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kitchenette to pour the promised coffee, looking terrific in her gray flannel slacks, white blouse and wispy upswept hairdo. The maroon sweater draped over her shoulders, its sleeves tied loosely in front, gave her a sporty look that suited her well.
    “How is the new book coming?” Mallory called out, over the refined clatter of china and silver.
    Kate’s scrubbed face was shining as she carried two cups of coffee into the living room, placed them on the round coffee table and sat down in the chair facing Mallory’s. “Splendidly, if I do say so myself. But tell me about you —why aren’t you working?”
    Mallory lowered her eyes. “They decided I was too tired.”
    Kate sat back in her chair and crossed legs that were still trim and strong, probably because of her penchant for walking all over the island. “You do look some the worse for wear, as I said before. Is it serious?”
    Mallory shook her head quickly. “I’m all right, Kate,” she promised in firm tones.
    The older, quietly elegant woman took a thoughtful sip from her coffee cup, watching Mallory all the while. “I don’t think you are,” she argued kindly. “You look about as unhappy as anybody I’ve ever seen. Mallory, what in heaven’s name is wrong?”
    Suddenly, Mallory’s throat ached and her eyes burned with unshed tears. She lifted her chin. “Everything,” she confessed, in a small, broken voice.
    Kate raised a speculative eyebrow. “Nathan?”
    “Partly,” Mallory admitted, setting her own cup down on the coffee table and entwining her fingers. “Oh, Kate, our marriage is such a joke! Nathan is always away on tour or recording or something, and I’m working twelve- and fourteen-hour days on that stupid soap—”
    “Stupid?” Kate asked, with no indication of opinion one way or the other.
    Mallory’s chin quivered. “I’m afraid I’m not very liberated, Kate,” she confessed. “I wanted to prove that I could have a career, and that I could be important as someone other than the wife of a famous man. Now I’ve done that, I guess, but it isn’t at all the way I thought it would be.” She paused, reaching for her cup. It rattled ominously in its saucer, and she set it down again. “I’m so miserable!”
    “I can see that,” Kate replied calmly, resting her chin in her hands in a characteristic gesture. “What do you really want, Mallory?”
    Mallory turned her head, not quite able to meet her friend’s wise, discerning eyes, and examined the familiar scene in front of Kate’s house. The beach looked strange under its blanket of snow, and the waters of the Sound were choppy. “I want to be a wife and a mother,” she muttered. “And, maybe, someday, use my teaching certificate—”
    “Rash thing!” cried Kate, with humorous, feigned outrage. “You want to be a card-carrying woman! ”
    Mallory was gaping at her friend, speechless.
    Kate laughed. “You were right before, Mallory—you aren’t very liberated. Liberation, you see, is the freedom to do what you really want to do, not some immovable directive requiring every woman on earth to carry a briefcase or wield a jackhammer!”
    Mallory was still staring, but something very much like hope was beginning to flicker inside her. Kate Sheridan was the most “liberated” woman she’d ever known, and here she was, saying that wanting to make a home with the man you love was all right. “I thought—”
    “I know what you thought,” Kate broke in with good-natured irritation. “You thought it was your duty as a modern, intelligent young woman to set aside your real inclinations and devote all your energy to something that doesn’t begin to please you.”
    Mallory reached for her coffee cup, this time successfully. Her thoughts were in a pleasant tangle, and she didn’t try to talk.
    Kate bent toward her, balancing her own cup and saucer on her knees. “Mallory McKendrick, you march to your own drumbeat,” she ordered. “Your life won’t be worth a