get so high on anticipation that she would inevitably crash after New Year's.
Probably not, she decided. Nor was she sure she really wanted to outgrow the magical, excited feeling that always preceded Christmas for her.
When she got home and had left her outerwear in the mudroom, she went to find her mother. Hannah was sitting in the living room, reading.
"Miserable out there," she remarked to her daughter. "Did you have trouble getting up the hill?"
"No. But I wouldn't want to try it in an hour." The stack of mail was on the table by the door, and she flipped through it, pulling out her credit card bill and the utility bill that she paid as part of her share of the household costs. Then she came to a thick manila envelope that wasn't addressed to anyone.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Witt left it. He said it's the request for bids he had a lawyer draw up." Hannah smiled. "He was as excited as a kid. Apparently he's sent a bunch of them out to firms in Denver, and now he can't wait for the replies."
"So why did we get a copy?"
Hannah laughed. "I think he wanted to show off a little."
Witt liked to show off for her mother, Joni thought. She often wondered why the two of them had never gotten together. They were both widowed, after all. But . sometimes she sensed there was an invisible wall between them. Some kind of barrier the two refused to cross.
Silly, she told herself. She was imagining things. "I guess he won't mind if I look at it."
"I guess he was hoping you might," Hannah replied. "Witt's like any other man. He wants to hear how brilliant he is."
The statement carried the warmth of affection, and Joni laughed. She tucked the envelope under her arm and headed upstairs.
"Trust me," Hannah called after her, "it'll put you to sleep."
But Joni had other thoughts in mind, and she eagerly pried the envelope open when she reached her room. A stapled stack of papers came out, and a quick scan told her most of it was boilerplate, establishing rules such as how the bid should be presented. But there was a specification, too, one that she was able to determine required an architectural proposal for a thirty-room lodge. The other details didn't matter to her. What did matter was the due date on the request: January tenth.
She was jolted by the nearness of the date. Witt must have sent these out early last month or even in November to the firms in Denver. They would need at least a month to respond.
The due date was only a week away. And Hardy probably hadn't even seen this yet.
She checked the date again to be sure she wasn't mistaken. This was fast, awfully fast, but maybe it had to be, so construction could start as early as possible in the spring.
But why had it taken Witt so long to drop this copy off for her mother?
Had he deliberately done this so it wouldn't fall into Hardy's hands?
But why would he even suspect it would? No, it must be that he'd only now gotten a spare copy from his attorney.
Eight days. If Hardy was to have any chance of responding to this, she had to get the papers to him right away.
But even as she jumped up from the bed, ready to dash out into the blizzard once more, a thought yanked her back. If she did this, Witt might never forgive her.
Her pulse racing, she flopped onto the bed and stared at the cracked ceiling, thinking about that. It was all well and good to believe that Witt ought to forgive Hardy. The police had blamed the drunk driver for the accident, and Joni couldn't understand why Witt persisted in believing Hardy was responsible-except that Hardy wasn't supposed to be seeing Karen, and if Karen hadn't climbed out the window that July night, she would probably still be alive.
But Karen was dead, and Witt honestly believed that Hardy was responsible. There was, she supposed, a possibility that Witt was right. Maybe he knew something about what had happened that she didn't. But it was more likely, she believed, that he simply needed a scapegoat, and since the drunk driver
Probably not, she decided. Nor was she sure she really wanted to outgrow the magical, excited feeling that always preceded Christmas for her.
When she got home and had left her outerwear in the mudroom, she went to find her mother. Hannah was sitting in the living room, reading.
"Miserable out there," she remarked to her daughter. "Did you have trouble getting up the hill?"
"No. But I wouldn't want to try it in an hour." The stack of mail was on the table by the door, and she flipped through it, pulling out her credit card bill and the utility bill that she paid as part of her share of the household costs. Then she came to a thick manila envelope that wasn't addressed to anyone.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Witt left it. He said it's the request for bids he had a lawyer draw up." Hannah smiled. "He was as excited as a kid. Apparently he's sent a bunch of them out to firms in Denver, and now he can't wait for the replies."
"So why did we get a copy?"
Hannah laughed. "I think he wanted to show off a little."
Witt liked to show off for her mother, Joni thought. She often wondered why the two of them had never gotten together. They were both widowed, after all. But . sometimes she sensed there was an invisible wall between them. Some kind of barrier the two refused to cross.
Silly, she told herself. She was imagining things. "I guess he won't mind if I look at it."
"I guess he was hoping you might," Hannah replied. "Witt's like any other man. He wants to hear how brilliant he is."
The statement carried the warmth of affection, and Joni laughed. She tucked the envelope under her arm and headed upstairs.
"Trust me," Hannah called after her, "it'll put you to sleep."
But Joni had other thoughts in mind, and she eagerly pried the envelope open when she reached her room. A stapled stack of papers came out, and a quick scan told her most of it was boilerplate, establishing rules such as how the bid should be presented. But there was a specification, too, one that she was able to determine required an architectural proposal for a thirty-room lodge. The other details didn't matter to her. What did matter was the due date on the request: January tenth.
She was jolted by the nearness of the date. Witt must have sent these out early last month or even in November to the firms in Denver. They would need at least a month to respond.
The due date was only a week away. And Hardy probably hadn't even seen this yet.
She checked the date again to be sure she wasn't mistaken. This was fast, awfully fast, but maybe it had to be, so construction could start as early as possible in the spring.
But why had it taken Witt so long to drop this copy off for her mother?
Had he deliberately done this so it wouldn't fall into Hardy's hands?
But why would he even suspect it would? No, it must be that he'd only now gotten a spare copy from his attorney.
Eight days. If Hardy was to have any chance of responding to this, she had to get the papers to him right away.
But even as she jumped up from the bed, ready to dash out into the blizzard once more, a thought yanked her back. If she did this, Witt might never forgive her.
Her pulse racing, she flopped onto the bed and stared at the cracked ceiling, thinking about that. It was all well and good to believe that Witt ought to forgive Hardy. The police had blamed the drunk driver for the accident, and Joni couldn't understand why Witt persisted in believing Hardy was responsible-except that Hardy wasn't supposed to be seeing Karen, and if Karen hadn't climbed out the window that July night, she would probably still be alive.
But Karen was dead, and Witt honestly believed that Hardy was responsible. There was, she supposed, a possibility that Witt was right. Maybe he knew something about what had happened that she didn't. But it was more likely, she believed, that he simply needed a scapegoat, and since the drunk driver
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