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there.
    She finds it almost meditative, to lose herself in a creative activity. Whether it’s spiraling coil pots out of terra-cotta clay, beading simple necklaces on a wire, or fashioning papier-mâché vases from newspapers and balloons, Sylvie finds the class not only calming, but also inspirational.
    However basic the projects may be, the classes are stirring her creativity, Sylvie going on to produce items at home she then gives away to friends.
    Last week was candles. Not candle-making, for that would be too difficult and too dangerous for the elderly occupants of the home, but candle- wrapping : taking a pillar candle, measuring a sheet of beeswax to fit precisely around the outside, cutting to size, wrapping the wax, then securing with a raffia tie.
    It was mindless, and would have been disappointing, had Sylvie not engaged the teacher in a fascinating discussion about candle-making. Sylvie learned about the benefits of organic soy wax retaining the scent of the oils, the importance of using natural wicks so lead wasn’t released into the air; she learned about melting temperatures, and pouring temperatures, and additives to harden.
    She learned that some waxes hold fragrance far better than others, that most candles require two pours, as the first invariably brings bubbles and imperfections up to the surface. She learned that the reason her mother’s candles, expensive though they were, invariably ended up with a tunnel around the wick, the rest of the candle staying intact, was because she didn’t burn them long enough the first time they were lit in order to create a good melting pool.
    At home she went straight to her computer, filled with an urge to make candles herself. Her mother’s insistence on new Diptyque candles every couple of weeks were costing her a fortune—imagine if she were able to re-create the scent, or even create something entirely new, that her mother would love, and make them for a fraction of the cost.
    Her mother loved fig. That she knew. But fig on its own? Surely she would need something else. Sylvie started looking at other fig candles, noting what other fragrances they used. Amber. Jasmine. Gardenia. Chypre. Chypre? What on earth was chypre ? A combination of sensual, earthy base notes, she read. Base notes. Ah. Perfume. That’s what she should be researching.
    The more she read, the more she began to see it, feel it, the calmer and more centered she became. It was like coming home to herself. What if she were to produce a line of organic candles at home? What if this could be exactly what she is looking for?
    *   *   *
    Mark, as pragmatic and practical as he is loving, asks her all the questions she cannot answer.
    Cost, margins, sales information, and finally, has she actually tried this before?
    “Of course not,” laughs Sylvie. “Hello? This is your wife? Do you actually know me? But you know they’ll be beautiful.”
    “That’s true. Just don’t spend a fortune without figuring out the costs involved. I’ll help you. I have spreadsheets designed exactly for this. So”—his hand is once again moving down her body—“what’s the plan for tonight?”
    “I have a reservation at George’s. I thought we could have a date night.”
    “Deck or inside?”
    “Deck!” She grins. “Told you it’s useful having friends in high places.”
    “If you’d have said inside, I might have tried to convince you to stay in bed, but”—he shrugs—“I can’t resist the view. But”—he rolls on top of her—“there’s something I just have to do first.”
    “Not now.” Sylvie pushes him away with another grin. “I have to get ready. Promise I’ll make it up to you later, though.”
    Sylvie gets out of bed and walks naked to the bathroom, wiggling her bottom deliberately, still grinning over her shoulder at him as she walks, blowing him a kiss as she closes the bathroom door.

7
    Sylvie
    Eleven years, and the chemistry between them is just as strong as, if not