"Can I have a kiss first?" But she had already given him one, and was holding him close, as he looked up at her with that heart-melting smile of a boy of six.

"Then will you come look?"

"Then I'll come look." He bestowed a perfunctory kiss and pulled ferociously at her arm. "Wait a minute, what am I going to look at? Not snakes again ... right, Tillie?" She cast a rapid eye in the older woman's direction. Tillie had said nothing yet. She was a woman of few words, particularly with other women; she had more to say to Tygue than to Kate. But there was a certain warmth and respect between them. Tillie didn't really understand what Kate did at the typewriter, but the one published book she could tell her friends about had impressed her. It hadn't been much of a book, sort of a nonsense novel about fancy people in San Francisco, but it had been published, and that was something. And she said she had another one coming out in a month. Maybe she'd be famous one day. And anyway, she was a good mother. And a widow too. They had that in common. There was something different about her, though, that kept a distance between them. She wasn't a sn.o.b, and she didn't put on airs, and she didn't have anything anyone else didn't have. There was just a feeling one got about her. It was hard to explain. Refined. Maybe that was it. It was a word Tillie's mother had used. She had said Kate was refined. And smart. And pretty maybe, but too thin. And there was always that sad, hidden look in her eyes. But Tillie knew that one, she had seen it in the mirror for years after her own man had died. Not for as long as she'd seen it in Kate's eyes though. The look was still as fresh in her eyes as it had been when she'd first met her, after Tygue was born. Sometimes Tillie wondered if the writing kept her pain alive. Maybe that was what she wrote about. She didn't really know.

Tillie watched now as Kate rounded the corner of the house, impatiently pulled along by her son, and then they both stopped and Tygue grinned broadly and held tightly to his mother's hand. He was still such a little boy, yet now and then he seemed very grown up, probably because his mother often talked to him as though he were already a man. But that wouldn't do him any harm. Tillie had done that to her own boys, after their father died. It brought back memories, watching the boy look up at his mother in front of the patch of garden they'd worked on all day while she was gone.

"We made it for you. Half of it's flowers and half of it's vegetables. Tillie said we should do vegetables so you could make salads. You know, peppers and stuff. And next week we're gonna do herbs. You like herbs?" He looked suddenly dubious. Herbs sounded like girl stuff to him. "I want to plant pumpkins. And coconuts." Kate grinned, and bent to kiss him again.

"It's beautiful, Tygue."

"No, it isn't. But it will be. We planted all kinds of flowers. We bought all the seeds last week. And I hid them." That was what that look of mystery had been about this morning. It was his first garden.

"He did all the hard work too." Tillie walked up to him and patted his shoulder. "He's going to be mighty proud when he sees what a fine garden he planted too. Won't be long."

"Tomatoes too."

For a moment, Kate felt herself fighting tears, and then suddenly she wanted to laugh. She had worried about him all day, and he had been planting her a garden. What a beautiful world it was. No matter how fast she drove on the freeway.

"You know something, Tygue? This is the most beautiful present anyone's ever given me,"

"For real? How come?"

"Because you worked so hard at it, and because it's alive. And because we'll watch it grow, and get good things to eat from it, and pretty flowers. That's quite a present, sweetheart."

"Yeah." He looked around, doubly impressed with himself, and then shook hands soberly with Tillie, as the two women tried not to laugh. It was a beautiful moment, and then Tillie looked up, as though she had just remembered something.

"You got a call." Felicia obviously. Kate nodded, pleased but not overly interested. "From New York."

"New York?" For a moment, there was a tiny catch somewhere in her heart. New York? It couldn't be. Probably something stupid like the main office of her insurance company. Something like that. She'd gotten wound up over nothing before. She knew better now. After six years, she knew.

"They want you to call back."

"Too late now." It was already five-thirty in the West, three hours later in the East. Kate didn't look particularly upset.

Tillie nodded in her easygoing, never-hurried country way. "Yeah. He said it might be too late. Left a number you could call in L.A."

