have red hair, green eyes, and approximately two thousand freckles. I don't think I'm all that pretty, but Andrew does not agree with me. He is forever telling me that I'm beautiful. But, of course, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, so I've been told, and anyway, Andrew is prejudiced, I have to admit that.

All I know is that I wish I didn't have these irritating freckles. If only my skin were lily-white and clear, I could live with my vivid coloring. My unruly mop of auburn curls has earned me various nicknames over the years, the most popular being Ginger, Carrot Top, and Red, none of which I have ever cherished. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Since I have always been somewhat disdainful of my mother's preoccupation with self, I have schooled myself not to be vain. But I suspect that secretly I am, and just as much as she is, if the truth be known. But then I think that most people are vain, care a lot about the way they look and dress and the impression they make on others.

Now, having showered and dressed in a cotton T-shirt and white shorts, I stood in front of the mirror, peering at myself and grimacing at my image. I realized that I had spent far too long in the garden unprotected yesterday afternoon; my freckles seemed to have multiplied by the dozen.

A few fronds of hair frizzled around my temples and ears, and I sighed to myself as I slicked them back with water, wishing, as I so frequently did, that I were a pale, ethereal blonde. As far as I'm concerned, my coloring is much too vibrant, my eyes almost unnaturally green. I have inherited my coloring from my father; certainly there is no mistaking whose daughter I am. My eyes mirror his, as does my hair. Mind you, his is a sandy tone now, although it was once as fiery as mine, and his eyes are not quite as brightly green as they once were.

That's one of the better things about getting older, I think—everything starts to fade. I keep telling myself that I'm going to look like the inestimable Katharine Hepburn when I'm in my seventies. "Let's only hope so," Andrew usually remarks when I mention this little conceit of mine. And it is wishful thinking on my part; what woman, redheaded or not, doesn't want those lean, thoroughbred looks of hers?

Brushing back my hair, I secured it with a rubber band, then tied a piece of white ribbon around my pony-tail and ran down the stairs.

My little office, where I did paperwork and household accounts, was situated at the back of the house, looking out toward the vegetable garden. Seating myself at the large, old-fashioned desk, which we had found at Cricket Hill, a local antique shop, I picked up the phone and dialed our apartment in New York.

On the third ring my mother-in-law answered with a cheery, very British "Hello?"

"It's me, Diana," I said, "and the top of the morning to you.".

"Good morning, darling, and how is it out there?" she asked. Not waiting for my response, she went on, "It's frightfully hot here in the city, I'm afraid."

"I thought it would be," I answered. "And we're having the same heat wave in Connecticut. All I can say is, thank God for air-conditioning. Anyway, how are my holy terrors today?"

She laughed. "Divine. And I can't tell you how much I relish having them to myself for a couple of days. Thanks for that, Mal, it's so very sweet and considerate of you, letting me get to know my grandchildren in this way."

"They love you, Diana, and they enjoy being with you," I said, meaning every word. "And what are you planning to do with them?"

"I'm taking them to the Museum of Natural History, after breakfast. You know how they are about animals, and especially dinosaurs. Then I thought I'd bring them home for a light lunch, since it's so nice and cool in the flat. I promised to take them to F.A.O. Schwarz after their nap. We're going shopping for toys."

"Don't spoil them," I warned. "Doting grandmothers have been known to spend far too much money at certain times. Like when they're on holiday visits."

Diana laughed, and over her laughter I heard my daughter wailing in the background. Then Lissa said in a shrill voice, "Nanna! Nanna! Jamie's broken my bowl, and the goldfish is on the carpet. Dying.'" The wailing grew louder, more dramatic.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Jamie shouted.

My mother-in-law had not spoken for a moment, no doubt distracted by this sudden racket exploding around her. Now she exclaimed, "Oh, God, hang on a minute, Mallory, the fish is gasping. I think I'd better grab a glass of water and pop the fish in it. Won't be a tick." So saying she put the phone down, I strained to hear my children.

Jamie cried plaintively, "I'm sorry, Lissa."

"Pick up the phone and speak to your mother," I heard Diana instruct from a distance, sounding very brisk and businesslike. "She's waiting to say hello to you, darling. Go on, Lissa, speak to your mummy," my mother-in-law commanded in a tone that forbade argument.

After a moment, a small, tearful voice trickled down the wire. "Mommy, Jamie's killed my goldfish. Poor little fish."

"No, I haven't!" Jamie shrieked at the top of his lungs.

"Don't cry, honey," I said to Lissa, then added in a reassuring voice, "And I'm sure your goldfish isn't dead, I bet Nanna has it safely in water already. How did the bowl break?"

"It was Jamie that broke it! He banged on it with a spoon, and all the water fell out and my little fish."

"He must have been banging awfully hard to break the glass," I said. "Perhaps it was already cracked. I'm sure it was an accident, and that he didn't do it on purpose."

In the background, Jamie cried again, "I'm sorry."

