onnecticut, November 1992

It was a cold Saturday morning at the beginning of the month. The first snap of frost was in the air, after a mild October of Indian-summer weather. But nonetheless, it was a sparkling day, sunny, with a bright blue sky.

We were always busy at Indian Meadows on the weekends, but this glorious day had brought out more people than usual.

All of the shops were busy, and I was glad we had plenty of merchandise in stock. In the summer I had done a lot of heavy buying, anticipating brisk business over the holiday season. Thankfully, I had been right. If today was any kind of yardstick, then at Thanksgiving and Christmas we would be setting records.

I walked across from the Kilgram Chase Gallery to the café, and when I pushed open the door, I was startled. The place was already full, and it was only midmorning. I hovered in the doorway, looking for Eric. When I caught his eye, he hurried over.

"What a morning," he said. "We're busier than ever in here. Am I relieved we made that second parking lot down by the front gate. It's come in handy today." He grinned at me. "You were right, as usual."

"It didn't cost much, and I do believe we're here to stay, Eric."

"Have you ever had any doubts, Mal?"

I shook my head. "Have you heard from Sarah?"

"No. Why, is there a problem?"

"Probably not, but she hasn't arrived. When she phoned me from the city last night, she said she'd be leaving at six-thirty this morning, that way she'd miss the traffic and be here by nine." I checked my watch. "It's almost eleven."

"She may have been late leaving New York," he responded.

"Perhaps."

"Try not to worry, Mal."

I nodded. "I will. I'll be in the office if you need me," I said. I went out and walked over to the other red barn.

Ever since my family had been killed, I worried excessively if someone close to me was overdue. I just couldn't help it. And in any case, we lived in a dangerous world these days, one more dangerous than it had ever been, in my opinion. Carjacking was a common occurrence, guns had proliferated on the streets to such an extent it was mind-boggling, and the murder of innocent people had become the norm. Every time I picked up a newspaper or turned on the television there was some new horror that chilled me to the bone.

"Mal! Mal!"

I pivoted, saw Anna hurrying toward me.

"Can you spare me a few minutes?" she asked as she drew to a standstill.

"Sure, let's go into the office," I answered, pushing open the door to lead the way.

After we had shed our coats, we headed for the seating arrangement near the window. "Do you have some sort of problem, Anna?" I asked, sitting down on the sofa.

"No, I don't, Mal, but Sandy Farnsworth called me last night," she explained, seating herself opposite me. "She wants to sell Pony Traders. She asked me to ask you if you'd be interested in buying the company."

"No, I wouldn't," I said without hesitation. "I've expected this coming for a while now, Anna. Sandy's sort of hinted at it before. But I don't want to become a manufacturer, which is basically what they are, even if some of their items are handmade." I shook my head. "No way, Anna, too many headaches. I'm afraid I have to pass."

"I more or less indicated to Sandy that you wouldn't be interested," Anna replied. "I happen to agree with you, and I'm sure Sarah will too. But I promised to pass it by you."

"I understand. Has Sandy indicated what she's going to do? I mean, if she can't sell it? Will she continue the business?"

"I suppose she'll have to, or find herself a new partner. Lois Geery is moving back to Chicago, and that's what this is all about. I guess she wants to pull her money out of the company."

"If Pony Traders goes out of business, we're going to have to find a replacement, another manufacturer who makes their kind of casual country clothes," I pointed out. "I know we have Billie Girl and Lassoo, but we'll need a third."

Anna smiled at me. "I've already thought about that, Mal, and I've started to research it. I'll have a couple of new vendors for us by next week."

The door flew open, and Sarah came bounding in, much to my relief. She was looking harried and windswept.

"What a morning!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry I'm so late, Mal. I hope you haven't been too worried."

"A little," I admitted. "And what happened to you, Sash? You look a bit disheveled, and you have a smudge on your face."

"I do? I wonder if it was there before? Oh, well, never mind. And what happened is that I had a flat."

"Oh, God, how awful for you, Sarah," Anna said as she got up. "I'd better get back to the boutique, Mal. See you both later."

"I'll be over soon," I answered.

Sarah smiled at her and said to me, "I could really use a cup of coffee, Mal. Shall we go to the café?"

"It's very busy, but Eric will find us a spot. Come on."

We hurried out after Anna.

"How did you manage to change your tire?" I asked as we sipped our coffee a few minutes later, lucked away in a corner of the cafe near the kitchen.

"I had help, thank God."

"Oh." I looked at her curiously. "Where were you when your tire blew?"

"On Route 41. Just down the road," Sarah explained, grinning at me.

"What's so amusing?" I asked.

"The encounter I had."

"When you blew the tire?"