The something in her heart caught again. Harder this time. This was ridiculous. She was playing games with herself. Why was she so d.a.m.n jumpy today?

"I wrote it all down inside."

"I'd better go take a look." And then she looked down at Tygue with a tender smile, and her voice softened again.

"Thank you for my beautiful garden, sweetheart I love it-and I love you." She stooped for a moment and held him tight, and then hand in hand they walked toward the house, with Bert loping along beside them as best his stumpy legs would allow. "Want a cup of coffee, Tillie?" But the older woman shook her head.

"I've got to get home. Jake's kids are coming by tonight for supper, and I've got some things to do." The usual understatement. Jake had nine kids. There would be dinner for twelve. More, if a.s.sorted boy friends and girl friends came too, which they often did. Tillie was always prepared.

She got into her truck with a wave, and then hung out the window. "You going up to teach again this week, Kate?" It was funny she should ask, and Kate looked at her with a barely perceptible frown. She always went twice, but she had wondered the same thing herself on the way home today. She just didn't feel like going the second time this week.

"Can I let you know tomorrow?" It wouldn't alter what she paid Tillie-a set amount, once a month, to baby-sit twice a week. It was easier just writing one check a month, and the arrangement suited them both. If she decided to go to a movie in the evening, she just dropped Tygue off at Tillie's place on the way, and picked him up on her way home. Tillie didn't charge her for that, he was just like one of the "grand-kids." But Kate hardly ever did that. She spent her evenings at the typewriter. And going out at night still made her long for Tom. It was easier to stay home.

"Sure, call me tomorrow, or the day after if you want, Kate. The day's yours, one way or the other."

"Thanks." Kate smiled and waved, as she gently pushed Tygue ahead of her into the house. Maybe she would take a day off, and skip seeing Tom later in the week. Maybe she could plant some more things in the garden with Tygue. What a super idea Tillie had had. Why didn't she think of things like that?

"What's for dinner?" He threw himself on the kitchen floor with Bert, spewing mud around him on the clean floor as his mother grimaced.

"I'm going to make you eat mud pies, kiddo, if you don't get into the bathroom and get clean in about fourteen seconds. And take Bert with you."

"Come on, Mom ... I wanna watch ..."

"You'd better watch some soap and water, mister, and I mean it!" She pointed determinedly toward the bathroom and then Tillie's message caught her eye and she remembered the call from New York. It turned out to be from the New York office of the agency she used in Los Angeles to sell her books. All the publishers were in New York, so her agent just s.h.i.+pped her ma.n.u.scripts there, and let the eastern office handle it. Her Los Angeles agent did hold her hand a lot, and would get into the act if she ever sold a film, but the very thought of selling a film made her laugh. That was the stuff of writers' fantasies. Only novices believed they really had a chance. She knew better now, and she was just d.a.m.n grateful to sell a book now and then, even if it was only for a lousy two thousand bucks every three years. It helped pad out the small income she still got from Tom's investments.

So she wrote her book, and sent it to the agent in L.A., who would then mail it on to New York. And then New York would take two months even to tell her they knew she was alive, and after that-with any luck at all-they sold the book. Then she got a check from them, and twice a year she got royalty statements from the publishers. It was no more exciting than that. The first time it had taken them almost a year to sell her book, the second time it had taken them that long to tell her the new book stank and they couldn't sell it. This last time they had told her they were "hopeful." But they had taken almost two years to sell it. That had been a year ago. And it finally would be out in another month. All of which was reasonable by publis.h.i.+ng standards. She knew that publishers sometimes sat on a book for two or three years before publis.h.i.+ng it. She had been given an advance of three thousand dollars, and that would be that. It didn't even disappoint her anymore. Just a nice polite print run of five thousand books, and eventually she would see it in her local bookstore if she took the trouble to go down there to look for it. And a year later it would be out of print. It would go as quietly as it had come. But at least she'd have written it. And she was pleased about this one. It was a little unnerving to think this book might actually sell. Its subject was a little too close to home. She had almost hoped it wouldn't sell, in case someone remembered her. But how could they? Publishers didn't advertise the work of relatively unknown authors. And who was Kaitlin Harper? No one. She was safe. The book was a novel, but there was a lot in it about professional football, and the kind of pressure that was put on the players and their wives. Writing it had done her good. It had freed her of some of the old ghosts. There was a lot in it about Tom, the Tom she had loved, not the Tom who had snapped.

