The third time, it was Peter’s turn. Catherine lay on the sled and grasped the inside of the steering bar. “Watch out for that tree, Peter. Remember old Ethan Frome.” He pushed the sled, running behind as he bent over it, then threw himself lightly and easily on top of her as he took the outside of the steering bar. She could feel his chin pressing into her thick fur collar. They went much faster, took the curves well, rushed into the left fork, and flew past the wild cherry. At the bottom they came to a halt a few feet past their second mark—a record every time. She felt Peter moving her hair and kerchief away from her ear, and she heard him say “Love you” or “I love you.” She stayed very still. Nothing happened. All at once the weight left her body; she heard the jangle of boot buckles and a sharp crunch of snow.

When she was sure he was going away she looked over her shoulder and saw him walking across the driveway toward the garage.

Catherine dragged the sled up the hill and stood beside the willow. He had moved away her hair and said those words. She felt violated, betrayed.

Brad came over. “What happened to Peter?”

“Nothing. He got cold, I guess.”

“Would you care for company on the downward path to ruin?”

“Not now, Brad. I’ve had it, for a while.”

“Where’s Peter?” asked Bev.

“God, Peter Peter Peter. He just went inside. What’s all the commotion about?”

“Nothing. You’re standing there with his sled.”

“That is not a sled,” said Brad. “It is Peter, bewitched. Let us honor the memory of our late friend, Miss Carlotti, by sharing a ride.”

Catherine handed him the sled and walked through the soft, hanging twigs of the willow into the snowy flatness of the upper yard. Her red galoshes, black-red in the moonlight, sank almost to their furred tops. The black twig-ends of some buried bush stuck up out of the snow; a small withered leaf still clung to one of the twigs, and shook slightly. The sight of the trembling leaf disturbed Catherine, and she looked away. She came to a tall, broad pine that leaned to one side, as if it had begun to fall but had changed its mind. The long lower branches, heavy with clumps of snow, grew close to the ground. A few of the branches had been broken off, leaving an open space.

Catherine bent over and entered the prickly shelter of the tree. The outer parts of the branches were heavy with snow, but toward the trunk the branches showed their bark. She dusted off the bark of a thick branch and sat down, leaning back against the trunk and laying one leg along the branch. Through black and snowy pine-needles she could see the crowd by the willow, the bottom of the sledding path, and the open, dark garage.