The Tempestuous Career of Molly Murdock

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The alarm went off at quarter to six. She fumbled for it and turned it off and forced herself to swing her legs out of the bed and sit upright, knowing that she was too exhausted to risk sliding back into the secret depths of her sleep. She sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments, huddled, drowsy — a small blonde woman, trim as a dancer, slowly fitting herself into the urgencies of this special day. As she padded out to put coffee on, she was aware, in a lonely way, of the silence of her house, the emptiness of the other beds. After her shower, she felt the slow return of her energy and the fluttering of excitement. She had packed the night before and laid out what she would wear. She was at her dressing table, combing her hair, when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“I thought maybe I’d missed you, Molly.”

“You’re up very early, Charlie.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I said hard words to you yesterday.”

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