Stitch in Snow

Chapter 9

I made a small front page headline, at the bottom, as 'Mystery Witness' for D. Jerome Lowell. I was also billed as the well known lecturer, Doctor Dana Jane Hartman Lovell, BA, MA, Ph. D, and author of many children's books. There was a recap of the death of Mrs. Noreen Sue Lowell and the arraignment of D. Jerome Lowell on charges of manslaughter.

Depressed by the article, I dutifully phoned Peter's office. He was in and the tone of his greeting did not lift my spirits. 'The D.A. still thinks he has a case, Jenny.'

'Does that mean I have to hang around Denver?' That did not please me.

'I thought you said your engagements were completed?'

'They are, but I live in Ireland, and I want to see my son.'

'You've got one of those excursion tickets?'

'Yes…'

'You're not to worry about your expenses,' he said firmly.

'They are not my main worry. Trials in the States can take ages… I want to see my son, he must be worried sick over all this… And I have commitments at home… in Ireland…'

I suppose I sounded petulant. What I feared was that somehow the prurient D.A. would divine that I was in love with Daniel Jerome and that would blow my alibi to flinders. I wanted not to be in Dan's vicinity so that I could keep up my pretence of indifference.

'I can certainly move for an early trial date. But if you did have to go back to Ireland and return here, you're not to worry about your expenses…'

'Fuck the expenses,' I said with a force and inelegance that made him gasp on the other end. I always save my expletives for emergencies but I chuckled because I had managed to shock Peter Taggert. 'You have absolutely no idea how this mucks up my writing schedule. I must have quiet and no interruptions. I can't write when I'm so wound up with worry that creative thought is impossible. I sure as hell-won't-freeze can't write a "Timmy" story in my present frame of mind. And I've got to. I've a contract to fulfil…'

'Jenny, Jenny. Calm down, Jenny. Please listen. Jenny…' Peter kept saying as I exploded. 'I'll be right over. Call room service and get some food into you. Did you just wake up?'

'Yes, I did. You told me to call you when I woke up. l am.'

'Okay, okay. Just order breakfast. Sent up, do you hear? And no reporters. I'll be over in fifteen minutes. I'll probably arrive with your breakfast.'

The moment I jammed the phone down I was ashamed of my outburst. But I felt better. I'd roared out some of the tension. I ordered a big breakfast from room service. It'd be lunch because my watch read 11:30. I ran a hot, hot bath which revived me, too.

I had just finished dressing when there was a knock on my door. I almost threw it open when caution returned. Leaving the door on the chain, I opened it a bit and asked who was there.

'Bell Captain, Dr. Lovell. Mr. Taggert asked me to give you this when you woke up.' The man passed in a thin parcel wrapped in fine white paper. He left before I could tip him.

I unwrapped a leather-bound, gilt-edged slim volume, a diary: much more elegant than my Eason's 50 penny pocket thingie. And in the corner of the front cover, in gold, were my initials: DJ H L.

I was astounded and then deeply touched as the pages fell open to yesterday's date. Carefully inscribed in a precise hand were the notations: Arrived Denver, 4:45. See PT,

Dinner PT, Hotel Room #804. On today's date was the entry:

'Lunch PT, discuss DJL case.' In the address and phone section all my data had been carefully transcribed in another handwriting. Barbara's, probably, because it was femininely cursive.

And I'd been such a bitch on the phone! I riffled the pages, and smoothed the leather of the binding. I wondered if Peter knew how much Daniel Jerome mattered to me.

Which reminded me. I walked fingers in the yellow pages, found the phone number of the bookstore with the largest ad, called them and asked for three copies of any books they had in stock by Dana Jane Lovell. I asked them to be sent, cash on delivery, to the hotel and the clerk's gasp of surprise when I gave her my name was one of the fringe benefits of being a well-known, or should I say, infamous, person in Denver. If the books arrived in time, I could give them, suitably inscribed, to Peter to deliver to the children.

My brunch and Peter arrived simultaneously. He was ordering some lunch for himself when I made with the door-routine.

When I began my enthusiastic thanks for the diary, he tried to brush off the gratitude, telling me to shut up and fill my face. I tried to question him but he said flatly that he never discussed business before breakfast; in this case, mine. He leaned back in his chair and studied a pocket notebook. I was hungry enough to take advantage of this dictum so I plowed through melon, coffee, toast, eggs and sausages until his salad lunch arrived.

'Now,' he said, settling before the service table, 'I've made some tentative plans for you, subject to your agreement. A petition for an early trial date has been presented in court this morning. I should know the precise date later today. I see no reason why you can't keep to your own plan, and see your son. You were then to have returned to Dublin, right? To work? Can you postpone your commitments in Ireland? I can offer you a ski lodge in Aspen for as long as you require it.. Would that give you peace and quiet? I can guarantee you won't be interrupted there.'

'Wouldn't the D.A. consider that a bribe?'

'If his bullheadedness requires a material witness to hang around a foreign country, he can't complain about interim accommodations. The least I can do is give a guaranteed retreat until the case is tried so you can get on with your story…'

'If I can think of one…'

He raised his eyebrows.

'I did mention that my state of mind is not conducive to writing at the moment… And I'm not being difficult.'

'Then visit friends? Relatives? Relax in sunny Florida.'

'I'll take the Aspen lodge.' I sighed deeply. 'What a schmazzle! How's… Dan… today?'

'Your arrival has given him a new lease on life.'

'For a permanent one, you really need the party or parties unknown who did attack his ex-wife.'

'Don't I know it. We've not been idle, Jenny, even before you responded. I've got a damned good investigator working. The trouble is, the goddamn blizzard. A car can be seen, a taxi would have had a record, but the wind wiped any tracks to the house, and there were no fingerprints on the windowsills, doorframes… She was found in the kitchen, she'd bled to death from a wound in her skull: coroner says the edge of the counter…'

'I thought she was in a snow drift…'

Peter grimaced. 'She was. The back door was open…'

'Burglar…'

Peter shook his head tolerantly. 'A pine tree had come down… and through the back door…'

'Wasn't she knocked by it?'

'No way. Her body position was wrong, but the snow drifted in.'

