We passed the lake, and I tried to put Lettie out of my head. Streetlights ringing the snow-covered sweep of ice revealed a lone fisherman with a lamp attached to his cap. I could not imagine how cold he was. No fish could taste that good.

I snuggled into my warm leather seat. The gorgeous Rover boasted every possible amenity, and gave a smooth ride, to boot. Julian had been wonderful to loan it to me. When it struck me that Julian could find out what Lettie wanted for Christmas, I instantly banished the thought. Perhaps I was trying to buy a Christmas present, a girlfriend, and happiness for my son.

No more.

-9- By the time I gingerly pulled the Rover onto the interstate, ski traffic was flowing steadily westward. Cars and trucks hummed through the Eisenhower Tunnel. Arch was asleep, or pretending to be. West of the Divide, the snow had finally stopped. A bank of thick white clouds clung to the far mountaintops. Above it, an azure-tinted sky promised sunshine. From the high drifts lining the roadway, wide swathes of snow blew across the lane dividers and obscured them. I was too timid to take my eyes off the road to see if there were any signs of my accident. The last thing I needed was to total another vehicle.

Tom had called the wrecker service that dealt with near-the-tunnel mishaps and asked them to tow my van to a secure storage lot in Dillon, near the tunnel. After I finished in Killdeer, I would pick up the historic skis on the way home. We wouldn't try to sell them again - of that I was absolutely certain.

When I made the turnoff for Killdeer, a red-tailed hawk swooped close to the Rover. I braked and Arch woke with a start. After a moment of getting his bearings, he pointed to a herd of elk along a rocky stretch of road only sparsely covered with snow. Since he'd turned fourteen, he'd ceased giving direct apologies. He simply resumed speaking as if nothing had happened. While I found this disconcerting, at least it was better than silence. Eileen Druckman complained that Todd gave her the silent treatment on a daily basis.

I turned onto Camp Robber Avenue, named after a wild bird frequently seen on the slopes. The killdeer was also a bird commonly seen in our state, and its distinctive "kill-dy, kill-dy, kill-dy" call could be identified by even the most inept birders, among whom I counted myself. But the loud, invasive camp robber ruled the slopes, boldly hopping onto picnic tables, pecking at leftover hamburgers, then carrying off its booty to nearby pinetops.

I passed a series of gray, white, and beige clapboard double-wide houses, actually massive duplexes marketed as condominiums. This was a misnomer, of course. Any half-house here possessed more floor space than our Aspen Meadow home.