Carl was just lifting Sally out of the back of the stationwagon. He carried her across to the wooden steps in a careful and fatherly way – which wasn’t surprising when you knew that he had four children of his own by a previous marriage, the youngest of whom was ten. He was a stocky, well-preserved forty-five-year-old, with cropped white hair and a square Polish-looking face. He made sensitive and not very successful movies about young kids dropping out from school – Pursuit of Happiness-type pictures.

Sally stood in the hallway rubbing her eyes as Carl went to carry up the cases. Season said, ‘Don’t worry, honey – we’ll soon get you to bed. Would you like some milk and cookies?’

The inside of the Snowman house was built in natural, fragrant-smelling wood, with Navajo scatter rugs on the floor, and even an authentic cigar-store Indian presiding over the dining-area. The furniture was a self-conscious mixture of Italian stainless-steel and carved Mexican-Spanish, in red and gold. Already set out on the table, lit by trefoil candle-holders, were plates of salad and guacamole and taco chips.

‘We’re eating Mexican?’ asked Season. ‘That’s wonderful. I haven’t eaten Mexican in centuries. All we ever eat in Kansas is beef, and more beef, and for a change we have beef.’

‘You’re sure Sally doesn’t want to join us for dinner?’

‘No, no—’ said Season. ‘She’s tired. I’ll take her straight to bed. I’d like to wash up myself.’

‘Oh, before you go up – you must meet Granger. Granger – come and say hello to my favourite and only sister!’

From a corner of the living-area, carrying a large crystal tumbler of scotch, a lithe, blond-haired man appeared, wearing a black turtle-neck sweater, black trousers, and black shoes. He had a lean, ascetic face, with a hawkish nose. His eyes were very pale, as if the pupils had been bleached like a pair of blue jeans, from indigo to almost no colour at all. Around his neck was a massive silver crucifix, on which was impaled the body of Christ, in eighteen carat gold.

‘This is Granger Hughes,’ said Vee. ‘Granger, this is my dearly-beloved sister. Season Hardesty.’

Granger took Season’s hand, bowed, and kissed it. ‘I’m charmed,’ he said. ‘Coleridge wrote that “all seasons shall be sweet to thee,” and how right he was.’

‘Well, he’s dead now,’ said Season, slightly embarrassed. ‘True,’ said Granger, ‘but I’m pleased to see that you’re keeping his sentiments alive. You’re a very pretty woman.’

‘Thank you,’ Season told him. She wasn’t used to compliments, and she knew that he had made her blush. Out in Kansas, the nearest she had ever received to a compliment was that she was ‘sassy’. She glanced towards Vee for some moral support, but Vee was simply grinning her toothy California grin and taking Granger’s suavity for granted.