'Burglar! She discovered him entering because the tree had broken in the back door…'

'Possibly and likely though no one has come forward. What points the finger at Jerry is the evidence of a neighbour who saw a man in a ski mask leaving Noreen Sue's house at about ten o'clock. She was watching Gunga Din too, and she'd got up to call her dog in. She thought it was odd at the time because there were no lights on in Noreen Sue's house; although she says in her statement that there were visitors at all hours to that house.'

'Old cow.'

'She was horrified to think her evidence might convict that nice Mr. Lowell.' Peter's comment chided me for my uncharitable remark. 'She said she would not swear it could have been Dan: merely that it was a tall man, wearing a ski mask, ski jacket and pants tucked into boots or ski boots. And that is all she's prepared to swear to.'

'And the D.A. can use that sort of flimsy evidence to convict Dan?'

' That is only a part of it.'

'Well, it wasn't Dan.'

'I believe you!'

'What about those other visitors at all hours?'

He nodded. 'We're checking, we're checking but she knew one helluva lot of people who can claim, legitimately, that they were storm bound. We might just luck out. In the meantime…'

'Back at the ranch…'

He snorted at my trite attempt at levity. '… Jerry's on bail, you're on the spot, and we'll just have to bide our time.'

'But I'm telling the truth.'

He sighed again for that was equally a cliche.

My package arrived from the bookstore, suspiciously thin, and as I paid the charges, I realised that I was going to have to disappoint someone. There were only two of my books plus a note from the salesgirl apologising and saying that she'd special order the others. She'd tried to phone me at the hotel but had been unable to reach me. Would I please ring her?

'Please explain to Pierrot and Alexandra that I could only get these copies. I'll send them each a set…'

'There's no need. '..'

'I don't disappoint my fans… My publisher can mail them.' I was inscribing the books, one to the two girls and the other to DJ, 'Otherwise you'll have squabbles and that would defeat my purpose.'

'Now, what do you want to do next? Visit with your son?'

'Yes.'

'Then, come back to Denver and what will you need in the lodge?'

I gave him a sideways look, then sighed and got sensible. 'Plenty of typing paper, an electric typewriter if possible; is the place within walking distance of a shop?'

'All supplies will be laid in, there's a phone, plenty of oil, plenty of firewood. Do you ski? Oh, well.'

'Mail?'

'Have it forwarded to my office, I'll see you get it without delay.'

'Helicopter or trusty sledge-dog?'

He grinned, merely assuring me all would be taken care of. Then he rose, held my hand in a very tight grip to signify his friendship and appreciation and left me with the final warning to keep to my room. I'd be driven to the airport tomorrow morning.

I was content with that and watched TV, deliberately worried at the pattern of a new sweater. I think I undid the first two rows five times before I got all the bobbles in place and the ocean wave pattern correctly spaced. That kept me from thinking about other things.

Petra drove me to the airport the next morning because Peter was so frightfully busy and a reporter was hanging about his office. Alexandra and Pierrot were thrilled with my book and the inscription. DJ had gone into space and stayed in his room so she assumed that he was equally delighted if less volatile. She worried about the weather because it was snowing lightly again and they'd had so many snowdays already this year. Not only was school work suffering but it was so hard to keep the kids from breaking their necks on the slopes behind the house. She refused to take them to the hills if they were out of school due to snow. Her chatter was soothing, normal, recounted in a humorous tone with great good nature. I didn't have to do more than make occasional noises.

At the airport I wouldn't let her wait with me for my plane. The snow was descending with more determination so she didn't argue.

'I'll see you soon, Petra, and thank Peter for everything: especially my new "brains".'

She regarded me blankly until I waved the diary.. 'Your "brains" are saving Jerry's neck. And he told me; to tell you to keep all your stitches on your needles.'

Well, a crumb is better than nothing!

When I handed the clerk my ticket, she made me out another new one, with an open return for Denver. I sat in the proper lounge by the correct gate, watching the snow fall down; alternately wishing the plane wouldn't be able to take off and that nothing would delay me now.

I really shouldn't have rented a car for the drive from Philadelphia to Bethlehem but I knew the road and it was the quickest way to Tim and his sanity. I called him from Friendship Airport and arranged for him to book me a room at the hotel and meet me there. I haven't done that much lefthand driving in ages and I had a couple of near misses which made me take it more slowly than my usual slap-dash Irish driving style. When I arrived Tim was pacing the hotel lobby, for all the world like his father, and his bear hug of relief all but cracked my ribs.

He started issuing orders to the clerk and the bellgirl in her short skirt and high white boots. Before I could protest, my luggage was whisked away and I was in the bar with a drink in my hand and Tim coping with everything. We had a quiet dinner and a few more drinks. He wouldn't let me talk. He wined, dined and deposited me in bed with a capsule to make me sleep like 'right now.' He gave me a lovely hug and a kiss and patted me on the head. I went to sleep blessing my good fortune in sons, and not for the first time.

The sleep revived me and I met Tim at the University Centre and had a snack lunch with him. He then conned me into visiting the book store and into buying a Texas Instruments SR-50 which he said he needed to speed up his physics homework which was brutal. I had to listen to his explanation about the various functions, memory, places, until I reminded him that even slide rules defeated me. I was a librarian, not a mathematician. He went on to his afternoon classes, with a cocky step for his chicanery, and I got myself a hair appointment which did my morale a lot of good.

I phoned my publishers in the afternoon about the books and was promised instant shipment. I talked with the lecture bureau and they'd had good reports but we agreed that my schedule had been very stiff and that next year's would be arranged with more regard for breathing spaces. I did not mention the Case to them but I did to my agent. As I expected, Sam remarked that all publicity was useful but could I please make a practice of avoiding any future mur… sorry, manslaughter suspects?

The five o'clock news on TV brought the good word that the Midwest was again blanketed in snow. I'd got out of Denver in good time.

At dinner I gave Tim the whole story of my involvement with manslaughter. I emphasised that distinction. I didn't tell Tim the whole story, but Tim was not naive and I wanted him to know that I had a very good opinion of Daniel Jerome despite his circumstantial guilt. I could quite understand why Tim might be jaundiced about a man who'd got his mother messed up in a mur… manslaughter charge. Tim swore at women like Noreen Sue who'd neglect a child. Tim was gripping my hand firmly at that point and I looked up with throat-jamming gratitude at the bony broad shoulders of my offspring, the strong but unmarked face and the keen eyes behind the glasses. I'd made enough money to afford contact lenses for him and the glasses hid his best feature, very clear green eyes, but he kept wanting useful things like microscopes and telescopes and SR-50s.

