"Wait a minute," said Arthur. "My other line's ringing. Probably a supplier telling me he slipped into a ditch with a truckload of champagne. Can you hold?"

I said yes. I gripped the phone cord, glanced out at the snow, and thought back. Eleven years ago, Nate and Rorry Bullock had been our neighbors in Aspen Meadow. Rorry. She and I had had good times teaching Sunday school at St. Luke's Episcopal Church. But our work and our relationship had ended when the Bullocks moved to Killdeer. High Country Hollmorks, Nate's hugely popular, locally produced PBS show, had covered exciting aspects of Colorado life, from tracking cougars to evacuating in advance of flash floods. Safe at home, snuggled inside cocoons of comforters and sipping cocoa, Arch and I had watched it together often when he was little.

Tragically, Nate had been killed in an avalanche three years ago - tracking lynx

for one of his own shows, reports said, although the television station denied knowledge of such a dangerous project. The papers had reported that the cause for the avalanche, and the reason for Nate's being in its path, were a mystery. Investigations had led nowhere, and his death remained shrouded in unanswered questions and pain. Poor Rorry. The thought of my widowed friend brought sadness. Although I'd written to her after Nate's death, I'd received no response.

Arthur returned to the line and announced he'd just calmed one of his cameramen. He tried unsuccessfully to conceal a burp and went on: "All right. At six, two cameramen, a handful of volunteers, and I will drive up our equipment van on the - plowed, they promised m e- back road. Is your van four-wheel drive?"

"No. And my tires are marginal." Another side-effect of my cash-flow problem.

"Then take the gondola up the mountain. Since the bistro staff couldn't do any of the prep, the owner and her head chef," - here he sighed - "will be helping you. Now listen, going live is just a bit different. People expect mistakes. Don't worry, it's part of the fun."

"Oh, gee, Arthur. It doesn't sound like fun." Overseeing a close friend who knew nothing about food prep and her chef-cum-boyfriend chopping mountains of scallions in time for a live broadcast? Fun? A wave of queasiness assaulted me.

"Just be there by seven, Goldy," Anhur said, ignoring my protests. "Don't come early. I have too much to do and you'll be underfoot. When you get there, you can tell Eileen and Jack what you need and I'll run you through the telethon scenario. We'll start filming at eight. Ciao!"

He hung up. The wind wailed around the house. I whisked cream and sugar into a heap of dry Dutch-style cocoa, beat in the steaming milk, and liberally doused the cocoa with whipped cream. Worries about the next morning crowded in as I set two fragrant, filbert-studded fudge

cookies on a china plate. I took a bite of cookie and nearly swooned over the combination of life-restoring dark chocolate and crunchy toasted nuts. Forget the show! Consume chocolate! Oh, and get some sleep, I ordered myself. Otherwise, people will call in to complain that the chef looks half dead.