The phone rang again. "Hey, Goldy, honey, how you doing?" Doug Portman's obnoxious greeting sent ice down my spine. "Coming up to Killdeer tomorrow?"

"Yes, Doug." What strange bedfellows failed remodeling makes, I thought as I sipped the cocoa. Doug Portman and I had history. We'd dated unhappily after I'd rid myself of The Jerk, my abusive ex- husband. But pretentious, penny-pinching Doug was a well-known collector of military memorabilia, and our drains- crisis had brought him back in our orbit.

"Still want to sell those World War Two skis?" Doug asked imperiously, his voice as gruff as ever. "The ones Ike signed?"

"If the price is right." Tom's historic skis had belonged to a veteran, a member of the 10th Mountain Division. On the skis, the soldier had carved the names of each of the Alpine towns where he'd fought. More importantly, the trooper had somehow convinced Eisenhower

himself to carve Ike onto the left ski. An antiques dealer had told Tom the skis could sell for as much as ten thousand dollars, of which we, unfortunately, would get only half Remembering Doug and his insatiable passion for military memorabilia, plus the fortune we'd need to replace the drains, I'd called him two weeks ago and offered him the skis for nine thousand. He'd turned me down.

"I've changed my mind. Eight thousand. Cash." Doug said triumphantly. "Take it or leave it."

"Great," I said, surprised and pleased.

"Meet you at your cooking show, then." Doug lived in Killdeer. "And hey. If I'm going to buy your skis, I want some of those goodies you're making." He paused. "I heard they charge nine bucks for spectators. Suppose you could leave me a free ticket at the restaurant desk? We'll ski down together afterward. It'll be fun."

Everybody promised fun. I sighed and told him no problem. A free ticket? Eight thousand dollars to spend, and Doug

couldn't spring nine bucks for public television? But this was typical. Doug never paid for what he could scavenge for free. I told him I'd see him the next morning and signed off.

With my hopefully soporific hot drink in one hand and the second oversized chocolate cookie in the other, I strolled to the kitchen's back wall. Gusts of wind plastered icy flakes against our new windows. I put down the cocoa and placed my palm on the cold glass. The snow relentlessly batted against the pane, tat-tat-tat-tat. A whirling curtain of snow streamed past our deck light. The deck itself boasted at least eighteen inches of new powder. I prayed for Tom to be safe. He was down in Denver, working a fraud case. His Chrysler's snow tires

were in pretty good shape. Piloting my own rear-wheel-drive van to Killdeer the next morning would be another story.

I wanted to do the show. I pulled my hand away from the window and sipped my creamy drink. With my catering business

shut down, the program's wide audience still showcased the personal-chef venture, for which I refused to give up hope. Now, with Doug's offer, I finally had a deal for the skis. Plus, knowing the show was dedicated to remembering dear Rorry Bullock's husband, I had to get to Killdeer in the morning.