Now that my budget of news was over, I realised that he had something of moment to tell me. 'She' was a Cedar Crest student, with a really lovely singing voice who didn't mind that he couldn't carry a tune so long as he knew how to appreciate decent music. Her name was Patricia Newlands and her nickname was Trish. Would I be staying long enough in town to meet her or did I have to fly back to Denver right away? The next day was Saturday and he had no classes but she did until one. Would I like to meet her?

I had some difficulty remaining calm, cool and collected I was so pleased. Tim, wrapped up in what was his first serious girl, mistook my dignity for hurt feelings.

'Hey, Mom, you'll always be my best girl. You don't have to worry.'

'Not now, I don't.'

'Huh? You weren't worried about me, were you?'

In point of fact, I had had several twinges. I was absolutely certain Tim was completely masculine but we'd had such a close relationship, such a fine understanding, that I had had some misgivings about dominant female-mothers and lack of male-father-figures and that sort of go-round. At the time when I thought he should be going with one girl, he was still part of his special group of boy friends who seemed to date a corresponding group of girl friends. Tim had seemed to specialise in giving considered advice to both girls and boys as if being an American, with an American mother, gave him special insight. Which it probably did since sex education in Ireland is a no-no.

'Well..,' I began, temporising,

'Mom!' Tim was shocked, annoyed, disappointed and disgusted.

'Well, I tried not to be the heavy mother…'

'Ah, no way. Mom. It's just, well… I didn't find someone I felt you'd like… You knew all the girls in Blackrock. And I always had someone about…'

I was properly abashed and asked about Trish. I had built one picture which dissolved the moment I met Trish in the flesh the next day. She was exceedingly feminine (Tim had said she could cycle all day without complaining), with close cropped black curls (natural, Tim had told me) and an 'interesting' face. (I am not being snide but Trish had the type of looks which mature, not a transient prettiness that so often fades into discontent in an older personality.) She was so lively, so natural that you forgot her appearance in the glow other warm merriness.

Tim had brought his guitar (he can't sing but he does play) and when he asked her to sing for me in the hotel room, she obliged without simpering disclaimers. She asked me what sort of songs I liked best and, when Tim said I was a folk song freak, she sang several which Joan Baez had made popular. She had a lovely voice, warm and true and though she didn't need much volume to carry in the hotel room, I sensed a strength. Certainly she sounded better than some of the singers I'd endured recently on TV programs.

We had dinner and she told me that she had no intentions of settling down but she rather doubted her chances of making a name for herself. She'd be quite happy to find a good church or school job since such employment was secure and she liked working with children and chorale groups. Musical training was an ace in the hole, she felt, and it was so 'iffy' to set your sights on the Met or City Centre when there were so many other satisfying careers available in music.

Inadvertently I found myself comparing Trish with my young nephew's Linda: and Sam with Tim. Then I decided that there was no comparison in temperament and character. And none, I hoped, in situation.

As I drove the car to Cedar Crest to get Trish in on time, she asked me if I'd like to listen to the school church choir the next morning.

'Mom's very tired, Trish,' Tim said hastily, knowing how I felt about organised religions.

'I should have thought of that, Mrs. Lovell. Tim told me what a heavy schedule you've had. How many miles in how many days?'

'Tim can figure it out on the SR-50.'

'I'm awfully glad I had a chance to meet you, Mrs. Lovell, without having to come all the way to Ireland, that is.' She gave Tim a look and then thanked me again for dinner. I wished her luck and turned the car about as Tim walked her to the dormitory door.

Tim had something on his mind when he got back into the car but I didn't question him. I didn't want to answer any more and if he had something to say, I knew of old that it'd come out when he felt the time was right. The Denver business obviously upset him and he had obviously not mentioned it to Trish. He kissed me good night when I delivered him to his dorm door and warned me to drive home carefully, to sleep late and he'd phone around noon-time.

I was pleasantly tired when I parked the car in the hotel lot. However, no sooner had I got settled in bed and closed my eyes, than the old brain spun 'round and 'round. I wished I'd asked Tim for another capsule.

Generally I do a lot of constructive thinking on my insomniac nights: it's the only way to cope with them. In my own home, I'm apt to get up and go to the typewriter and see what'll happen. Here I tossed and turned, wrestling with the problems of returning to Denver and all that could happen nasty.

I envisioned myself superbly poised while the D.A. ruthlessly cross-examined me with all the rapier wit and studied contempt of the TV prototype. I, like the suave polished barrister of JUSTICE, a veritable Margaret Lockwood in bag wig, replied with cool candour and resilience. I thought up ninety-two euphemisms for not admitting Dan and I had had sexual relations. Then my errant mind reviewed those passages at arms.

Nothing turns me off quicker than the mawkish sight of a middle-aged woman besotted with a younger man.. Daniel Jerome was 42, so he wasn't that much younger than I. But 42 does not look up the scale towards 50; he roguishly turns his eyes down to the 30s or the 20s or if he's a damned fool, the late teens.

Besides the age factor, I was inextricably linked with what was probably one of the most unpleasant periods of his life. I couldn't imagine him wanting a permanent reminder. What had we in common, besides a son apiece, a wacky sense of humour, twenty laps of a pool before puffing, and, I sighed fretfully, a rather unusual sexual rapport.

That happy sympathy had been compounded by the romantic situation of snow-boundery, appetite and opportunity. At that point, not only was I handy and agreeable, I probably struck him (an image I generally present) as a [sensible woman, quite unlikely to cause scenes and raise hell; if disappointed / dismissed / disillusioned. I had also been, at. the moment of our bedding, completely divorced from his situation - which he had taken pains not to discuss with me - and therefore impartial and impersonal.

Everyone has moments they wish to savour again and again. And the pleasure, the sense of superb well-being that I'd savoured that Thursday, that fateful Thursday night watching TV…

I sat upright. TV. I got out of bed and turned on the set provided by the management. At least, in the States, you had night long TV to distract the insomniac. Firmly I concentrated on some ancient, now creaking but occasionally enjoyable Melvyn Douglas situation comedy. I even managed to fall asleep with the thing winking and shifting light patterns all night long.

