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kitchen equipment at one end—a necessary business expense, since she planned to serve breakfasts—and for a family sitting area at the other. The wall between two of the small bedrooms had also come down, creating a large bed-sitter for Jim, with twin sofa beds so he could have his friends stay overnight. Jim's cherished possessions were there—his, stereo, his books, his photographic equipment. But not all his possessions, not the ones he cherished most. Hidden in the darkest corner of the attic were the skis and poles, the tennis and squash rackets, the weights, the bench press, the hockey sticks—and the football. She had bought him a new one for Christmas. It had hardly been used.
    The telephone interrupted her reverie. "Andy? It's me, Reba. I see Jim got home."
    "I won't ask how you know," Andrea said resignedly.
    "Just happened to be looking out the window when the car went by. Figured it had to be—him there's quite a strong resemblance."
    Reba had her own brand of tact; she hadn't mentioned the crutches. "How about bringing him here for supper?" she went on.
    Another interfering outsider trying to ruin the privacy of their first day at home! Andrea said quickly, "That's sweet, Reba, but...But he has a buddy with him, and if I know Kevin, he'll hang around for supper."
    "Bring him along. I like kids that age. They appreciate good food."
    As Andrea fumbled for a more compelling excuse, she heard the slam of the back door. Damn, she thought angrily. They've gone out—God knows where, into the pasture after Satan, probably—rabbit holes and brambles—he'll fall, he'll hurt himself...
    Reba took her silence for acceptance. "Good, I'll see you about eight. Fact is, I'm bribing you, Andy. Got a favor to ask."
    "What?"
    "That guy, Martin Greenspan—the friend of mine who booked for this weekend—"
    "Yes." This monosyllable was a trifle more pleasant. Andrea owed the reservation solely to Reba. Martin Greenspan was a nationally syndicated columnist and writer. If she succeeded in pleasing him, his recommendation could carry a lot of weight.
    "It's a helluva thing to ask, I know, with you just open for business—But he wondered if you could take him a day early."
    "A day early." Andrea's mind fumbled with dates.
    "Tomorrow. Tomorrow?"
    "I know, I know. But he's not fussy—he's a good guy."
    "And if there's anything I can do—"
    "No, it's okay." It would have to be okay, she told herself.
    "Get those big louts of boys to help you this afternoon," Reba advised. "I'll feed 'em tonight. See you then, Andy. And thanks."
    Andrea said, "Son of a bitch!" to the silent telephone, and collapsed onto the stairs. She had looked forward to this day so long—through long nights of loneliness and long days of labor. In the refrigerator were two steaks, ready for broiling, a big tossed salad, and half a gallon of pistachio ice cream—Jim's favorite foods. After lunch he would have rested for a while, then she would have taken him on a tour of the house. She had pictured the surprise and pleasure on his face when he saw the rooms whose restoration she had described in such detail.
    The guest rooms all had names. She and Jim had discussed alternatives, with "the guys" offering their suggestions—all more or less X-rated and unacceptable. Jim insisted on referring to Bertha's bedroom as "Satan's room," and it was Kevin who pointed out the consequences of the designation. "I guess you can't call a guest room 'Hell,' can you?"
    The room in question was now officially "The Lincoln Room," but Andrea wondered whether her choice of decor had not been unconsciously affected by Kevin's comment. Hangings of dark-red damask draped the four-poster bed and the circular bay windows; they had cost Andrea, who was not a skilled seamstress, many profane and frustrating hours. The wallpaper was crimson and gold, a copy of a Victorian original. Comfortable overstuffed chairs flanked the black marble fireplace. The room had the dignity and warmth of