I quietly opened the refrigerator and surveyed the remnants of this evening's feeding frenzy. The fiends must have finished the barbecue, because the only things left were grilled Portobello mushrooms, tofu, and red pepper on skewers. These went into my bag, Tupperware containers and all.

I stood at the back door for painfully long seconds, trying to see into the dark night, hoping that my captors thought I was knocked out by fake multivitamins. I was torn by the urge to bolt out the door and by the worry that any rushed movement would draw them down upon me like, well, like the fiendishly undead.

The door was unlocked. Stepping outside, I took care to walk softly, keeping to the dark shadows at the edge of the drive. I was so focused on not snapping any twigs that I almost got to the front gate before I realized that it might be monitored by cameras. I veered left, along the property line that ran parallel to the road, hoping to find a way to get over or through the fence.

When I was far enough from the house to risk the sound of the Tupperware lid snapping, I opened a plastic container and began eating the mushrooms. They were delicious, with lots of ginger. If I wasn't worried about escaping, this would have been a really lovely night stroll. How nice it must be to have a country home, to eat al fresco, to leave one's doors unlocked, to see the myriad stars in the clear night sky, to awake to a rooster's crow, to hear the thundering footsteps of a pack of creatures behind you in hot pursuit!

I only had to look back once to see the wolves racing to me before I began to run, my plastic bag slapping against my legs. I took a sharp turn, in an effort to outwit their herding techniques and walnut-sized brains.

I threw my plastic bag down, hoping that the scent of kabobs would distract them. Crashing through shrubbery, I saw the light from the neighbor's white cottage shining like a beacon. I scaled the fence around the house by jamming my feet on the horizontal rails and fell into a thorny bush on the other side. The wolves yelped in frustration and I yelped in pain as I tried to extricate myself from the brambles.

I breathed hard and tried to calm myself. I had escaped the beasts. I turned toward the modest white cottage, the sort of casita humble yet honest country folk would own.

The wolves were struggling to scramble through the fence when, to my great relief, the front door opened. I ran toward it, so happy I could have cried, and directly into the dark silhouette of a man who said, "Milagro, what the hell are you doing?"

Oswald gazed down at me and he looked decidedly puzzled.

Chapter Ten

whereupon our heroine confronts the cad

Seeing him up close, in a navy sweatshirt and jeans, the bastard looked more handsome than I remembered. His wide brow was unlined by difficulties, his creamy skin free of anxiety-induced acne, and his body was unreasonably healthy and lean. Only his hair looked troubled, the locks tousled in a the-world-is-too-much-with-us, let's-go-back-to-bed sort of way.

I heard a scuffling by the fence and knew one of the red-eyed monsters had gotten through. I lifted my hand to grab Oswald's arm. Sure, he had wronged me, but it still seemed unfortunate that his muscled flesh would be ripped to shreds.

Perhaps Oswald thought I was going to strike him, because he moved away and said, "Hey, Daisy."

I turned to face the creature straight on, ready to fight until the bitter end. I was confronted by a shaggy dog.

Previous "Oswald," I said. '"What the hell are you doing?' is hardly an appropriate greeting when it's your fault that I'm here!" I blinked away tears and dropped my shaking hand to my side.

"I meant what are you doing crawling over the fence and riling the animals." Oswald stared and I averted my face so he wouldn't see the hollows under my eyes. I was embarrassed that I looked so hideous and I'm sure he was wondering why in the heck he'd ever looked at me. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Finally he said, "Would you like some oatmeal? You look like you need a meal. It will help you think more clearly."

"I don't want your pity."

"I'm not offering you any. I'm offering you oatmeal. Come on in." He had a rich, low voice that caressed words and made everything he said sound provocative.

I stayed where I was. "Edna said you lived in a shack."

"My grandmother thinks this is a shack."

I took a few tentative steps forward. There was a large, airy all-purpose room with a miscellany of unmatched furniture.

Anatomical posters of domestic animals were tacked on one wall. Thick textbooks covered an olive metal desk. Oswald gestured toward it and said, "That is my command post." Through doorways I could see a bedroom and a bathroom.

"What do you command?" I asked.

"I'm helping Gabriel track down CACA's membership right now. Since I was under house arrest."

"Is that why you weren't at the barbecue tonight?"

Oswald shrugged. "I eat enough vegetables."

"What's wrong with vegetables?"

"Nothing. I just eat enough of them. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Oswald, I have a lot of problems right now, but your relationship with vegetables is not one of them." Somehow that didn't come out as scathingly as I intended.

