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that had kept her awake. It had been the quiet. The reason for the quiet.
    Finally, she’d taken the couple of Tylenol PM caplets she’d dug out of her travel bag. Sleep had come.
    But not rest. For sleep had brought nightmares. In them, she had been enfolded in a womb, warm and contented. Protected. Suddenly, she had been torn from her safe haven and thrust into a bright, white place. The light had burned. She had been naked. And cold.
    In the next instant flames had engulfed her.
    And she had awakened, calling out her father’s name.
    Not too tough figuring that one out .
    Avery glanced at the bedside clock. Just after 9:00 a.m., she noted. Throwing back the blanket, she climbed out of bed. The temperature had dropped during the night and the house was cold. Shivering, she crossed to her suitcase, rummaged through it for a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. She slipped them on, not bothering to take off her sleep shirt.
    That done, she headed to the kitchen, making a quick side trip out front for the newspaper. It wasn’t until she was staring at the naked driveway that two things occurred to her: the first was that Cypress Springs’ only newspaper, the Gazette , was a biweekly, published each Wednesday and Saturday, and second, that Sal Mandina, the Gazette ’s owner and editor-in-chief had surely halted her father’s subscription. There would be no uncollected papers piling up on a Cypress Springs stoop.
    No newspaper? The very idea made her twitch.
    With a shake of her head, she stepped inside, relocked the door and headed to the kitchen. She would pick up the New Orleans Times-Picayune or The Advocate from Baton Rouge when she went into town this morning.
    That trip might come sooner than planned, Avery realized moments later, standing at the refrigerator. Yesterday she hadn’t thought to check the kitchen for provisions. She wished she had.
    No bread, milk or eggs. No coffee.
    Not good.
    Avery dragged her fingers through her short hair. After the huge meal she’d consumed the night before, she could probably forgo breakfast. Maybe. But she couldn’t face this morning without coffee.
    A walk downtown, it seemed, would be the first order of the day.
    After changing, brushing her teeth and washing her face, she found her Reeboks, slipped them on then headed out the front door.
    And ran smack into Cherry. The other woman smiled brightly. “Morning, Avery. And here I was afraid I was going to wake you.”
    â€œNo such luck.” Avery eyed the picnic basket tucked against Cherry’s side. “I was just heading to the grocery for a newspaper and some coffee. You wouldn’t happen to have either of those, would you?”
    â€œA thermos of French roast. No newspaper, though. Sorry.”
    â€œYou’re a lifesaver. Come on in.”
    Cherry stepped inside. “I remembered that your dad didn’t drink coffee. Figured you’d need it this morning, strong.”
    Her mother had been a coffee drinker. But not her dad . Cherry had remembered that. But she hadn’t. What was wrong with her?
    â€œFigured, too, that you hadn’t had time to get to the market.” She held up the basket. “Mom’s homemade biscuits and peach jam.”
    Just the thought had Avery’s mouth watering. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I had a real biscuit?”
    â€œSince your last visit, I suspect,” Cherry answered, following Avery. They reached the kitchen and she set the basket on the counter. “Yankees flat can’t make a decent biscuit. There, I’ve said it.”
    Avery laughed. She supposed the other woman was right. Learning how to make things like the perfect baking powder biscuit was a rite of passage for Southern girls.
    And like many of those womanly rites of passage, she had failed miserably at it.
    Cherry had come prepared: from the basket she took two blue-and-white-checked place mats, matching napkins,