The early news advised me that the Midwest was still storm-bound. Pennsylvania was demonstrably bright and sunny with seasonably mild temperatures. I shut the TV off and dozed for another hour and a half. I still had time to kill before Tim's call so I breakfasted downstairs in the hotel dining room. Then I wandered about scenic restored colonial Bethlehem. I could wish that other cities had executed their urban renewals with as much thought and care. Before I'd visited Tim's university, I'd had a mental picture of the great steel foundries burping noxious gases into the air and a vista of a dank, horrible industrial town. Bethlehem, with a Christmas star hidden on its dominating slope, was refreshing.

I ran up the mileage on the rented car while Tim and I toured Allentown for a place to lunch. We discussed at length his courses for the coming year. He intended to return to Ireland as soon as his last final exam was over. Would I ask Mr. Hengarty, our landlord, if Tim could have his usual summer job, but starting July 1st.

'I thought I'd take June off as a holiday this year. You know, kinda hack around with the others.'

'You do that anyway, it I can get you out of bed.'

'You know, I was thinking, what with people asking me questions I couldn't answer, that I don't know that much about Ireland, except Wicklow and Dublin. And that's the other thing, would you have the Raleigh people check my bike over? And my bike pack needs a new strap.'

I dutifully took out my diary and made the appropriate notations.

'Hey, is that the one you got in place of your evidence?'

I let him look, pointing smugly to the gilt initials. I didn't realise it then but Tim had adroitly changed the subject on me.

'Say, how long would that sort of thing take?'

'If you mean until your last exam in May, I sincerely hope not. Peter Taggert said he was going to file for an early trial date…'

'Early next year?'

I hardly thought so but the possibility was a nagging worry. If they were willing to pay my expenses and air fare to and from Denver, they could bloody extend the benefit to Ireland and let me work where I was comfortable. I felt shrewish and berated myself for such unworthy thoughts. Fortunately it was now time to collect Trish from Cedar Crest as her duties with the college choir were over.

Trish and Tim were both more relaxed with me as goose-berry that day. It was bright sunny weather so we went for a drive, to the Pennsylvania Dutch area. Corny, but it gets me to drive through small towns called Intercourse, Bird of Paradise and King of Prussia. We noticed the signs of storm damage, trees down, barns with roofs half torn off and Tim and Trish regaled me about the hurricane force winds in early April. We tried to persuade Trish that Ireland is a windy place, too, with winds regularly at gale force 6 and 8.

This afternoon it was obvious to me, the two being unable to hide their affection, that Tim and Trish were very much attached to each other. Tim sat between us in the front seat of the car, with an arm impartially about both 'girls,' but I notice that his hand curled around her shoulder. Which is as it should be. We found a restaurant which boasted seven sweets and seven sours, and made pigs of ourselves. I should never eat dumplings. I had indigestion all the way back and couldn't wait to drop the two of them off so I could get on the outside of an alkaliser.

By Monday morning, I was feeling rested, restless and resentful of the circumstances which prevented my returning home. There was not much to do in Bethlehem with Tim, and Trish, in classes. I could spend only so much time browsing in shops in the city centre or admiring the historical exhibits. I could go over to New York and pester my sister but it meant sleeping in the same room with Veronica. I'd already spent three days with her at the start of my tour when I was doing my publishers and agent.

I considered, at breakfast, phoning my friend, Mairead, in Ireland. She was staying in the cottage, feeding the dog, and house-sitting. She'd be at the boutique at this hour but a call would be full rate. Natural instincts of economy intervened. Similar instincts kept me from doing more than window-shopping but I managed to waste most of the morning.

When I got back to the hotel from my aimless time- killing, there was a message for me to call a Denver number, collect.

It was Peter. At his jovial greeting, my mid-section went into a state of spasm from anticipation.

'The news is A-okay, all systems go. We did it. We got Jerry off without a trial. Charges are completely dropped. Guess why?'

'Well, the news said you had another blizzard. Did you have an epidemic of house burglars in ski-masks?'

'How the hell did you guess?'

'How do you think I write children's books? What actually happened?'

'Two clowns were apprehended in the act. They were wearing ski masks and one was tall enough to be Mrs. Gresham's snowman. But,' and Peter paused to emphasise the point, 'when his apartment was searched, items were found which had been stolen the night of the first blizzard from houses not far from Noreen Sue's.-'

'Huh! Isn't that circumstantial evidence, too?'

'Whose side are you on?' Peter sounded surprised at my remark. 'It's enough for me to blow Mathews' set of circumstances. That and you.'

'I thought you thought he wouldn't buy my alibi?'

Peter chuckled, a smug, self-satisfied legal laugh. 'I have it on good authority he was already unhappy.'

'Oh?' Peter had a goodie to tell me and wanted to take his own time.

'You see, his daughter goes to the same school my girls attend. When Laura found out that "Timmy's" author was vouching for Mr. Lowell, she told Pierrot that she was going to tell Daddy a thing or two.'

While the scene so conjured had tremendous dramatic possibilities, I didn't quite see a ten year old daughter dissuading a father from pressing a manslaughter charge. Admittedly American youngsters have a great deal more freedom than Irish kids but…

'You don't mean that the nasty D.A. was persuaded by his daughter?'

'No,' the reply was firm, 'but you'll remember I said that he would try to weaken your testimony by a smear campaign? I think he realised that your integrity is well-nigh unassailable, Dr. Lovell. And the circumstantial evidence of the ski-masked burglars gives us all an out.'

'Us all? What do you mean? I was telling the truth. That should have counted for more than my title or the fortuitous greed of thieves.'

'No,' said Peter slowly, thoughtfully, 'we don't like to say such things in books for our children, do we? But it exists and is a viable force in modern, polite, sophisticated society.' He gave a rueful laugh. 'I wish you did have to come back to Denver, Jenny. It was a real pleasure to meet you and not just because you were ready and willing to lay your reputation on the line to help Jerry…'

I was glad he hadn't read my mind of the previous evening or this morning.

'… and Petra and the girls will be mighty disappointed too.'

I wanted to ask if Dan would be. Instead, I said 'Please tell Dan how tremendously relieved I am that he's been cleared of the charge. And… and tell DJ, and the girls, that I asked my publisher to send them…'

'You don't have to do that, Jenny.'

'I've done it. I never disappoint my fans, Peter.'

'I don't think you could.'

