"Here honey put these on, this is what you will be sleeping in from now on." said my mother. I took them from mom and put the panties on and they were...made of satin with lace around the leg openings and on the back and top. I slid them up my legs and around my waist and had to admit they felt good. Then I pulled the nightie over my head and it was short only to the bottom of the panties and just barely covered them. It was a babydoll nightie that my mother had bought just for me. It felt. Nonetheless, Mrs. Weed sewed the skirt for Rebecca. Mid-August in Athens, however, was scarcely the place to be wearing wool.She looked around as she descended the steps from the airplane, half expecting Wesley to be waiting for her. Or perhaps Ryan McGuire. Her visualizations on the airplane from Rome were mixed. She chanted a spell Mrs. Weed had taught her to put herself into a visualizing trance and settled in to focus on her husband. But images of Ryan kept intruding on her subconscious.. It took all of her incredible will not to kiss him then, to feel the lips she had imagined so many thousands of times, but she steeled herself. Too much was riding on this conversation. ‘I took the chance that you might come to the game after all. I needed to see you, to be in the same space with you. I thought…’ and here her will began to fail her, but she clenched her fists behind her, took a deep breath and continued ‘…I thought we could at least say hello. I packed a picnic. I thought we. . I don't know. Come on." "But why does she have her hand inside her buttons? Why is she rubbing her tummy?" "Shhh. Maybe she has a tummyache." "But, but ... why is she smiling?"-----She looked at the large dog. It held her gaze.She saw the recognition in its liquid brown eyes, felt the stir deep in the pit of her stomach, the looseness, and the sudden presence of moisture.It knew.She knew.-----"Can I call you?", your email says. I think for a few minutes, and then burn my boats. "I'm sorry..