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red coach handbag vicious determination to see through him.Viewed from the impunity of marriage, the penchant for unrequited passion that persisted through my early thirties had paid off. The likes of Tanner might not have known I was alive, but if you never spoke to the young man he would never reveal his disillusioning enthusiasm for the Bee Gees. Having nursed my loves in private, I had kept them inviolate, and was now spared looking back at a string of deranged entrancements with mortified incredulity. Marathon devotion had developed my emotional endurance, in contrast to Tanner's sprints with three or four girlfriends a year. I feared that my stepson wasn't learning to love women but to harbor contempt for the women who loved him."Glop that much jam on your toast," Fletcher grunted en route to a glass of water, "might as well be eating cake.""Whole wheat!" said Tanner. "And he still won't give it a rest."I'm sorry, but I don't eat daaaaaaaaairy! Our thirteen year old, Cody, had abandoned her piano practice to tug the pull string doll propped on the dining area's middle shelf in case her father needed razzing. The doll was a first effort from four years before, and then a mere whimsy of a Christmas present. I'd sewn it from scratch on the heels of Fletcher's sudden health kick. The crafts project had doubled as therapy, embodying my struggle to keep a sense of humor about the fact that he would no longer come near my celebrated manicotti.The stuffed ragamuffin wore a miniature version of Fletcher's standard black fleece, to which I'd glued his signature dandruff of sawdust. The doll had stovepipe black jeans, and