"Yes, you see, it occurred outside a house. Fortuitously for me, as it turned out, otherwise I'd still be sitting there with a flat. It was a small Cape Cod behind a white picket fence, and I went and knocked on the door. I asked the man who opened it if he would mind helping me, and he said he would be glad to. We changed the tire together. Mind you, Mal, he did most of the work. Anyway, while we were working, I managed to find out quite a lot about him. Including his telephone number."

"So he was attractive. Sash?"

"Not bad, not bad at all." Sarah paused, gave me an odd look, and added, "I asked him to dinner."

"You didn't!"

"Yes, I did."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Sash!"

"Don't say Sash in that tone of voice, Mal. And I think it was a great idea."

"But Sash, tonight."

"What's wrong with tonight? You can't say we don't have any food, because this place is stuffed with it."

"That's true."

"Listen, why not have him over? He lives close by, and we don't have many attractive men for neighbors, in fact, none at all, at least none who are available."

"There's Peter Anderson," I reminded her.

"Mr. Lousy Big Shot!" she exclaimed. "He's a pain in the ass. He's strung me along for over two years about those damned barns of his, and now he's finally said no. He doesn't want to sell after all, he says. Not nice, Mal."

"He's a funny bird, I must admit. Eric told me he's had all kinds of tragedies in the last few years. In any case, we're managing all right, and we can always put up another ready-made barn down near the new parking lot, should we need it."

"I suppose so. But Peter's really disappointed me. He seemed so pleasant at first."

"What's his name? The man who's coming to dinner."

"Richard Markson."

I sat back, frowning, and took a sip of my coffee. "It's strange, Sash, but his name sounds familiar. I wonder if I've met him?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No, you haven't. I asked him. He's quite a well-known journalist, and he does a lot of television, so that's probably why you know his name."

"What kind of journalism?" I asked, always wary.

"Political stuff, mainly."

"What time is he coming?"

"I said eight, but I can make it later if you prefer, Mal. I said I'd call to confirm the time."

"Eight is fine. Now, about dinner. We can take one of Nora's cottage pies up to the house, and a container of her chicken bouillon with vegetables. We can make a green salad, there's a Brie cheese and fruit. How does that sound?"

"Great, Mal. The only thing you've forgotten is a loaf of Nora's homemade bread."

I must admit, I liked Richard Markson the moment he walked into the house.

He was a tall man, well built but by no means heavy, with dark brown eyes, dark wavy hair, and a pleasant face.

Almost immediately his presence seemed to fill the house. He was obviously self-possessed and at ease anywhere. Yet he had a quiet demeanor, and his reserved manner appealed to me.

"This is Richard Markson, Mal," Sarah said, bringing him into the kitchen where I was filling a bucket with ice. "Richard, meet my very best friend, Mallory Keswick."

"Thanks for having me on such short notice," he said as we shook hands. "And it's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Keswick."

"Please call me Mal, and I'm happy to meet you, and to welcome you to my home."

He smiled, glancing around. "It looks like a lovely place, and I must say, I'm very partial to these old colonials, they have such charm, as do the old farmhouses in Connecticut."

"Yes, they do. What would you like to drink, Mr. Markson?"

"A glass of white wine, thank you, and I hope you're going to call me Richard." nodded and carried the bucket of ice to the hutch, which generally served as a bar. "What about you, Sash? What are you going to have?"

"Me? Oh, I don't know. White wine, I guess. Is there a bottle in the fridge?"

"Yes," I said over my shoulder and took out three wine glasses.

"Let me do that," Richard said to Sarah when he saw her struggling with the corkscrew, and a split second later he brought the bottle of wine to me. "Here you are, Mal."

"Thanks," I said, then filled the glasses. "Let's go to the small den. It's cozy there. Sarah lit a fire a while ago, since it's turned so chilly tonight."

Once we were settled in front of the blazing fire, Richard lifted his glass and toasted the two of us.

"Cheers," Sarah and I said in unison, and then we all settled back in our chairs and fell silent.

It was Richard who spoke first. Later I came to realize that he was very good at breaking the ice, making people feel comfortable. Perhaps that was part of his great success as a journalist.

Looking at me, he said, "What a fantastic success you've made of Indian Meadows. It's great for us all, none of us knows how we could manage without it now."

"Oh, so you do use the shops, do you?" Sarah said, a brow lifting.

"Certainly do. I bought all of my Christmas gifts here last year, and I fully intend to do the same again. I'm frequently over here browsing around."

"Funny, we've never seen you," Sarah murmured.

I said, "It's nice to meet a satisfied customer. You are, aren't you?"

