Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. I felt his heart. He donned his winter coat. “Better state of mind,” she gasped. .
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