The ring in his voice embarrassed me and I stammered something, remembering to mention the diary, and how elegant it was and how kind of him.

'I'll send yours back to you. Are you returning to Ireland right away?'

I really didn't know and said so. 'Remember me to Dan,' I said, which was as inane as it was inadequate.

'He's not likely to forget you, Jenny,' Peter said and then, with a formal phrase of thanks and goodbye, rang off.

How anti-climactic! How bloody depressing! Not that I wasn't overwhelmingly pleased that Dan, and I, were vindicated: that he was spared the stigma of a trial and DJ more crushing uncertainty. The truth had out! We had told it but the irony was it wasn't the truth that had made Dan free! It was lucking out with the ski-masked, burglars: pure chance.

And I was expected to go back and write children's books? Full of high moral integrity and ideals like Truth, Honesty, Kindness? Were my 'Timmy' tales really what I should be telling youngsters? Or the unvarnished truth of adult life that was facing them? And yet, the Good Guys had won this round because my reputation was good: and the principles I stood for in my books had tipped the creaky scales of Justice for a nice guy in clutch of circumstance.

My mood was composed of many elements, few of them complimentary to the shining public image that had helped reprieve Dan. I think I felt cheated that my 'sacrifice' was not needed. I knew I was damned sorry I wasn't going to see Dan, under whatever circumstances, again. And I wanted to see his son, too, to see the boy no longer haunted but happy the way boys should be… before they have to grow up. I worried that I had raised Tim right, if my sojourn in Denver were an example of what he might face. I was disoriented, too, because I'd just geared myself to working elsewhere other than my home when I must suddenly switch again. Mostly I couldn't wait to get myself on a plane and back to Ireland, to what was familiar, unexceptional, anonymous and dull. I yearned to be 'missus' and talk of the weather and hear complaints about the desperate prices of food, the high rates and the 'turrible inconveniences of the latest strike.' To get away from the sleek look of hotel rooms ' and effusive p.r. men and babbling do-gooders and idiotic ideals.

I got on the phone to Aer Lingus and booked myself on a flight that evening. If I pushed myself, I could make it and still have a few more hours with Tim. Once I make up my mind…

I could leave packing till after my lunch with Tim. He was genuinely relieved that the charges against Dan had been dropped. He might have been proud of my sense of obligation but he hadn't liked his mother involved in a 'hairy' situation. I think, under other circumstances, Tim would have liked Dan.

We went to the Maples for lunch because I was a bit bored with the hotel food. We'd finished the shrimp cocktails when Tim got round to what I had sensed must have been on his mind for some time.

'Mom,' he began in the casual tone of someone who has spent hours rehearsing, 'if Trish wangled a plane ticket out other old man, do you think she could visit us in Ireland a while this summer? She's saved enough to keep her while she's there…'

'I can't see why not,' I said, keeping my face straight with an effort and matching his diffidence.

'Then you liked her?' There was a little leaping of gladness in his eyes.

'Of course, I liked her.' I damned the Denver affair again for my preoccupation with it. I ought to have seen how important Trish was to Tim. 'She's got a lovely voice, plays beautifully, and she's got her head on right. If you'd like, I'll make a formal invitation to her parents…'

'Ah, Mom, no one does that any more.'

'I do. If I had a daughter…'

His eyebrows went up and he regarded me with all the amused tolerance of the young generation for the vagaries of the older. I plowed on.

'Her parents are much more likely to cough up for that all important ticket if the invitation comes from me. You know your generation but I sure as hell know mine. And it's very obvious to me that Trish comes from a "good'' family and is very well brought up.'

We thrashed that topic about a while and it ended that I would write the invitation for him to give Trish for her parents… as a clincher.

There was more to her proposed trip to Ireland than vacationing. She wanted to research the Irish musical form called lilting, or lumming, in which the singer mouths syllables instead of words to the music of drum, accordion or fiddle. I'd heard it with Tim when we went to Kerry one Easter. I suppose the form had academic merit. I couldn't, however, imagine Trish wasting her lovely voice on lilting. Would that have occurred to her as a research subject before she met Tim? Ah, the resourcefulness of the young is awesome. I was touched, amused and delighted with the pair of them.

And suddenly very envious.

We finished lunch in a welter of enthusiastic plans and I used three pages of my new diary to make preparation notes. I was to check the tent and see if we needed new pegs or lines: Trish had her own sleeping bag. (Did I dare ask Tim how he knew?) Would I ask Eamonn Dunne if we could have the loan of his sister's bike? Tim was going to lay in a supply from that great store in Philadelphia which specialised in dehydrated and flash frozen camper foods. The questions and queries were still coming thick and fast when I dropped him back to the campus for his afternoon lab.

He stroked my hair as he often does in farewell, boyishly awkward, more as if he were caressing a dog than his mother. (There are certain things a mother can't instruct her son in but I rather hoped he was more adroit with Trish.) Then he gave me a quick, absentminded kiss and, wishing me a safe journey home, went off to class. Already he was thinking ahead: I could tell that in his jaunty step, the tilt of his head. He reminded me so of his six year old self, saying a nonchalant goodbye to mommie on his first day of school.

I got back to my hotel room, called the cashier to ready my bill and shoved my clothes back in the case. When I came to my knitting bag, I spread the finished Arran sweater in my lap. I carefully refolded it and then sat, thinking, thinking of snow, and love-making, and Daniel Jerome Lowell, and the good things which had occurred in Denver. I hadn't knitted the sweater with him in mind nor had I finished it as a gift for him but unquestionably he'd look good in it with his broad shoulders. It would cover that incipient midriff roll… unless he'd swum it off. Or worried it away. If he intended to live in Denver for DJ's sake, he'd need the thick warm oiled wool… in snow-stormy Colorado.

The desk clerk was surprised at my request but before I could fret, he sent the bellgirl up with a used, but good, length of wrapping paper and a ball of twine. So I packaged the sweater and addressed it to D.J. Lowell, c/o Peter Taggert. I chuckled and put my initials and Tim's college box number as return address. Then I slipped the unused portion of the Denver ticket into an envelope to mail back to Peter. He oughtn't to have any trouble getting the refund since his office had paid for it.

