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were never any good with record keeping. And my grandparents were even worse,” Ren had said.
    But the place had a hold on him. He grew up there, wanted to live there the rest of his life, tending to his family legacy. But his family insisted on his training for another career, even though they weren’t thrilled about law enforcement. Ren didn’t like handling the bees, in any case, but he was a good manager and businessperson, which made the transition even harder because his parents were not. His last few months had been a tangle of grief, frustration, and newlywed love.
    Jennifer sank back into her chair and sipped at her chamomile tea. It helped her sleep, especially on stormy nights like this. The temperature had warmed but rain had moved in, and this old house, sturdy as it was, still creaked and moaned with each wind gust.
    The house was over a hundred years old. Built of local stone, it was a typical large boxy farmhouse. But over the years, the D’Amicos added on a back and two wings on either side. It sat on a level space surrounded by rolling hills, with an upstairs view of the River Lyon. The second story held six en-suite bedrooms. What would she ever do with all that space, unless she wanted to run a bed-and-breakfast? And she just couldn’t see having the time to start a new business on top of trying to save the old one.
    She sat her almost finished cup of tea on the table next to her and pulled her blanket even closer. If she closed her eyes and took a deep whiff, she could still smell Ren on the fabric. It was his favorite throw, the one his grandmother had knitted for him. Jennifer pictured him in her mind’s eye—such a macho man from the outside, a teddy bear in reality.
    She drifted, curled in the chair, wrapped in the warmth of Ren’s memory. She fell into a place between sleep and wake and began to drift even deeper. A hand on her hand jarred her back. She sat up. The empty room was chilled. Hadn’t someone just touched her?
    She clutched her hands, then brought them both to her chest, where her heart thumped hard. The hair on the back of her neck pricked. What was going on in this house?
    A curtain blew out from the window, knocking over a crystal vase, which fell onto the couch with a soft thud. Had she left a window open? Odd.
    Jennifer looked at her hand, ran her fingers over it. Must have been the wind that had brushed against her hand. There was always a logical explanation.
    Later, as she slipped into her bed, she felt a familiar tightness, a longing. Ren had left her high and dry. He awakened passion in her and then died. She only missed sex during moments like this. Up in the middle of the night and unsure of what she was longing for. She only found one thing that helped: her collection of sex toys. She propped herself on her elbow and dug in the bottom of her bedside stand. Ah, there it was, the one she wanted. Just a few minutes and she’d be fast asleep.
    Her orange, g-spot vibrator was one of her favorites. She flicked the on switch and rubbed it right on the center of her. Sometimes, that was enough—a little clitoral stimulation and she was off. But tonight, she wanted a vibration deep against her g-spot. One of her hands slid the instrument inside—oh, the vibration spiraled inside of her, as her other hand’s fingers slid around on the outside. A tingle shot up through her and soon she was just her sex. She imagined a man with her, him inside of her hitting her in the right places. In her mind’s eye, Ren, Ren, Ren! The closer the deep pulses came to the surface, her imagination took over. Hands on her. Breath on her neck. Lips on her nipples. A green-and-gold-masked face.
    She gasped as the waves of pleasure overtook her, then she giggled, rolling over into a deep sleep.
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    â€œI’m sorry, Mrs. D’Amico, can we get payment for this delivery today?”
    Jennifer looked at the deliveryman who had her new bees with