She sat in the wicker chair-- by a herculean effort refusing to shiver, despite bare legs-- and watched as her "friend" snuggled luxuriously beneath the afghan. . .
. . . The afghan, that marvel of yarn emblazoned with columns of colorful peacocks so realistic you could almost hear them calling through the still, oppressively warm twilight of some exotic, perfumed place. . .
Long had she coveted the handmade blanket. Sheila deserved that afghan-- so much more than Margot ever would-- and it had been the subject of an unacknowledged coldness between them for years-- the bright, multicolored elephant in the room.
Today, she kept a careful distance, choosing the chair on the far side of the room, the better to observe her enemy. Today, she watched-- watched and plotted. Tomorrow, she would act. . .