"What kind of mother are you? Can't believe you don't have snapshots in your wallet."

We climbed slowly up out of Logan. If this guy was planning to chat me up the whole way, it would be a tedious thirty-three minutes.

"It's so rare we're apart that I don't need pictures to remind me. Can't ever have a moment's peace with four of them demanding attention. Feed me, change me, blow my nose, feed me again. You know how it is." If that didn't make it clear to him, I didn't know what would.

The wingtip caught the edge of a cloud and the plane started rolling in the clear-air turbulence. I turned my head to stare out the window into the thick white mass we had just entered,

"You a nervous flier?"

"Not at all. I don't mean to be rude, but I think I need to nap for a bit. Just tired," I said, leaning my head against the small window and closing my eyes. It seemed to be my only tine of defense.

I actually slept for twenty minutes, shaken awake on the rough descent through the thick clouds over the Elizabeth Islands. We set down on the short runway of the Vineyard airport and taxied to the terminal.

My neighbor offered his hand. "By the way, I'm Dan Bolin. I've got my car here, if you need a lift."

"Thanks a lot," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I'm all set."

"Your name is?"

"Stafford. Joan Stafford." I hoped Joanie didn't mind that I had saddled her with four hungry little mouths to feed. And there I'd been with Mike a few hours back, wondering why people find it so easy to lie to us.

The steps had been lowered and the passengers were descending from the center of the plane. Dan Bolin waited for me to get off, but as I took my time walking back to the terminal building, he waved good-bye and headed for the parking lot. I had arranged for my care taker to leave my car there for me, so I stopped in the Plane View restaurant and loitered over a cup of coffee to give Bolin the chance to be out of my way.

There was just enough daylight left for me to enjoy the stunning vistas as I made my way through the familiar curves and hills of Chilmark. The old Grange Hall, the dirt road cutoff to Black Point Beach, the calm glade of Abel's Hill cemetery, the seventeenth-century stone walls that lined the pasture of the Allen sheep farm, and then the sun setting on the water at the town landing by the Stonewall bridge. I could race the remaining two miles to my sanctuary, the old farm-house that sat high over Menemsha Pond with a commanding view of the rich green landscapes and the blues of Quitsa and the Vineyard Sound far beyond.

My gardens were prepped and dressed for spring. The forsythia gave off a golden glow on either side of the gates marked by granite pillars, and the crushed white quahog shells that served as driveway dressing brightened the grassy surround. An array of pastel-colored tulips stood on either side of the front door, while sprouts of daffodils haphazardly dotted the yard and punctuated the formal plantings, which had not yet bloomed along the bordering walls. All of these hearty April flowers seemed to be taunting the deer to come and taste them.

No matter how severe the stress, no matter how profound the problems I encountered at work, when I reached my Chilmark home, it was as though every pore opened and relieved me of the pressure building up inside. I didn't forget the images in crime scene photos or the details of an autopsy report, but somehow I could put them in perspective and be restored by the beauty and peacefulness of this one place on earth I loved above all others.

The inside of the house had been readied for my arrival, and I smiled with pleasure at the personal touches that welcomed me back. In every room there was a small bouquet of flowers from my own gardens, dry logs were laid in the fireplace-flue open and matches on the mantel next to my collection of old ivory crustaceans-crisp new linens had been laundered to refresh the palette of my bedroom, and a pint of my favorite clam chowder from the Homeport was next to a pot on the oven to be heated for dinner.

I called Joan Stafford to explain the change of plans and told her I'd pick her up at the airport at noon. I took asteam shower and wrapped myself in a warm robe before moving into the living room to light the fire and settle in with the evening news and an old Bar-bara Stanwyck movie. When I got hungry, I warmed up the chowder and then watched the second half of the flick with a glassful of Dewar's.

Despite the fact that some of the perils of the job had found a way to the island from time to time, and that even my home had been the scene of a frightening intrusion, the changes that I had made to my security system over the years kept me comfortable here and completely at ease. I slept well, lulled by the steady noises of the crickets and awakened only by the early-morning light through the glass panes of the French doors in my bedroom, with the cries of robins searching for worms in my wildflower field.

My first foray out was to the Chilmark Store, for the morning papers and a cup of coffee that I drank, picking on a cinnamon bun, while rocking in a chair on the deck. I greeted islanders who had been longtime friends-fishermen, painters, construction workers, post office employees, waitresses, and the librarian-asking and answering the obligatory start-of-season questions about how the winter had gone. For all of us who lived or worked on the western tip of the island, past Beetlebung Corner, this general store was our lifeline- the center of the universe for food, supplies, news, and gossip.

Back at the house, I took my ten-speed bike out of the barn and set off for the Aquinnah Cliffs on State Road, glad for the first exercise I'd had in a week, coasting down past the dunes of Moshup's trail and saving my energy for the last winding hill on the way back to my house.

I called to check on Joan's flight, which was scheduled to land on time, so I put the top down on the vintage Mustang and drove to the airport, nested in the middle of the island within the state forest, to pick her up.

Joan's exuberance was hard to contain in a confined space, and she began blowing kisses to me the moment she emerged in the doorway of the small plane and made her way down the short stairway.

I stood behind the gate at the edge of the tarmac and she dropped her bag to hug me as she stepped out of the way of the other passengers.

"It must be love," I said. "You look stunning."

"Love-and then, of course, Kenneth. You like the highlights?" She spun in place, referring to the legendary hairdresser who had given her a new look.

We locked arms and walked inside to the rack where the luggage was delivered. There was no such thing as traveling light for Joan.

I picked up her duffel bag and started toward the car. "You won't need half of whatever is in here."

"I've brought some things for you. I know, I know-not necessary, but I did. And you've got to read my manuscript. I'm almost halfway done with the new book. That's in there, too. I didn't know if we'd be going out so I brought some extra clothes."

"And Jim? How is he?"

"He's the best. He's wonderful, Alex. And he sends lots of love."

We had been pals for a very long time and there was nothing that relaxed me more than curling up on opposite ends of a sofa with women I trusted and adored-like Joan and Nina Baum-to unload my problems and listen to theirs, or simply to dish about guys, clothes, kids, and anything else that came to mind.

"You'll catch me up on what he's doing. It's your call: we can go out for dinner tonight-the Cornerway, the Galley, the Beach Plum, Bittersweet, the Outermost," I said, ticking off my favorite restaurants, "or we can stop at Larsen's Fish Market and ask them to cook and split a couple of lobsters for us. Then we just take them home and chill them until it's time to eat."