Lissa said, "He was banging hard, Mommy. He's mean, he was trying to frighten Swellen."

"Swellen?" I repeated, my voice rising slightly. "What kind of name is that?"

"She means Sue Ellen," Diana said to me, having relieved my daughter of the phone. "And I suspect the fish-bowl was defective, Mal. In any case, the goldfish is alive and kicking, or should I say swimming, in one of your Pyrex dishes. I'll get a goldfish bowl later, at the pet shop where I bought the goldfish yesterday. That'll make her happy."

"You don't have to bother buying a new one," I said. "There's a bowl from the florist's in the cupboard where I keep the vases. It's perfectly adequate."

"Thanks for the tip, Mal. Jamie wants to speak to you."

My son took the phone. "Mom, I didn't do it on purpose, honestly I didn't. I didn't!" he protested.

"Yes, you did!" Lissa yelled.

She must have been standing directly behind Jamie, heard her so clearly. "I'm sure you didn't mean to break it, honey," I murmured. "But tell Lissa you're sorry again and give her a kiss. Then everything will be fine."

"Yes, Mom," he mumbled.

Because he still sounded tearful, I tried to reassure him. "I love you, Jamie."

"I love you, too, Mom," he answered a bit more cheerfully, and then he dropped the receiver down with a clatter.

"Jamie, ask Nanna to come to the phone!" I exclaimed, then repeated this several times to no avail. I was about to hang up when Diana finally came back on the line.

"I think peace reigns once more," she said, chuckling. "Oh, dear, I do believe I speak too soon, Mal."

A door banged; there was the sound of Trixy barking. "I guess Jenny just came back from walking the pooch," I said.

"Exactly. And I'd better prepare breakfast for my little troop here, then get the twins ready for their outing. And seriously, Mal, everything seems to be all right between them. They've kissed and made up, and Sue Ellen is happily contained in the bowl, swimming her heart out." She chuckled again. "I'd forgotten what a handful six-year-olds can be. Either that or I'm getting too old to cope."'

"You, old! Never, And if you remember, their little spats never last long. Basically, they're very close, like most twins are."

"Yes, I do know that."

"I've loads of chores, Diana, so I must get on. I'll talk to you tonight. Have a lovely day."

"We will, and don't work too hard, Mallory dear. Bye-bye now."

"Bye," I said and hung up.

My hand rested on the receiver for a few moments, my thoughts lingering with my mother-in-law.

Diana was a sweet and caring woman, truly loving, and I've always thought it was such a shame she never remarried after Andrew's father died in 1968, when he was very young, only forty-seven. Michael Keswick, who had never been sick a day in his life, had suffered a sudden heart attack that proved fatal.

Michael and Diana, who originally hailed from Yorkshire and went to live in London after university, had been childhood sweethearts. They had married young, and Andrew had been born two years after their wedding; it had been an idyllic marriage until the day of Michael's untimely death.

Diana once told me that she had met quite a few men over the years since then, but that none of them had ever really measured up to Michael. "Why settle for second best?" she had said to me during one of our treasured moments of genuine intimacy. On another occasion, she had confided that she much preferred to be on her own, rather than having to cope with a man who didn't meet her standards, did not compare favorably with Michael.

"I'd always be making mental notes about him, passing private judgments, and it wouldn't be fair to the poor man," she had said. "Being on my own means I'm independent, my own boss, and I can therefore do what I want, when I want. I can come to New York to see all of you when the mood strikes me. I can work late every night of the week, if I so wish, and I can go up to Yorkshire whenever I feel like it. Or dash over to France on a buying trip, on the spur of the moment. I don't have to answer to anyone, I'm a free agent, and believe me, Mal, it's better this way, it really is."

I had asked her that day whether Michael had been her only love, or if she had ever fallen in love again. And she had muttered something and glanced away. Intrigued by the way she had flushed, albeit ever so slightly, and averted her head with sudden swiftness, I had been unable to resist repeating my question. After a moment's hesitation and an unexpected stiffening of her shoulders, she had finally turned her face back to mine. Her gaze had been direct, her eyes filled with the honesty I'd come to appreciate and rely on. I always knew where I stood with her, and that was important to me.

Slowly, she had said in the softest of voices, "The only man I've ever been remotely interested in on a serious level, and very strongly attracted to is… not free. Separated for the longest time, but not actually divorced, God knows why. And that's not good. I mean, it would be impossible for me to have a relationship with a man who was legally tied to another woman, even if not actually living with her. Untenable, really, and certainly no future in it."

Her shoulders had relaxed again, and she had shaken her head. "I came to the conclusion a very long time ago that I'm much better off living on my own, Mal. And I am happy, whatever you think. I'm at peace with myself."

Yet it has often struck me since that Diana must have moments of great sadness, of acute loneliness. But Andrew doesn't agree with me.

