Then Moira had started on the rest of the condo, replacing Aunt Charlotte’s stylish white leather furniture with comfortable overstuffed chairs and a couch and loveseat covered in patterned chintz. The black marble fireplace had been redone in aged brick. Matching chintz curtains now graced the floor-to-ceiling windows, and for her bedroom, Ellen had chosen a massive four-poster bed and a dresser set to match. An authentic nineteenth-century quilt in a Double Wedding Ring pattern covered the bed and Priscilla curtains hung at the windows. There was even a spool rocker in the corner to hold her patchwork doll, and a washstand complete with a blue bowl and pitcher.

The bathrooms had presented a problem. Moira had pointed out that in order to be authentic, they should look like privies, but had compromised with wood paneling and antique medicine cabinets. She’d found a claw-footed tub deep enough to accommodate Ellen’s long legs and the shower was hidden behind wooden doors.

When it came to Ellen’s workroom, Moira had consulted with Paul Lindstrom, the building architect. They’d knocked out the wall between Aunt Charlotte’s sitting room and Uncle Lyle’s office, converting it into a huge work space. Paul had installed rafters to give it the look of a farmhouse attic and the wooden floor was treated with several coats of polyurethane so it would be impervious to spilled dyes and chemicals. The high ceiling had been lowered in strategic spots to give the illusion of gables, and tall triangular windows gave Ellen the benefit of the spectacular view.

Ellen was just sitting down at her old-fashioned kitchen table when the phone rang again. It was Laureen Lewis from the first floor.

“Hi, Ellen. Do you have that recipe of your grandmother’s handy? I tried it last night and had a terrible flop.”

“What happened?” Ellen frowned. She knew she’d copied the recipe correctly.

“The caramels never set up. It turned out to be the most luscious chocolate frosting I’ve ever tasted, but that’s not what I was after. It just doesn’t work with a five-ounce can of Hershey’s syrup.”

“Hold on a sec.” Ellen reached for the red loose-leaf cookbook on the shelf by the phone. Laureen was doing a chocolate program on her cooking show and had been very interested in Grandmother Wingate’s recipes. Ellen flipped through the book until she came to the page with a smear of chocolate on the corner. She remembered making that smear as a child, helping Grandma Wingate make caramels for Christmas.

“Yes, it says five ounces. At least I think it’s ounces. It actually looks more like a cent sign to me.”

“That could be it!” Laureen sounded excited. “Does she have any other notations on the recipe?”

“Yes. At the top it says it’s from Mrs. Friedrich, the Lutheran minister’s mother. And Grandma wrote a note on the side. It says, ‘Never serve to Bill Carr. False teeth.’”

“I love it.” Laureen laughed. “Is there a date on the recipe?”

“No, but the one on the next page is for Mrs. Friedrich’s watermelon pickles and it’s from the summer of forty-five.”

“That’s close enough. I’ll call Hershey’s in Pennsylvania and ask for an old price list. Thanks, Ellen. And I’ll bring you some caramels this afternoon if they turn out right.”

“That would be a real treat.” Ellen’s mouth was watering when she hung up the phone. She hadn’t tasted Grandma Wingate’s chocolate caramels in years and it was a sure bet she’d never make them. Grandma Wingate had been an excellent cook, and so had Ellen’s mother, and both had looked cute in their ruffled aprons. Unfortunately, neither attribute had been passed on to Ellen. She’d learned to fry an egg and broil a piece of meat, but that was the extent of her talent in the kitchen. Everyone said that a man wanted a wife who was pretty and knew how to cook. She flunked on both scores. No wonder no one had ever wanted to marry her.

Forty-five Minutes before 10:57 AM

Laureen’s stomach gave a protesting growl as she opened the refrigerator door. All this wonderful food inside and she couldn’t eat any of it.

Harry Conners, her producer, had delivered an ultimatum when she’d shown up twenty pounds heavier after the Christmas holidays. If she didn’t lose ten pounds by the end of next month, he’d have to replace her. Laureen had explained that there was no way to test a recipe unless she tasted it, but Harry wasn’t one to listen to reason.

Naturally, Laureen had tried. She’d even gone on the newest fad diet, which promised miraculous results if she ate only an unsalted rice wafer four times a day, washed down by a vile-tasting concoction of food supplement powder mixed with grapefruit juice. But three days after she’d finished the recommended two-week stint, she’d stepped on the scale and found she’d regained her lost pounds and then some.

A package of thick-sliced bacon beckoned, and Laureen yearned for bacon and eggs for breakfast. She was tired of being constantly hungry. Her stomach growled at the most embarrassing times and all she could think of was piles of creamy mashed potatoes awash with savory brown gravy. Grace claimed that dieting was a simple matter of balancing the calories consumed with the amount the body burned up through exercise, but of course that was easy for her to say. She was naturally thin. And the daily exercises she’d recommended only made Laureen hungrier.

As Laureen reached for the bacon, she had almost managed to convince herself that her problem was hereditary. One of Laureen’s earliest memories involved sitting on a bench in some kind of health club, waiting for her mother to get out of a steam cabinet. She’d expected her mother to emerge thin and beautiful, but her face had been as red as a lobster’s and she’d been just as plump as ever.

With a sigh of remorse, Laureen shoved the bacon in the very back of the refrigerator. She’d have a small glass of skim milk and a piece of diet toast with sugar-free jam. And then she’d make her husband’s breakfast, even though he didn’t deserve it.

Alan Lewis looked out his window and frowned despite the lovely scene, a glistening expanse of white snow unbroken by human footprints. The pines in the grove loomed dark and tall, a frosting of snow on their branches and three bright blue mountain jays and a vivid red cardinal were pecking at the feeder Paul had designed. The whole picture was worthy of Currier and Ives, but Alan found it difficult to appreciate. Ever since Laureen had found out about Vanessa, his treatment had been colder than the icicles that hung from their balcony.

Alan flipped the lock on his office door and sat down at his father’s desk. His office was his refuge, a replica of the one his father had maintained in the back room of his country hardware store. Moira Jonas had decorated the walls with antiques. There was an old red Flexible Flyer hung from the rafters over his head, along with assorted shovels and rakes and even a hand plow. Laureen thought the room looked cluttered, but Alan loved the sense of hands-on merchandising that was difficult to maintain in the modern world of computer-generated orders and automatic restocking. His father hadn’t needed a computer to know what was on his shelves. Of course, his father hadn’t owned fifty-three stores in six different states, either.

He pulled out the center drawer and felt in the back for the hidden compartment where a carton of unfiltered Camels was secreted away from Laureen’s prying eyes. Opening a pack, he withdrew a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers almost reverently. As he touched the flame of his lighter to the tip of the cigarette, the intercom crackled into life.

“Alan? Do you want oat bran pancakes for breakfast? Or would you rather have egg substitutes and oat bran toast?”