"Very much so," Richard assured me, smiling. He took a swallow of wine and went on, "And I love Nora and her cooking. To tell you the truth, I don't know what I'd do without her. I buy most of my meals from the café takeout—her soups, her salads, and that delicious cottage pie."

Sarah and I exchanged dismayed glances, and before I could say a word, she exclaimed, "It's a good thing you do like it, because that's what you're getting for dinner tonight. Nora's chicken soup and cottage pie."

"Oh," he said. "Oh, that's great. Great. As I said, I am her biggest fan."

"I could make something else, spaghetti primavera, if you like!" I suggested swiftly, feeling embarrassed.

"No, don't be silly. The cottage pie's wonderful."

"Bet you had that last night?" Sarah said, making it sound like a question.

"No, I didn't!" Richard protested, and then he broke off. His mouth twitched and he started to laugh. Glancing at me he shrugged. "But honestly, I don't mind eating it again."

The expression on his face was so comical I found myself laughing with him. Between chuckles, I said to Sarah, "We're going to have to start cooking again. We don't have much choice."

"You're right, Mally," she replied, gazing at me for the longest moment.

Richard asked me more questions about Indian Meadows, how I had come to start the shops, and I told him.

He mentioned the Lettice diary and confided how fascinating he had found it.

Sarah listened to us talking, occasionally joined in, went and got the bottle of wine from the kitchen, and kept filling our glasses.

At one moment she came back from the kitchen and said, "I've put the cottage pie in the oven," and pulled a funny face. We all laughed.

Later, when I went into the kitchen myself to check on things, Sarah followed me. "I can do it, really I can," I said. "Go and keep Richard company."

"He's all right, he's looking at the books on the bookshelves. Listen, I want to tell you something."

She sounded so peculiar, I turned around to face her. "What is it?"

"It's lovely to hear you laugh again, Mal. I haven't heard you laugh in years. That's all I wanted to say." stood there returning her loving gaze, and I realized that she had spoken the truth.

As it turned out, laughter was the keynote of the evening.

Richard Markson had a quick wit and a good sense of humor, as did Sarah, and their repartee was fast and furious. At one moment they were so amusing I found myself chortling yet again, and so much so I had to stop serving the cottage pie for fear of spilling it.

I sat down at the table for a second, letting my laughter subside, and I looked from one to the other, thinking how well matched they seemed. It struck me that he was the nicest man Sarah had brought around in a long time, and it was quite apparent that he liked her a lot. And why wouldn't he? My Sashy was beautiful and smart, kind and loving, and quite irresistible at times, like tonight. She was inimitable.

Rising, I went back to the oven and brought out the cottage pie again.

Sarah said, "Why don't you put the dish in the middle of table, Mal? We'll help ourselves."

"Good idea," Richard agreed.

I did as Sarah suggested and sat down.

After taking a sip of wine, I watched as Richard served himself, then stuck his fork into the pie on his plate. How awful that Sash and I hadn't been more inventive with the dinner. But how could we have known that he was a regular customer of the take-out kitchen? I began to eat, and a bit later, when I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he was relishing the pie.

It was over the Brie cheese and green salad that Sarah zeroed in on him. Leaning back in her chair, she asked in an offhand way, "How long have you had a weekend place up here, Richard?"

"Just over a year."

"Your Cape Cod looks very charming from the outside. Do you own it?"

He shook his head. "No, it's a rental. Kathy Sands found it for me, and she's—"

"Kathy was our real estate broker for Indian Meadows," I cut in. "She's a terrific woman, don't you think?"

He smiled. "Yes, she is, and I started to say that she's been looking for a house for me to buy, but the houses are all far too big for me."

"Oh, so you live alone then, do you?" Sarah asked, throwing him a quizzical look.

"I'm single," he said. "And I certainly don't want a large house to roam around in alone."

"That's understandable," Sarah murmured. "I'd feel the same. But of course I come here every weekend to be with Mal." There was a little pause before she said, "I've never been married, have you?"

"No, I haven't," he said. "I've roamed the world as a journalist, been a foreign correspondent until recently, and I guess I was always too involved with my job to think of settling down. I came back to the States three years ago and took a job with Newsweek." He pursed his lips, gave a half shrug. "I decided I'd had enough of foreign places. I wanted to come back home to little old New York."

"Are you a New Yorker?" I asked.

"Born and bred. You are too, aren't you, Mal? And you, Sarah?"

"Yes," I answered. "We are."

"We've been friends since we were babies," Sarah informed him, laughing. "Actually, you could say we've been inseparable since our prams. Anyway, what brought you up to this neck of the woods for weekends?"

"I was a boarder at the Kent School before I went to Yale, and I've always loved it up here. To my way of thinking, the northwestern highlands of Connecticut are God's own country."