"Not Ma!" he had exclaimed when I first voiced this opinion. "She's busier than a one-legged toe dancer doing Swan Lake alone and in its entirety. She's up at the crack, behind her desk at the antique shop by six, cataloguing her stock of antiques, bossing her staff around, and floating over to Paris to buy furniture and paintings and objects at the drop of a hat. Not to mention wining and dining her posh clients, and fussing over us, her dearest darlings. Then there's her life in Yorkshire. She's forever racing up there to make sure the old homestead hasn't tumbled down.",

Shaking his head emphatically, he had finished, "Ma, lonely? Never. She's the least lonely person I know."

At that time I had thought that perhaps she keeps herself so frantically busy in order not to notice her loneliness, perhaps even to assuage it. But I hadn't mentioned this to Andrew. After all, he was her son, her only child, and he ought to know her well, if anybody did. And yet there have been times over the years when I have noticed a wistful expression on Diana's face, a sadness in her eyes, a look of longing, almost. A yearning, maybe, for Michael? Or for that love who was not entirely available? I wasn't sure, and I have never had the nerve to broach the subject.

Nora startled me, and I jumped in my chair as she came crashing into my office. I sat bolt upright, gaping at her.

"Sorry I'm late, Mal," she exclaimed, striding forward and flopping down in the chair opposite my desk.

For a dainty, petite person she could certainly make a lot of noise.

"Phew! It's hot today! A real scorcher!" She fanned herself energetically with her hand and gave me a smile. Then her face dropped as she took in my expression.

"Oh, sorry, did I give you a start when I came in?"

I nodded. "You did. But then, I was miles away, I must admit. Daydreaming."

A look of incredulity swept across Nora's face. Narrowing her eyes, she uttered a dry little laugh. "Daydreaming! Not you, Mallory Keswick! That's the last thing you'd be doing. You're a human dynamo. I've never seen you waste a minute.?'

Her words amused me, but I made no comment.

Rising, I said to her, "How about a glass of iced tea, before we get down to the task of putting this house in order for the weekend?"

"Sounds good," she answered, immediately jumping up and leading the way out of the office. "I didn't stop at the market stand on the way here. It's better I buy your vegetables and fruit tomorrow, Mal. They'll be fresher for Monday's barbecue."

"That's true. Listen, are you and Eric coming? You haven't really given me a proper answer."

She swung her head, looked over her shoulder at me, gave a quick nod. "We'd love to, and thanks, Mal, for including us. It's good of you."

"Don't be so silly, you and Eric are like part of the family."

She didn't say anything, just moved on into the kitchen, but there was a small, pleased smile on her face, and I knew she was happy that I'd asked her again, that I had not taken no for an answer.

Nora, who was about forty, was a slender pixie of a woman, with unusual, prematurely silver hair, an intelligent but merry face, and silvery-gray eyes. She had been my helper for the past year and a half, almost since we had moved in, and her husband, Eric, who worked at the local lumberyard, did carpentry and outdoor chores for us on weekends. Married for nearly twenty years, they were childless, and both of them doted on the terrible twins, as I jokingly called Jamie and Lissa at times.

Nora was a practical, down-to-earth, no-nonsense woman, a real Connecticut Yankee with her feet on the ground, which made us totally compatible, since I tend to be pragmatic and plain-speaking myself.

Utterly without pretension, she refused to be called a housekeeper. "Too fancy for me," she had said the day I had hired her. "Let's just say I'm your helper, Mal. All right if I call you Mal, isn't it?"

I had nodded, and she had continued, "It's friendlier. Anyway, that's the way it is in the country. First-name basis." She had laughed then. "Housekeeper sounds a bit formidable to me. Makes me think of a woman in a black dress with a grim expression and a bunch of keys tied to her belt." The silvery-colored eyes had twinkled. "Maybe I've read too many gothic novels."

As far as I'm concerned, Nora Matthews can call herself anything she wants. She is invaluable to me; I couldn't manage without her.

Pouring two glasses of iced tea, Nora remarked in her clipped way, "Fourth's going to be a lot hotter than today. Weather forecast says we're in for it. Better think about dressing cool on Monday. Lightweight all the way." She eyed my T-shirt and shorts. "You've got the right idea. Stick to that outfit for the barbecue."

"Aw, shucks, Nora, there goes my plan to wear my new cocktail dress!" I exclaimed, arranging a suitably disappointed expression on my face.

Swiftly, she glanced at me. Her brow furrowed. Nora was never absolutely certain about my humor, never knew whether I was teasing her or not.

I burst out laughing. "This is exactly what I intended to wear. Shorts and a T-shirt. You know very well they constitute my summer uniform."

"I guess so," she muttered.

For a split second I thought that I had offended her, teasing her in this way, but then I saw a glint of hidden laughter in her eyes, and I relaxed.

"Come on, let's get this show on the road," I said, adopting a bustling manner.

"Beds first?"

"You bet," I answered, and gulping down the last of my iced tea, I followed her out of the kitchen.