"Do you want oatmeal or not?" He walked toward the open kitchen. The family must have had a cooking fetish, because all of the appliances were expensive new models designed to look like vintage pieces. In a dish rack beside the sink was a lonely tableau of a single plate, a wineglass, and a mug.

Oswald filled a pot with water and added a dash of salt. Obviously, he was unfamiliar with the adage that a watched pot never boils. Maybe it wasn't in the vampire lexicon. Maybe they said something like, "An observed blood vessel doesn't burst." While he stared at the pot, I had ample opportunity to stare at him and remember that dizzying time at the Hotel Croft.

Occasionally, he stole a glance at me, his gray eyes framed by dark lashes. The glances were definitely stolen, because he looked guilty as hell.

"I'm so relieved that you're all right," he said at last.

"Am I really all right, Oswald? After all, I am staying in a house full of vampires. They could attack me at any given moment."

"You are in greater danger from malnourishment than from any mythical creatures. Perhaps you are letting your imagination run wild."If I hadn't just mistaken the dogs for the hounds of hell, I would have had a clever retort. "What about an apology?"

Oswald's jaw tightened, and I wondered if he had tried to blame me for this mess.

"Damn you to hell, Oswald, you didn't even tell me you were engaged. I was examined by your fiancee today at the clinic. Do you want to know how humiliating that was?"

Oswald grabbed a tin of Irish oatmeal and measured some into the water. "I should have told you about Winnie. She's a wonderful woman, remarkable and dedicated."

He didn't have to say, "And you're not."

"If she's so wonderful and remarkable and dedicated, why did you take me to your hotel?"

Oswald let his gray eyes rest on me for a moment and I stopped breathing, again feeling that connection to him. He reached out to brush a strand of hair from my face, and my skin grew hot at the touch of his fingers. "Milagro," he said in a deeper voice.

I can't say what I would have done, but then there was a hiss and sizzle and we both jumped away from each other. It was only the oatmeal boiling over, but it was enough to change the atmosphere. In a suddenly crisp tone Oswald said, "I saw you talking to Beckett-Witherspoon and I was intrigued, curious. I thought you could provide information about him."

"Oswald, your so-called curiosity almost cost me my life! Now I'm a damn vampire like you and your crazy family."

"That's preposterous. There's no such thing as vampires. You are not a vampire. You're just a girl with an infection."

"Just a girl with an infection!" I shouted. "That's all I am? I'm just a girl to give rug-burn to on the carpet and who cares if I get sick and almost die and you come back here to your dedicated and remarkable fiancee and everyone laughs about it?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant!" he said. "I never wanted any harm to come to you."

"Oswald, you never wanted any harm to come to me and you never wanted any good to come to me, because you didn't even think of me that way. I was just a thing to you, a momentary and forgettable diversion."

Maybe I really wanted him to say how extraordinary the connection had been, how strong it was still. Maybe I wanted him to tell me that I was beautiful and irresistible and he was overcome by desire because of something true and real and his yearning for me was even stronger than my yearning for him. Instead he repeated, "I should have told you I was engaged. Honestly, I'd like to make things better for you. Tell me how I can do that."

"I am sure I will think of something, Oswald, and when I ask, you better remember that you owe me. You owe me big-time." I tried to stomp out of the cottage, but the dog got in my way. "Daisy, let's go."

I trudged back to the house feeling worse than before. Beyond the fence, the other dogs ran up to join Daisy and me on our walk of shame. Okay, my walk of shame. Maybe Oswald's physical relationship with Dr. Winifred Harding, based on his deep admiration of her, was even more compelling than what I had experienced with him at the hotel. Perhaps choosing boyfriends based on trivial desire resulted in relationships with a short shelf life.

I didn't feel that I was an especially frivolous individual. But maybe really shallow people could not comprehend their own lack of depth. Perhaps we only saw the shining surface of our personalities, whereas others saw the 3 FT. DEEP, NO DIVING sign clearly posted.

One of the dogs, a black and tan model, proudly dragged my plastic bag to me. "Good dog," I said. The container of kabobs was unmolested, so I opened it and chewed thoughtfully. At least as thoughtfully as a shallow person could chew.

Ahead, the house looked warm and comfortable. I was upset, but I did feel better now that I had eaten. Low blood sugar made normal people do insane things. Once, when Nancy was on a severe Geneva Spa Youth and Limberness diet, she had bought a beige wide-wale corduroy dress just because it was on sale.