"Mom, did you start dinner yet?" His voice woke her out of her reverie. She had been standing by the phone for almost five minutes, thinking about the book, and wondering what the agency had wanted. Maybe something was wrong. A delay. They wouldn't bring it out in a month after all. They'd make her wait another year. So what? She'd gotten her advance. And she had been playing with an idea for another novel anyway. Besides, her real life was car pools for Tygue and mud on the kitchen floor. What difference did it make that she was a writer? Except to her.

"No, I haven't started dinner yet."

"But I'm hungry." He was suddenly whining and dirty-a tired little kid. He had worked hard all day, and it was starting to show. But she was tired too.

"Tygue"-the word was a sigh on her lips-"will you please take your bath, and then I'll get dinner. I have a phone call to make first."

"Why?" From child to beast in one quick minute. But he was only six. She had to remind herself of that at times.

"It's for business. Now come on, sweetheart. Be a sport."

"Oh ... all right ..." He left, grumbling, with Bert sliding along behind him, nibbling at his heels. "But I'm hungry!"

"I know. So am I!" d.a.m.n. She didn't want to snap at him. It was twenty to six. She dialed the agency's number in Los Angeles, wondering if anyone would even be there. If not, she'd call New York in the morning. But the phone was answered quickly, and the receptionist put her through to the man she normally dealt with: Stuart Weinberg. She had never met him. But after speaking for years on the phone, they felt like old pals.

"Stu? Kate Harper. How've you been?"

"Fine." She always imagined what he looked like, young, short, thin, nervous, and probably good-looking, with very dark hair and expensive Los Angeles clothes. Tonight he sounded as though he were in a good mood. "How've you been, out there in the boonies?"

"We're not that far from L.A. The boonies, what a thing to say!" But they were both laughing. It was a game they played whenever they spoke.

"Listen," she went on. "I got a call from Bill Parsons in New York. The message is a little garbled, but it says to call him, or call you if I got back too late to call him, which I did. I didn't even think you'd be in this late."

"See how hard we work for you, madam? Burning the midnight oil, working our fingers to stumps ..."

"Stop. You're making me sick."

"Sorry. I just thought I deserved a little sympathy."

"Mom! I'm hungry!" The voice warbled out from the bathroom with suddenly loud splas.h.i.+ng sounds, and Bert started to bark. Jesus. "Cool it in there!"

"What?" Weinberg sounded momentarily confused, and Kate laughed.

"Crazy hour around here, I'm afraid. I think my kid is drowning the dog."

"Fine idea." He chuckled and Kate fumbled for a cigarette. She didn't know why, but he was making her nervous.

"Stu?"

"Yes, ma'am?" There was something funny in his voice. The way Tygue had sounded at breakfast, before planting his surprise garden.

"Do you know why Parsons wanted me to call you?"

"I do."

"Well?" Why was he doing this? It was killing her. "Are you sitting down?"

"They're not going to publish the book?" Her heart sank. She could already feel tears well up in her eyes. Another bomb. She'd blown it again. She'd never publish another one. And this one had been so good.

"Kate-" There was an interminable pause as she squeezed her eyes closed and tried to force herself to listen to him. "Today has been a fairly incredible day, love. Parsons closed a deal in New York. And I closed one out here. Your publisher sold your paperback rights, and I sold your movie." Her mouth opened, her eyes filled, and no sound emerged. And then suddenly everything happened at once. Tears, words, confusion, chaos. Her heart was pounding and so was her head.

"Oh my G.o.d." And then she laughed in the midst of it all. "Oh my G.o.d!"

"Kate, you won't remember a thing I tell you, but we'll talk again tomorrow. In fact, we're going to be doing a whole lot of talking in the next weeks and months. Contracts, plans, publicity. Lots of talking. And I think that you should come to Los Angeles so we can celebrate."