I was keyed up now and got on the road to New York, and Ireland, by mid-afternoon. I'd mail the sweater from the airport. Cost me less and give me something to do while I waited for the nine o'clock flight. I didn't miss all the commuter traffic out of New York City but then I did have time to kill. When I had paid the rental car fee, I wondered if it wouldn't have been cheaper to have flown from Philadelphia. But the activity of driving had been therapeutic… if expensive.

I phoned my agent to tell him the news, asked him to check to make sure the books had been sent. I dutifully called Suzie and said that, unfortunately, I wouldn't get a chance to see her because my excursion time had run out. She kept chattering on about her husband and the price of meat and this and that until my coins dropped into the box and released me from the sound of her carping. I promised I'd write her and we were cut off. I mailed Dan the sweater.

I needed a drink. I had three, and two dishes of salted peanuts. I organised my documents, including sales slips as I was not going to go through last year's fracas with your friendly, alert, penny-pinching, peel-paring, petty-pawed excise officials.

Two guys tried to pick me up: the light in the bar was bad or they'd've seen I was old enough to be their mother. I must have presented them a challenge because I didn't encourage them in spite of the fact that the sun was shining, the forecast clear, and there was no likelihood that I'd be grounded in New York. Once bit, twice shy. They did buy me another drink.

I recall boarding the damned plane, but that's all. Mid-week, off-season, the passengers were almost outnumbered by staff and the entire mid-section of the Jumbo was unused. I got a blanket and a pillow or two from the stewardess, fixed the armrests and curled up for sleep. I missed my in-flight dinner, but I really slept. I only woke when the stewardess roused me with juice, coffee and roll.

But Ireland was under the wings and I felt relieved and rested.

Mairead's car was not in the blacktopped parking slot in front of the house so she was at work. She kept erratic hours and I hadn't told her when I'd be returning, but it is flat to come home to an empty place. My battered green Peugeot 404 was tucked in by the fuschia hedge, looking dustier than ever with rain splotches. As I paid off the taxi, (my last extravagance for a long while) I hoped that the Peug's battery was okay. Mairead had promised to use the car enough to keep it running.

Baggins came charging out of nowhere, white-tipped black-tail threatening to wind off his tailbone in his ecstasy at seeing me. Where had I been so long? So glad I was home, lick-lick, bark-bark, getting under my feet, impeding my progress up the front stairs. I gave up at his importunities, knelt and accepted the one lick-kiss which he felt his due, then he wiggle-waggled and barged at me with body and nose to reassure me of his welcome all over again. I wonder if the Irish had a dog in mind when they say 'cead mille failte' - a thousand welcomes. A dog certainly tries.

The house had the still, un-lived-in quality, airless and dry, but clean. Mrs. Munday who comes to me on Tuesday had not evidently come to do her weekly good-turn. I like to come home to a clean house, but a very tidy one makes me uncomfortable for some obscure reason. My room, when I lugged my growing-heavier-with-every-step case up the stairs, looked unfamiliar, austere and depressing. I'd tidied everything before I left, so that the desk, bare of my usual novelistic clutter, looked more accusatory than clean. There was a neat pile of letters in all sizes and types of envelopes: quite a few airmails and air letters, too, and some half dozen manila envelopes and a couple of book mailers. I sighed: too much too soon. I like my mail in small doses so I can savour it with the second cup of coffee. Generally speaking my first daily contact with the world is Mr. Murphy, the bike-pedalling mailman, resembling, but better looking than, Barry Fitzgerald.

I opened the meadow window and breathed in the crisp cool air: Ireland was its misty self, but the grass was brilliant green, dotted here and there with early weed flowers, white, pinkish and tiny blue stars. The room began to breathe again, too, coming alive with my return and clutter. I opened the mountain window, but my usual view was obscured by the 'soft' weather.

I must have stood looking out the window in thanks-giving for some while. The bleat of a motorist on the winding road outside my oasis penetrated my abstraction. I threw off my cloak, opened my case which I hadn't relocked after customs (the man had passed me with no more than a glance at my carefully annotated figures) and I hauled out all the washables. I shucked out of the clothes I'd travelled in, including the underthings, found a fresh change from my drawers and closets. I'd bathe later when the water was hot enough: right now just the change made me feel less sticky. Trailing laddered panty hose and dirty jerseys, I clumped downstairs to the kitchen and stuffed the washing machine with the first load. The lingerie could dry by the fire, the other things on the line if the sun stayed out.

The refrigerator was not full: what was available did not tempt my appetite. The freezer's contents were likewise unappealing, and unidentifiable. I'd better shop for immediate foodstuffs. Mairead hated to cook and would exist for months on a diet of fried eggs, sausages and mash. She would even descend to using packaged potatoes, an anathema to me. I made myself coffee, using the last of the milk in the fridge. Mairead also had a thing about putting out milk bottles and there were a dozen waiting to be returned. Important things like a full bowl of fresh water for Baggins, plenty of canned and dried food for him, had not been neglected.

From the window over the kitchen sink I could survey my kitchen garden. My lettuces were thriving, the beets and carrots sprouting with vigour, the onion sets rising from the ground with green spires. By the walk, last year's glads were piercing the moist dirt which had been weeded, and the roses were pruned and ruddy-leaved with new growth.

And in Colorado, the snows were drifted deep and thick… And, I added briskly, in Pennsylvania they still had that brown stuff that grass turned into in a stateside east-coast winter.

How glad Tim would be to return to green Ireland! As glad as I was? Or was I?

I found my jacket, my car keys, raced upstairs to retrieve my purse and left my home. The car started, the chain rattling comfortably. I'd often wondered in whimsy if ghost chains sounded at all like a Peugeot's inner workings.

And so I picked up the threads of my Irish life, about where I'd left it six weeks before when I'd gone blithely off on my tour.

But I wasn't the same person.

My friend, Mairead, arrived home from her boutique at 6:15, utterly knackered as she was prone to say.

'You're back early,' she remarked, standing in the door-way and glowering at me where I sat going through the mail pile. 'Whyn't you let a person know? Christ, I could have closed the shop.' Which she did at the drop of a hat. Mairead has really red hair, she walks as if her bones might fall away from the joints at any moment, because she had no meat on her at all. She believes in nobody and nothing, argues with me on every topic imaginable so that it is surprising our friendship survives; she derides my philosophy and theories, reads all my books in manuscript and print and consistently reserves her judgment, remaining in her aloof way, my closest and most valued friend. 'You didn't think to bring in any Carlsburg?'