I would find the best in my situation and try to be serious in my writing and as a human being. I would reject relationships based on mere sexual attraction and therefore I would not appeal to men who sought only a ha-ha roll in the hay.

Edna was in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea. I blocked the other dogs from coming inside, but Daisy slipped in. I shut the door.

Without looking up, Edna said, "Young lady, it is far too late to be gallivanting about. Go to bed."

I hesitated. "Can Daisy come in my room?"

Edna turned to look at the dog, who waggled her rump like a hooker at a convention of missionaries. "Hmph."

As I was walking back to the maid's room, Edna called, "Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas." I had the feeling she wasn't talking about Daisy.

I fell into the deep, self-satisfied sleep of others like me, jailhouse converts and crackheads and kleptomaniacs, who truly believe that tomorrow they will be reformed.

Chapter Eleven

new and improved

The alarm went off with an annoying beep-beep-beep. Daisy was gone. I could have sworn that I'd locked the door before I went to bed. It bothered me that someone had come in while I slept, even if it was just to let the dog out.

At least I had my own bathroom with those nice little octagonal tiles which made me think fondly of old bars and gyms. After showering and dressing, I troweled on makeup to hide my sallow complexion. Ignoring the fact that my WWII bra crumpled in where there was no bonny flesh to fill it out, I looked better than I had the day before.

I reminded myself to try to think before speaking. I mourned for all the blithe bon mots that would never be uttered. Now I would never even need to learn what "mot" actually meant. I suspected it meant "zinger."

Edna had donned another of her Town & Country outfits and was drinking a cup of joe. One place was set with a bowl of dry cereal, a glass of the blood orange juice, and a mug. I smiled politely and said, "Good morning, Edna."

She raised her eyebrows, then said, "Good morning, young lady. You look mildly less ghastly today."

Being serious doesn't mean that you have to tolerate abuse. "Gee, thanks. I'll cherish your compliment forever," I said as I poured a cup of coffee.

"We can't have you dilly-dallying about because I can tell you'll cause nothing but trouble. What are your plans for today?"

I suspected that Edna did not consider writing a serious enterprise. Looking out the window, I saw the neglected climbing rose.

"I can prune that rose and also take a look at your garden."

Previous "A familiarity with dirt does not make one a gardener."

"Edna, I know so much about gardening it would knock your color-coordinated socks off. Which is to say that I have had extensive experience and training as a gardener."

This was true, even though my father believed my gardening approach was radical because I was anti-lawn. Lawns were Jerry D's specialty. Flawless emerald carpets maintained by hard work, irrigation, and massive infusions of chemicals had made his fortune, such as it was. His company's motto was "Let Jerry D-light you with a perfect new lawn!" Before he sold his last business and moved, he had several crews working full-time on suburban landscapes, from homes to corporate campuses. I could go to a development I had never seen before and identify Jerry D's work just by the edging and border shrubs.

I'd barely finished my coffee when Edna said, "If you are finally ready, I'll show you the gardening shed."

We went to the mudroom and did the sunscreen routine. This time I grabbed a cute straw hat before she could give me something worse. We walked around the house and Edna pointed to the fence that screened the car park. "There's a shed back there with garden tools."

I found a miscellany of tools that would suffice and returned to Edna. It was early spring and everything should have been healthy with new growth. Instead the plants looked as if they were begging to be euthanized.

"The horses eat everything," Edna said. "What they don't eat, the dogs trample. The animals run this place."

"Good fences make good gardens. Do you think it's okay if I make some changes?"

"Do whatever you want, young lady. I'm sure my grandson won't mind."

"You mean Sam, right?"

"I am not so mentally feeble that I cannot tell my grandsons apart, if that is what you're implying."

"You know, talking to you is as satisfying as smashing my fingers with a hammer."

"Hmph," she said, but I was convinced that this was Sam's ranch. Edna just couldn't bear to answer yes to any of my questions.

Besides, it wasn't as if Oswald was living in the house or even had a job.

The rose was overgrown with dead canes in a tangle with the weak new ones. Two unhappy blossoms had opened. "Oh, it's Climbing Sombreuil, one of my favorites." I turned to Edna and added, "When she's healthy, she's exceedingly beautiful. You have no idea."

"I'm sure I do," Edna responded cryptically.

There really wasn't anything else that was salvageable. "Any ideas of what you'd like here, Edna?"

She shrugged. "How should I know? This is all too rustic for me." I must have looked puzzled because she explained, "I've always lived in cities. The boys insisted that I come and stay here."