The Widow's Walk by Robert Barclay Page A

home.
    Sometime later—perhaps after half a cigar and three sips of Jack Daniel’s—his thoughts returned to the beautiful woman he had seen here three nights ago. He still couldn’t get her out of his mind, given his total shock at seeing her brazenly sitting in his kitchen and crying her eyes out, not to mention her amazing beauty. Despite her distressed state, there had been an allure associated with her the likes of which he had never experienced. Will she ever return? he wondered. And if she did, might the two of them—
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Richmond?” a woman’s voice suddenly asked from the darkness.
    Garrett was so startled that he flinched sharply. He immediately stood up and peered into the gloom.
    â€œWho’s there!” he shouted.
    As Constance slowly came into view, the cigar fell from Garrett’s lips and the cocktail tumbler slipped from his hand. Her appearance was so identical to that of the woman in his dream that he literally could not speak. Sensing his overwhelming surprise, Constance gently took two steps nearer to stand fully in the light granted by the lantern. In some ways she was as frightened as he.
    â€œSo you are able to see me, after all,” she whispered, her voice a sudden prisoner to her emotions. “For the last three days I have been wondering if it was really true, or but a dream.”
    For several moments Garrett’s mouth worked up and down, but no words came. At last he found his voice.
    â€œYes . . . yes, of course I can see you,” he answered. “Why wouldn’t I?”
    For the first time in a long while, Constance allowed herself just the hint of a smile.
    â€œWell, Mr. Richmond,” she said, “that is a rather long story, and if you will permit me, I would like to tell it to you. May I come up on the porch?”
    â€œUh . . . err . . . yes. Yes, of course, Miss, uh . . .”
    Her legs trembling, Constance walked up the steps then came to stand before him at last.
    â€œMy name is Constance Elizabeth Canfield,” she answered. “And there is much to which you need to be made privy.”

Chapter 7
    Garrett couldn’t believe his ears. Constance Canfield and her husband, Adam, had given this home its lovely name. So who could this woman be? he wondered. Some long-lost descendant perhaps, or maybe some squatter, looking for a handout? Before he could answer, Constance produced another short smile.
    â€œBut before we converse,” she said, “perhaps you should extinguish that cigar. It would be a shame to watch Seaside burn to the ground this night, would it not?”
    â€œUh . . . yes, of course,” he answered. After a couple moments of searching he picked up the cocktail glass and then crushed the still-glowing cigar beneath one shoe.
    â€œMay I take a chair?” Constance asked politely.
    â€œYes,” Garrett answered. “Please do.”
    As Constance took the chair alongside him, Garrett grasped the opportunity to look her over. Yet again, her beauty amazed him. This time her long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had large blue eyes, a rather short and straight nose, and full lips. She was a tall woman with a lovely figure. Her battered clothes, however, seemed to belie her beauty. She wore a simple red-and-white plaid shirt underneath a shopworn leather jacket, a pair of very old-looking jeans, and some blue and white Keds that had clearly seen better days.
    Her clothes were not that unusual. It was their condition that was awful. They were rumpled and looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned in a long time, adding further evidence to the chance that she might be a homeless person. Plus she carried no purse, which was odd for a woman of her age. Still unsure about how to begin a conversation, Garrett took a few moments to pour some more Jack Daniel’s.
    â€œWould you like some?” he asked.
    Constance shook her