Lifes Little Luxuries

And moments of life are made up of little luxuries like these.

It was just one of those evenings last night ~ the children were all tucked up soundly and snugly in bed early ~ so I thought I would treat myself to a luxurious hot soak.

In my hand, a nice red dulce' wine ~ baileys & baileys 2 fat ladies, that a loving friend put me onto many months back, and by my side a copy of "Sanctuary" by Nora Roberts. Nora is one of those captivating authors that writes a wide range of genre, but she always sparks my interests and has me reading from her entire collection.

I am .... just lying back, sipping wine under the ambient glow of scented candles (dusty orchid, apple peel & honey suckle.)

These are my moments of luxury!

Sanctuary - Safe from harm - or the most dangerous place of all?

She dreamed of Sanctuary. The great house gleamed bride-white in the moonlight, as majestic a force breasting the slope that reigned over easter dunes and western marsh as a queen upon her throne. The house stood as it had for more than a century, a grand tribute to a man's vanity and brilliance, near the dark shadows of the forest of live oaks, where the river flowed in murky silence.

Within the shelter of the trees, fireflies blinked gold, and night creatures stirred, braced to hunt or be hunted. Wild things bred there in shadows, in secret.

There were no lights to brighten the tall, narrow windows of Sanctuary. No lights to spread welcome over its graceful porces, its grand doors. Night was deep, and the breath of its moist from the sea. The only sound to disturb it was of wind rustling through the leaves of the great oaks and the dry clicking - like bony fingers - of the palm fronds. The white columns stood like soldiers guarding the wide veranda, but no one opened the enormous front door to greet her.

As she walked closer, she could hear the crunch of sand and shells on the road under her feet. Wind chimes tinkled, little notes of song. The porche swing creaked on its chain, but no one lazed upon it to enjoy the moon and the night.

The smell of jasmine and musk roses played on the air, underscored by the salty scent of the sea. She began to hear that too, the low and steady thunder of water spilling over sand and sucking back into its own heart.

The beat of it, that steady and patient pulse, reminded all who in habited the island of Lost Desire that the sea could reclaim the land and all on it at its whim.

Still, her mood lifted at the sound of it, the music of home and childhood. Once she had run free and wild through that forest as a deer, had scouted its marshes, raced along its sandy beaches with the careless privilege of youth.

Now, no longer a child, she was home again.

She walked quickly, hurrying up the steps and across the veranda, closing her hand over the big brass handle that glinted likea lost treasure.

The door was locked.

She twisted it right, then left, shoved against the thick mahogany panel. Let me in, she thought as her heart began to thud in her chest. I've come home. I've come back.

But the door remained shut and locked. When she pressed her face against the glass of the tall windows flanking it, she could see nothing but the darkness within.

And she was afraid.

She ran now, around the side of the house, over the terrace, where flowers streamed out of pots and lilies danced in chorous lines of bright color. The music of the wind chilmes became harsh and discordant, the fluttering of fronds was a hiss of warning. She struggled with the next door, weeping as she beat her fists against it.

Please, please, don't shut me out. I want to come home.

She sobbed as she stumbled down the garden path. She would go to the back, in through the screened porch. It was never locked - Mama said a kitchen should always be open to company.

But she couldn't find it. The trees sprang up, thick and close, the branches and draping moss barred her way.

She was lost, tripping over roots in her confusion, fighting to see through the dark as the canopy of trees closed out the moon. The wind rose up and howled and slapped at her in flat-handed punishing blows. Spears of saw palms struck out like swords. She turned, but where the path had been was now the river, cutting her off from Sanctuary. The high grass along its slippery banks waved madly.

It was then she saw herself, standing alone and weeping on the other bank.

It was then she knew she was dead.