'Yes, I noticed you'd drunk it all,' and as she sagged into the couch, I rose to refill my own and get one for her.

'Ah, that reaches those unrefreshed places,' she said, swigging down half the glass.

She did look exhausted, dark smudges under her darker eyes. Her hand was shaking a bit and I suspected that Mairead hadn't been eating properly again. She not only manages the boutique, but does the buying of European giftie-type thingies twice or three times a year.

'How'd it go, pet?' she asked me, meaning the trip.

'Great,' I replied with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

'Oh, like that, huh? I told you I thought they wouldn't pay you just for talking.'

I laughed. That had been one of her arguments: who would pay someone for just talking?

'Oh, I got paid. As soon as I stopped talking, my hand went out for the cheque.'

She raised her eyebrows, mockingly. 'Well, well. And did you see my boyfriend?'

Mairead is genuinely fond of Tim: they have a running battle of insults, digs, innuendoes and arguments which get extremely heated at times, occasionally to the point of my frantic intervention. So I told her all about my visits with Tim, and about Trish and her research on lilting.

'Is that what the young call it this generation?' she asked with one sceptical eyebrow raised.

Tim says that Mairead speaks better body than Queen's English, using the various parts of her anatomy to express the impressions and feelings she does well not to express verbally.

'Hope she's good enough for him! Are you willing to resign in her favour?'

That was another of her favourite arguments: over-mothering the young. That all kids would turn out better if deprived of doting mamas at an early age. As Mairead had been an abandoned child, I would have thought she'd feel quite the opposite.

'I don't think it's come to that, but he is seriously taken with the girl and she is a very nice child.'

'Have they, do you think?'

'I don't know and I haven't thought.'

'Now, now, mother dear, don't get huffy with me.'

'For God's sake, Mairead, what they do is their own business.'

'I'll remind you of that one day, pet.' I caught hold of my temper because sometimes Mairead says outrageous things and I never know if she means them or is merely having me on.

'I'm sure you wouldn't forget to, Mairead.' I felt that now was the time to shut her up with the gifties I'd procured in the States. Last year I'd brought her back a body-shirt and she'd complained bitterly that I'd only brought her the one because it was the most useful garment she'd ever worn.

This year I brought six, bought in various parts of the country, wherever the sales were tempting. She was unreservedly overjoyed with my selections. Then she made me show her the things I'd bought myself and, although I tried to be casual about the ski jacket and mask, and the sweater, she is very perceptive. I avoided the issue by cooking dinner, chattering on about places and people, all the while aware that she suspected I was leaving something of great moment out.

Then I wondered why I was withholding the story from her - I wouldn't have to draw diagrams to Mairead - but she'd certainly hoot over the manslaughter charge and my part in fouling up the D.A.'s case. I could hear her chortling with glee when she learned that my 'reputation' in Denver, at least, was unassailable. It was obvious that my brief affair with Dan meant more to me, much more to me, than to parade it for amusement before my friend, even though she was my best friend.

She didn't press me, knowing that eventually I'd come out with it in my own good time. She told me her own news: surprisingly good sales at Easter, a good contract with a 'reliable' firm in the States wanting to be supplied with handknits, though shipping costs were triple what they'd been three years ago. I still had that feeling of disorientation you get when you realise that life has continued in its usual merry pace despite your absence.

She didn't, however, spend the final night at my house but, after dinner, packed her things with such alacrity that I suspected she had a boyfriend again. She insisted house and Baggins had been no trouble, she'd do it again, so long as I continued to provide her with body shirts.

I don't get as de-synchronised travelling east as I do going west. I had no trouble getting to sleep that night.

The next morning I struck off in my usual routine, rising at eight to let my eager Baggins out for his morning tour of duty and inspection. I had one cup of coffee waiting for the mail, another reading the Alumnae Bulletin, the sole piece of morning mail. I dutifully went upstairs to write thank-you notes for hospitality but here the routine dribbled away.

As I stared out the mountain window, I had to admit to myself that routine was not going to suffice me. Distance had not ended my attachment to Dan-the-Man. Had our romantic interlude ended after that snowstorm, I think I could have talked myself out of the infatuation. But I'd had to go to his rescue and when you put yourself on the line for someone, like the Chinese adage, you become irretrievably involved. I hadn't saved Dan's life as had been claimed but I had saved him from the ignominy of standing trial and a possible twenty year sentence for manslaughter. Okay, to split a semantic hair, I suppose I had saved him the better part of his active life. He'd have been 60-ish when he got out - if they'd been able to make that asinine charge stick. I found myself wishing the bondage were more than Chinesely proverbial but I had also done my living best to keep it nebulous. I pondered now on the folly of sending him that sweater. But the deed was done and couldn't be undone, excepting postal inefficiencies. I was glad I had done it, and told myself to expect nothing in return for the gesture. Such ruminations were not making bread and butter come in, nor writing those thank-yous.

My mother, bless her heart, had a thing about discipline: you disciplined your mind and your body, and I always flung back at her, your heart. That wasn't precisely true, or fair. And I only learned what she meant during Ray's illness. Particularly about disciplining the heart - in my case, not to break while I watched him waste away and die.

So I set about exercising discipline. I tried not to see resemblances to Dan in strangers who just happened to have silvery hair and bushy moustaches, were the same height and general build. I succeeded in that endeavour in the next few weeks. What I couldn't succeed in bending to my will was my memory of smell, curiously enough. It seemed to me that in the April crispness of County Wicklow I could scent the Denver air, crisp with snow and cold and pine, mingled with those indefinably evocative scents of ironed cotton, maleness and aftershave lotion. I was also physically ill with wanting to feel his hands on me, his lips on mine, the prickle of his moustache against my nose and lips, the water smoothness of his flesh against mine. I bloody woke up a couple of nights whimpering in my sleep for that reassurance. And wished him the same sort of frustration, damning his luck that, as a man, he had more chance of easing his condition than I.

Some of my frustration also stemmed from the realisation that Tim had found himself a female companion. Not usurping my place in his affections. God forbid, but Tim maturing enough to stretch past our rewarding relationship to attach himself to a nubile female. I have never been a possessive or clinging female. I wouldn't start now, if I had to tie mental and literal hands behind my back and gag my mouth. I wanted for Tim what Ray and I had enjoyed before he got sick. My respect, admiration and deep love for Raymond Lovell had sustained me through the adjustment after his death and my loneliness while Tim was growing up. But I saw more loneliness ahead of me as Tim graduated from the position of 'man in my life.' Trish was helping to write on that particular wall in my emotional life and I'd better start planning ahead.

