Over the years they had created a series of stories. They, in turn, had attracted other, like-minded, authors and those that shared their interests posting on the site's message boards or contributing their own tales.This weekend, though, she wouldn't have much time for posting. She, Krista and three of the others that had contributed to Eastern Promise had agreed to meet up for a couple of days in a cottage in the Norfolk. Well it wasn't the mysterious east, Madeleine thought but at least it was the east of England.Madeleine wasn't sure whose idea it had been but now that the time had come she was looking forward to it. It was a cottage that Krysta had found out about. Set way out on the edge of a stretch of marshes along the North Norfolk coast, it would offer them all a chance to get away from work, share their thoughts and enthusiasms and maybe do some writing as well. The weather didn't look promising and Madeleine knew that Norfolk could be bleak but she didn't care. It was. So here I am, alone in a queen-sized bed made for two. I have my blankets on (and nothing else), and like Ishmael, I feel warm on this cold night. But that doesn’t cancel out the aching emptiness that never seems to leave me anymore. I have stacked up three or four pillows so I’m kind of sitting up. Thinking maybe it’s time to reread Moby Dick, because…why not? After a few chapters, sleep is lapping up over my consciousness like waves on a, particularly, peaceful shore. The blankets had slipped down toward my waist, I didn’t notice when.But now something is different. I am no longer leaning—half sitting, half reclining—against my pillows. I feel the firm, warm contact of skin-on-skin. I am leaning back against a familiar chest. A man’s chest. Ben’s chest. I can’t see him of course, but I know these sensations well. I feel his thick, strong, slightly hairy arms wrap around me, embracing me from behind in a delicious bear hug. Instinctively, I relax and melt into Ben’s arms. I am safe.
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