For a moment Lucy considered waking Bill to tell him the news about Sam Miller, but she decided instead to let him sleep. She had been awakened so many times at night by hungry. babies that she appreciated the luxury of uninterrupted sleep—and Bill had had his share of sleepless nights with the kids. Besides, he’d be waking up soon, anyway. She switched on the coffeepot and sat down on the rocking chair to watch it drip, smelling its wonderful aroma. She sat and rocked, letting the familiar old-house sounds and scents surround and soothe her.

Lucy loved her kitchen. She loved the old Glenwood woodstove that burned two and a half cords of wood every winter. She cherished the Hoosier cabinet she’d bought at a flea market and spent an entire summer refinishing. Bill had made the cupboards himself out of maple, and they had scraped and polished the wooden floor together. She’d sewn the blue-and-white-checked gingham curtains herself. This kitchen was really the heart of the house, with its wooden rack for wet mittens, its collection of bowls for the cat, and the big round oak table where the family gathered for meals, Monopoly, and checkers.

If she didn’t do something soon, Lucy realized, she would fall asleep sitting up. She poured herself a cup of coffee and began mixing up some Santa’s thumbprint cookies for the cookie exchange. She was just taking the first sheet out of the oven when Bill, looking rumpled and sleepy, appeared in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Baking cookies to stay awake,.” Lucy answered.

“Oh,” he said, and headed straight for the bathroom. He returned, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table.

“You don’t usually bake cookies so early in the morning.”

“I know. I didn’t get home until five and I decided it wasn’t worth going to bed.” She paused dramatically. “Oh, Bill! It was awful. Sam Miller committed suicide in the parking lot. I was the one who found him.”

“Oh, my God. Was it really bad?” asked Bill, reaching for her hand.

“No, not really. All I saw was the hose going from the exhaust to the window. I couldn’t get the door open, and I couldn’t see much because of the snow. The police came, and they realized it was Sam Miller. He was dead when they got there. Of course, we all had to stay and answer questions even though none of us really saw anything at all. We were all in the phone room.”

“Gee, I never would’ve thought that he’d kill himself. He had so much going for him. Maybe it was all too much—too much responsibility, too much stress,” said Bill, drawing on his mug of hot coffee.