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Although his wife often travels a lot for her work as a regional sales manager and his own work has him burning the midnight oil on a regular basis, his relationship with his beautiful Addy had remained stable and close."Did you just get home Daddy? It's so late," Addison said, her sleepy voice interrupting his thoughts."Yes baby, another late night. I haven't even gotten to your delicious meal yet," he replied."Well, let me heat it up for you," she said, opening the fridge door.When Addison opened the fridge, the light inside illuminated her figure. She wore a pale pink nightie and the ruffled edge was only a couple of inches below her bum. He could see her white panties underneath. Her smooth creamy thighs looked translucent with the glow and her light strawberry blonde hair had tumbled down past her shoulders in waves. She looked like an angel with such an ethereal glow. Although he always looked forward to his step daughter's cooking, he needed something more right now."Don't. ’ ‘Oh.’ Mal smiled and said Mrs Smith didn’t feel the need to tell him what he already knew about the reason for the visit. ‘You can also return with the director when he goes with a camera crew for a week to film local material.’ ‘Omigod I bet Mabel Wright is buried there. We could run the opening credits over a shot of the grave. Oh Mal please.’ ‘It could be considered but that’s something for you to talk over with your director who’ll then consult with the producer.’ ‘Oh, I haven’t told who the producer is.’ ‘I’m it,’ he grinned. ‘This is our annual blockbuster.’ Roxy still worked at remaining off-hand with the director Billy Jones, a gaunt and hugely creative guy with a mustache. Roxy hated mustaches and so that helped her to remain off-hand instead of pushing to establish her place as the dominant female in the production. She assumed some other female in the cast was already fucking Billy, that is if he were a female-only guy. One never knew with directors. As was becoming her.
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Carpenter turned and looked at his house with pride, as he always did. Today the rooms felt like a cocoon, all safe and warm, protecting him from the coming storm. He stood there, taking in the reddish-gray brick and varnished redwood walls, the deep gray slate floor, the massive fireplace – all the visible hallmarks of one who’d studied Wright’s style of architecture for decades. His house had become his calling card, and then his reason for being, for more than thirty years he had called this place home, and to this day, several times a month people in fact, knocked on his door, asked him about his house, and many asked him to design them something ‘just like this’. And he did too, so many times over the years he had almost lost count, but his vision and the legacy he built around the integrity of his belief in that vision had sustained him. And quite comfortably, he said to himself as he smiled. He turned and looked to the monstrosity beyond the trees outside his kitchen window, a.

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