Tonight I would kill myself. My body would be discovered tomorrow morning. And not too much later the letters would be found.

I lay on the sofa in my upstairs sitting room, sipping a vodka and listening to Maria Callas sing Tosca. It had been one of Andrew's favorite operas.

The winter sun had long since fled the pale wintry sky, and the light was rapidly fading. Soon it would be twilight-the gloaming, Andrew had called it. A northern name, he had once said.

A deep sigh escaped me.

Soon my life would be over.

I would shed this mortal coil. I would be free. I would go to that other plane where they waited for me. All my suffering would finally cease. I would be at peace with them.

In the dim light of the room I could see Andrew's face looking down at me from the portrait I had painted of him. I smiled, loving him so much. And then my eyes shifted, and I gazed at the portrait I had done of the twins. Jamie and Lissa. How beautiful they looked, my little Botticelli cherubs. I smiled again. They had been my two small miracles.

Reaching for the glass, I gulped down some more of the vodka, closed my eyes, and let myself drift with the music.

When this side of the disc ended, I would end my life.

"Mal! Mal! Where are you?"

I sat up with a jerk, dropping the glass of vodka I was clutching, startled out of my mind.

Before I could recover myself, Sarah came bursting into the little sitting room, her eyes anxious, her face pale.

"No wonder you couldn't hear me banging on the front door!" she exclaimed. "What with Callas screaming her lungs out like that!" Stepping over to the stereo, she lowered the volume. "I've been outside for ages. Banging and banging on the door."

I was stunned that she was here. "How did you get in?" I asked in a faint voice.

"Through the kitchen door."

"But it was locked!"

"No, it wasn't, Mal."

"But it was!" I cried, my voice rising shrilly. "I locked it myself." As I spoke I cast my mind back to this afternoon. I had walked Nora across the kitchen, we had said good-bye as I saw her out. I had then closed the kitchen door and swung the bolt. Demented I might be, but there was no question in my mind about that door. Who had unlocked it?

Sarah was standing there, looking down at me.

I said, "What are you doing here, anyway?" She had spoiled my plans, and I was furious.

Throwing her coat onto a chair, she came and sat next to me on the sofa, took my hand in hers. "Why am I here, Mal? Because I was worried about you, of course. Very worried."

I stared at her speechlessly.

Sarah had obviously come to Indian Meadows for the weekend. As we went into the kitchen, I saw her suitcase, which she had dumped on the floor near the back door.

The first thing I did was to walk over and check that door. I turned the knob, and it opened. "I guess you didn't lock this before you came upstairs looking for me," I said.

"No, I didn't, Mal. It was open, so I left it open. Sorry."

"It's okay. I just don't understand. I did lock it earlier. It's a mystery."

Sarah made no comment. She walked over to the pine cabinet, took out a glass, and poured herself a vodka. Looking at me, she asked, "How about you, Mal? Do you want one?"

"Why not," I replied. If I couldn't kill myself tonight, I might as well get drunk. I could put myself out of my misery for a few hours at least.

Opening the freezer, I took out a tray of ice and gave it to Sarah, then went back and peered into the refrigerator.

"There's some hot pot here," I said. "Nora made it this morning. Or I can fix you an omelette."

Plopping ice cubes in our drinks and adding chunks of lime, Sarah said, "No eggs, thanks. I'll try the hot pot. What're you having?"

"The same," I murmured, although I wasn't even hungry. I never was these days. After I had emptied the hot pot into a pan and put this on the stove over a low light, I said, "It's going to take about half an hour to heat up."

Together we headed for the sunroom. Although it had a lot of windows and French doors, it was warm, centrally heated like the rest of the house. As we went in, I switched on the lights and noticed that it was snowing outside. The lawns had a coating of white; the trees looked as if they had just burst into bloom with white blossoms.

I sat down on a side chair with my back to the window.

Sarah took a big armchair, propped her feet on the coffee table, and lifted her glass in silence.

I did the same.

Sarah didn't say anything, and neither did I; we sat together like that for quite a while.

Finally rousing herself and focusing her eyes on me, she said, "My cousin Vera's coming back to New York, Mal."

"Oh," I said, looking at her swiftly. "Didn't she like the West Coast?"

"Yes, but her husband's left her. Moved in with another woman. Apparently he wants a divorce, so she's decided to pack up and come home."

"I'm sorry," I murmured, wanting to be polite.

Sarah went on, "Vera's flying to New York in about two weeks. To look for an apartment, and driving up here tonight it suddenly occurred to me that yours might be perfect for her. She has a teenage daughter, Linda, if you remember, and a housekeeper who's been with her for years. Your apartment is just the right size." took a sip of my vodka and said nothing.

"So, what do you think?" Sarah asked, eyeing me.

I shrugged indifferently.

"Do you want to sell it, Mal?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"You sound uncertain. But weeks ago you told me you never wanted to see New York ever again, that you hated the city. Why keep an apartment in a city you hate?"

"You're right, Sash. If Vera wants to buy the apartment, she can. Show it to her whenever you want. Or my mother can. She has a set of keys."

"Thanks, Mal." She smiled at me. "It'll be nice if I do you both a good turn."

"What do you mean?"

"Vera wants a nice place to live. And I'm sure you can use the money, can't you?"

I nodded. "Andrew's insurance policy is not a big one."

"There's a mortgage on the apartment, isn't there?"

"Yes," I said. "And one on this house."

Sarah gave me a long stare. "How're you going to manage?" she asked quietly, her concern apparent. "What are you going to do for money?"

I won't need it, I'll be dead, I thought. But I said, "There's a little bit coming from the advertising agency, but not much. Jack Underwood told me they're in trouble. They've lost a number of big accounts, and there are all kinds of financial problems at the London office. But you knew that. Andrew told you, when he came back in November."

"When did you talk to Jack?"

"He came out to see me a couple of days ago. He'd just returned from London. He's been heartbroken about Andrew-they were very close-and distressed about the agency. He and Harvey are leaving. They're going into business for themselves. Andrew had instigated the whole thing…" My voice trailed off, and I stared at her blankly, then sitting up, I finished in a stronger, firmer voice. "And so they're going ahead with their plans, even though Andrew's no longer here."

Sarah was silent. She sat sipping her drink, gazing out the window at the snow-covered lawns, her face miserable.

I got up and lowered the lights, which were a little too bright for me tonight. Then I sat down again.

"I'm worried about you, Mal," Sarah suddenly said.

"You mean about the money, the fact that I haven't got any?"

She shook her head. "No, not that at all. Auntie Jess and David will help you, and so will I. You know anything I have is yours. And your father and Diana will chip in until you're on your feet."

"I guess so," I said. Of course this would never be necessary; I would not be here.