"Can't we do it over the phone?" Panic had crept through the elation. What was happening?

"We'll discuss everything later. Anyway, the paperback rights sold for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And"-there was another endless pause-"I sold the movie for one twenty-five. You have to split the paperback money with your publisher fifty-fifty, but that's still one h.e.l.l of a figure."

"Good lord, Stu, that still makes-two twenty-five?" She was dumbstruck. What did it all mean?

"All told, you stand to make three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Not to mention royalties, the exposure, and what this could mean for the future of your career. Baby, this could be a quick ride to success. In fact, I'd say you're already there. Parsons spoke to the hardcover publisher today, and they're upping the second print order to twenty-five thousand copies. For hardcover, that's beautiful."

"They are? It is?"

"Mom, I need a towel!"

"Shut up!"

"Take it easy, Kate."

"Yeah I don't know what to say. I never thought this would happen."

"This is just the beginning."

Oh G.o.d, and then what if someone remembered about Tom? What if someone made the connection between her and what had happened six and a half years ago? What if ...

"Kate?"

"I'm sorry, Stu. I'm just sitting here, trying to absorb it."

"You won't be able to. Just sit there and relax, and we'll talk tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay. And Stu ... I don't know what to say. I ... it just knocks me out ... it's ... you ..."

"Congratulations, Kate."

She blew out a long sigh and grinned at the phone. "Thanks." It took another minute to get to her feet after she hung up, and even begin to gather her thoughts. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Jesus. And what about the rest of it? What did he mean, this was only the beginning? What ...

"Mom!" Oh Lord.

"I'm coming!"

And there, in the bathroom, was the reality of her life. Tygue Harper was sitting in the bathtub with his dog, wearing a cowboy hat, and splas.h.i.+ng three inches of water into the hall.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" She could hardly stand up on the wave of soap and water swis.h.i.+ng under her feet on the bathroom tile. "For chrissake, Tygue!" Anger exploded in her eyes and the boy looked suddenly hurt.

"But I made you a garden!"

"And I sold a movie! I ... oh Tygue ..." She sat down in the river on the bathroom floor, grinning at her son, with tears spilling from her eyes. "I sold a movie!"

"You did?" He looked at her somberly for a moment, as she grinned through her tears and nodded. "Why?"

CHAPTER 8.

"What do you mean it makes sense to you?" It had been three days since the news, and she was on the phone to Felicia for at least the seventeenth time.

"Kate, for chrissake, you're talking about making a fortune. He's not just going to mail those contracts to you. He wants to explain them to you." Felicia was trying to sound soothing, but she was failing dismally. She was too excited to sound anything but elated, and pushy.

"But why here? All these years we've dealt perfectly happily at this distance. And ... oh s.h.i.+t, Licia. I should never have written the d.a.m.n book." She sounded agonized.

"Are you crazy?"

"What if someone finds out? What if there's more of that bulls.h.i.+t that almost drove me nuts six years ago? Do you have any idea what it was like to be constantly hunted by reporters? They lived outside the house, they squeezed into my car with me, Jesus, they practically knocked me down the stairs. Why the h.e.l.l do you think I came down here?"

"I know all that, Kate. But that was a long time ago. It's not news anymore."

"How do you know that? How does anyone? Maybe those maniacs would revive it. What if they found out where Tom was? What would that do to Tygue? Just think of it, Licia!" She paled at the thought, but in her office in San Francisco Felicia was unsympathetically shaking her head.

"You should have thought of that when you wrote the book. The fact is, it's a d.a.m.n good book, and it's a novel, Kate. No one is going to know it's true. Will you please relax for chrissake? You're driving yourself into a frenzy for nothing."

"I won't see Weinberg."

"You're being impossible, dammit." But Kate had already hung up, and was frantically dialing the agency in L.A. He might not have left yet. He said he'd arrive around three. It wasn't quite noon. But his secretary told her he had left an hour before.