretched with the glove to catch the pitches being hurled in his direction.

Despite the fact that she was an old spinster, Betsy still found herself appreciating the image Jack Martin made. The man was handsome. When she told his wife that he was quite the dish, she had meant it, and, many years ago, back when she was still passably attractive herself, he would have been just the type of man she would have wanted to date. Unfortunately, though, men like Jack Martin had never wanted to date her. Instead, they went for the softly spoken, malleable women like the one sitting beside her. But, then again, Ellis Martin obviously had some spunk to her, even if it was hidden behind an impassive exterior, and she found herself wondering just exactly what one would have to do to see her inner fire and passion released. That was for another day though; she had different fish to fry that evening.

"I've been watching you and your husband this past month," the elderly woman admitted, never once breaking her gaze away from the softball game, but she felt her younger counterpart tense beside her. "And I was wondering, just who exactly were those two men that came to visit your husband last night?"

"Old friends of ours," the brunette retorted, standing up and reaching for her purse. "If you'll excuse me, the game's almost over, and I want to have something ready for Jack to eat and drink when he's finished. He hasn't eaten yet this evening, and I'm afraid we're low 

on food at home."

With that, Ellis Martin brushed past her, quickly descending the bleachers as she made her way towards the concession stand. But, still, Betsy remained, observing, studying, analyzing. She watched as the couple met up in silence after the game, as the wife stood by as the husband quickly consumed his two hot dogs with everything on them and washed them down with an ice cold bottle of water. She watched as he threw away his garbage, Ellis trailing behind him. She watched as Jack waved goodbye and called out companionably to several of the men he worked with, no doubt the very people who had invited him to join their pickup game of softball in the park in the first place. And, then, she watched the two of them meander slowly towards their SUV, hand in hand.

While there were obviously things that Jack and Ellis Martin were hiding from the rest of the town and, perhaps, even the rest of the world, Betsy know one thing about the couple for sure – they fit together well. Physically, they were a beautiful pair, but it was more than that. There was an aura around them when they were together, a sense of rightness, a feeling of belonging, of being home.

However, that didn't mean that she wasn't going to get to the bottom of their secrets. No, nothing could deter her from discovering the truth about her new neighbors, and she was going to get right on her task… as soon as she found a way back down to solid ground.