Sarah said softly, "I'm worried about your well-being, about your health. But, most importantly, about your state of mind. I know you're in the most excruciating pain all the time, that your sorrow and suffering are overwhelming. I just want to help you. I don't know how."

"Nobody can help me, Sash. That's why it's better if I'm alone."

"I don't agree, honestly I don't. You need someone with you, to comfort you whichever way they can. You need someone to talk to, to cling to if necessary. You mustn't be alone."

I did not answer her.

"I know I'm right," she pressed on. "And I know I'm the right person. It's I who should be with you. We've known each other all our lives, since we were babies. We're best friends… I should be with you now when you need someone. It's me that you need, Mal."

"Yes," I said softly. "You're the best one. And the only one who knows how to cope with me, I suppose."

"Promise me I can come every weekend, that you won't try to push me away, as you have several times lately."

"I promise."

She smiled. "I love you, Mal."

"And I love you too, Sash."

A small silence fell between us once more.

"It's the nothingness," I said finally.

"Nothingness?"

"That's what I face every day. Nothingness. There's just nothing there. Only emptiness, a great void. For ten years my focus has been on Andrew and our marriage and his career, then later it encompassed the twins. But now that they're gone, I have no focus. Only nothingness. There's simply nothing left for me."

Sarah nodded. Her eyes had welled up, and she was obviously unable to speak for a moment. But also she would never offer me meaningless pap, the kind of empty words that I had heard from so many of late.

I stood up. "Let's not talk about this anymore."

We ate supper in the kitchen. Actually, only Sarah ate-I just picked at my food. I had lost my appetite, and it had never come back. But I had opened a bottle of good red wine, and I drank plenty of it as the meal progressed.

At one moment Sarah looked at me over the rim of her glass and said, "Not now, because I don't think you're up to it, but later, in six months or so, maybe you could work. It would keep you busy. I know it would help you."

I merely shrugged. I wasn't going to be around in six months, but I could hardly tell her that. I loved her. I didn't want to upset her.

"You could work out here in the country, Mal, doing what you love."

I stared at her.

She continued, "Painting. You're very talented, and I think you could easily get some assignments illustrating books. I have a couple of friends in publishing, and they'd help; I know they would. You could also sell some of your watercolors and oils."

"Don't be silly. My paintings are not good enough to sell, Sash."

"You're wrong, they are."

"You're prejudiced.",

"That's true, I am. But I also know when someone's good at what they do, especially in the artistic field, and you're good, Mallory Keswick."

"If you say so," I murmured, pouring myself another glass of Andrew's best French wine.

It snowed again on Sunday.

Even though I was low in spirits, I could not help noticing the beauty of the grounds at Indian Meadows. They were breathtaking. They resembled a monochromatic painting in black and white below a crystal-clear sky of the brightest blue washed over with golden sunlight.

As I walked down to the pond with Sarah, my heart tightened. I thought of Lissa and Jamie, and how much they would have enjoyed playing in the snow with Andrew, making snowballs, building a snowman, and sledding down the hill below the apple tree.

I missed them all so much; my yearning for them was constant, ever-present in my heart.

But now I pushed my heartache away, burying it deep inside me, hoping to conceal it. I did not want to burden Sarah. She was so loving and understanding, and she worried about me all the time. I felt I must act as normal as possible around her today. She was going to Paris tomorrow with her fashion team from Bergman's, and I wanted her to leave feeling that I was in a better frame of mind.

"I've never seen so many ducks here before!" she exclaimed when we got to the pond. "There must be at least two dozen!"

"Yes, and they're mallards. They've made Indian Meadows their home this winter," I answered. "Obviously because we're feeding them every day."

As I spoke I put the shopping basket I was carrying down on the snow, took out the plastic container of scratch feed and turkey-grower pellets, and went to the edge of the pond.

The ducks took off immediately. Some rose up into the air and flew to another part of the property, others hopped onto the portion of the pond that was frozen and waddled away.

Our first winter at Indian Meadows, Andrew had installed a recirculating pump at one end of the pond. Electrically operated, it constantly churned the water surrounding it and thus prevented that area from freezing, even when it was below zero.

Sarah came and stood with me as I scattered the grain at the edge of the water, then she took a handful herself and walked to the frozen part, throwing it down for them.

"Silly ducks," she said, looking at me over her shoulder. "They're not coming to eat."

"They will, once we leave."

She joined me again and stood staring at the pump agitating the water.

"This really works," she said, glancing at me quickly. "What a good idea it was, to put it in for the ducks and the other wildlife that come around in winter. How did you know about it?"

"Eric told Andrew. In fact, they installed it together. This kind of pump is mostly used by farmers, who need to keep small parts of their ponds unfrozen, so that their cows can drink in winter," I explained.

"Hi, Mal! Hi, Sarah!"

We both swung around and waved to Anna, who waved back as she walked toward us across the snow.

She was as heavily bundled up against the weather as we were, dressed in a crazy collection of clothes, and I had a flash of Gwendolyn Reece-Jones in my mind's eye.

Like Gwenny, Anna was sporting lots of bright primary colors this morning, noticeable in the three scarves wrapped around her neck. These were turquoise-blue, red, and yellow, and they matched her long jacket, which looked as if it had been made from an Apache blanket. On her head was a royal-blue woolen ski cap with yellow pom-poms, and she wore a pair of jodhpurs, riding boots, and green wool gloves. Could she be colorblind?

"Anna, I love your jacket," Sarah exclaimed as Anna drew to a standstill next to us. "It's not only beautiful but very unusual. Is it authentic American Indian?"

"Not really," Anna said. "Well, maybe in its design."

"Did you get it out West? Arizona?"

Anna shook her head. "No, I bought it from Pony Traders."

"Pony Traders," Sarah repeated. "What's that? A shop?"

"No. Pony Traders is a small crafts company, up near Lake Wononpakook. I know one of the two women who own it, Sandy Farnsworth. They make jackets, capes, skirts, waistcoats, even boots and moccasins. Everything has an Indian look to it. And I fell in love with this jacket."

"I don't blame you, it's great," Sarah responded. "I'm off to Europe tomorrow, but maybe when I get back you'll take me up to meet them. Perhaps I'll put in an order for the store."

"Hey, that'd be fantastic," Anna said. Turning to me, she went on, "I thought you might like to come in for a cup of hot chocolate, or coffee, whatever you'd like, Mal." She eyed the basket and added, "I see you've got carrots for the horses. Why not come to my barn first?" was about to decline her invitation but changed my mind. She was trying to be nice, and I didn't want to offend her. She had always been so sweet with my children and had spent a lot of time with them when they rode, helping them to handle their ponies correctly. And so I said, "I won't say no to a cup of coffee, Anna. What about you, Sarah?"