I don't like solitary living. I had had to discipline myself to accept Tim's departure to University but I could look forward to his summer return. I would have less of his time this year, and, God willing, still less of it from now on. Which was as it should be, but what did I do with the emptiness his going left? I thought of Beth, with Sam and Linda producing a grandchild to fill her lonely hours. I never had been especially maternal: Tim and I were more friends, than son and mother. That flexibility would be a help but… there ain't no all night TV in Ireland. Discipline included occupation, and while I didn't wear a hair shirt, I knitted hairy Arrans. I finished a size 42 sweater, which usually takes a good fortnight, in less than nine days.

Mairead had also made herself scarce in my company: at first I thought she'd had enough of the lodge. Then I began to worry if I'd said something that had irritated her. She took umbrage at the most unlikely things. I finally realised that she must be in the throes of a new love affair and I'd better discipline myself out of such subjective whimsies.

When I brought the finished Arran in to her boutique, her reaction substantiated my guess. She was looking extremely well, with a certain smugness in her manner and a warmth in her eyes. She was as sharp-tongued as ever as she took the sweater and began folding it to display in a plastic cover.

'You just brought one in… about ten days ago. Don't tell me you did a 42 in… Well, who is he?' We were alone in the shop but she glanced around anyhow. 'Anybody I know?'

I shook my head.

'Ah, c'mon, Dana. Who is it?'

'When I was in the States…'

'You do pick 'em,' she said with an exaggerated sigh of disgust. 'Go on…'

'I got grounded in Denver by a blizzard.'

'I remember the late news about unseasonable blizzards but then the weather everywhere this year had been unreal. So, tell me…'

'All planes were grounded…"

'Him, too…'

'And so the airlines put us up in the airport hotel…'

'And…'

'We got bored and went swimming…'

'Is that what they call it in Denver?' Her mock innocent expression was malicious.

'If you are swimming in a pool full of water…'

'I thought you said you were grounded by a blizzard…'

'That stayed outside.'

'And you were inside… swimming. Waste of bloody time, you ask me.' She snorted in disgust. 'I've given you more credit than you deserve.'

'At least I wasn't just knitting.'

'Should hope to God you weren't. Nothing quicker to put a man off, I'd say, than you quietly knitting. Zzzzhya!' Various parts of her twitched to emphasise her disgust. She'd always vowed she wouldn't knit short of a booby hatch: made her nervous, she said, but she used to watch me for hours in silence if she was troubled. 'I see now why it only took you nine days to do this.' She patted the Arran and then flipped it into the display basket.

'You don't suppose I knitted my frustrations into it?'

She glanced diffidently at the sweater. 'If I get complaints I'll let you know. Who knows? It might guy the wearer up to tremendous performance…'

'Better not sell it to the Irish then…'

'Oh ho, we are in a state, aren't we? Haven't you heard from him?'

'He doesn't know my address.'

'Ssshyoo.' She punched the sweater. 'Sometimes, Dana, I've no patience with you at all. What was wrong with him? Or was he married?'

So I told her, delighting in the stunned, shocked, surprised and incredulous expressions that floated across her mobile face. 'You don't fool me, Dana Jane, with your self-sacrifice. You're gone on him. You wouldn't have sent him the sweater otherwise. You'll hear from him.'

'No.'

'You sent him the sweater, didn't you…'

'Yes, but…'

'Well, he'll write to thank you.'

'I didn't put my address on it. I put Tim's.'

'Tim's? You clown, you cow, you idiot…'

'Look Mairead, the last thing I want is to tie a man up in knots of gratitude…'

'That's as good a beginning as many I can think of.'

'He's not likely to come here again.'

'He's been to Ireland?'

'Something to do with oil.'

'Something? Is he an engineer?'

'I think so. I don't know. I don't know that much about him…'

'You knew enough to know he didn't murder anybody. Whadd'ya do for three mortal days and nights? Don't answer. I know. But you'd have to talk sometime…'

'We did, but not about us.'

'Aw, don't get your knickers in a twist…' Just then a customer came in the shop which got me off the hook.

Discipline was still the operational word. I disciplined myself to the typewriter by nine-thirty each morning, even if I didn't manage to write much. I caught up on all my correspondence, my filing, my bookkeeping which was a bit of a headache with all the translation of pounds into dollars and back. I could have wished for Tim's calculator or did you call something that sophisticated a pocket computer?

I wandered around the Spring Show, looking dutifully at all the exhibits and seeing most of the pony classes, because of the children. I get some interesting insights at such events, into the kids and the parents. And the ponies are so gorgeous, all dainty stepping and Thelwellian. Of course, DJ was a snow bunny, but I wondered if he'd be pony-crazy if he ever got to Ireland.

Discipline your mind, Dana Jane. DJ! I caught sight of my face in the mirrors backing one exhibit. Objectively I'm not unpretty. My face bones are good, my complexion has improved with these years in a misty, moisty climate. But, face it, Dana Jane, I told myself cruelly, guys Dan's age would look at gals Mairead's age. Then I envisioned a confrontation between those two and decided they would probably fight like hell. Yet what did I have that would recommend me to someone like Daniel Jerome Lowell?

What was that old New England saying? 'The Cabots speak only to Lowells, and the Lowells speak only to God.' No, I probably had the family names mixed up. But I'd always been amused by the scene evoked: tiered levels with fewer and fewer seats higher up, until the highest two levels where sat the primly clothed Cabots speaking in quiet Back Bay tones to the Lowells above them. And the loftily enthroned Lowells turning with well-bred, but not obsequious, courtesy to the misty-faced figure of the Almighty. Of course, you had no clue as to God's opinion of this chain of command.

My whimsy restored me and I applied conscious discipline to enjoy the rest of my outing that day. There'd been one lad in particular, on a black Welsh pony with bright inquisitive eyes and a curious nose. The lad had had a shock of blond hair and bright inquisitive eyes and the expressions on pony and rider had been so much alike that I marvelled at the match. They'd won a fourth in the working hunter pony and well deserved I felt.