Disclaimer - ABC own them. No profit. Blah blah.

***

PART ONE

“The artist paints it, because he does not see it; the writer writes it, because he cannot live it.”

*

Late summer in Vermont means you need a light jacket. Grabbing his worn denim one, and his favorite Yankees' cap, he stepped outside and walked to the local post office.

“First class, Mr. Denby?”

It took him a minute to respond, lost in his indecisiveness to let it out of his hands.

“Yeah, first class.” He tentatively pushed the envelope over the worn counter.

Burt, Grand Isle's postmaster for 45 years, smiled. "Another show, am I right?"

"My tenth, but who's counting?"

“You forgot your return address, Mr….”

“I don’t want it on there. Don’t worry, it’ll find its way.”

“You’re the customer. It’s just my job to ask.”

“And I appreciate it, Burt. Just add this to my account, if you will.” Denby looked at the crooked fingers weighing the package.

“Sure thing, Mr. Denby. Have a pleasant day, now, ya hear?”

After Denby left, Burt took a gander at the address, "Hmmm, D. Russell, New York, now just what is Mr. Denby up to?"

*

It had been over two years and this was where he was in his life: sober and searching. The soberness didn’t come that easily, many times having fallen off the wagon. But it did come, much to his relief. It was only then that the search began to fill his empty soul. Knowing he had to leave, he packed his bags and bought a one-way train ticket to Vermont, hiding himself away in a cabin he bought with his meager savings and severance out of New York City.

It was home now, and it provided all the good things he found necessary to soothe his wounds. His life’s ambition, which had ended so wickedly, now became a passion to explore deeper, and he drew upon those past experiences and put them to paper. The skills he had to offer now were wanted and paid for by writers and producers; experts in their fields, but lacking the element of real-life drama, which only Harry Denby could provide. After all, they sought him out for wealth his technical knowledge.

Picking up a bundle of freshly chopped wood, he let himself back in the cabin and lit a warm fire. Inhaling its earthy scent, he made himself comfortable on the thick woven throw in front of the blaze. He wrapped his arms around his bended knees and clasped his hands together. Staring into the flames, Denby’s mind wandered - a dangerous thing for a man who was alone and lonely. The fire’s heat burned the vision into his memory ever deeper, the vision of her face, so lovely, so unforgiving.

*

Diane picked up her mail, walked the stairs to her second floor apartment, and crossed to the roll-top desk. Laying her coat over the chair, she scanned the mail. The lamplight shone on her fine porcelain features, casting a shadow over her already-shadowed eyes. She stared at the padded mailing envelope, addressed to her; it was stamped and mailed from Vermont. Vermont? She recalled a conversation she overheard at the precinct about Denby, how he just up and quit, left the city, but no one knew his whereabouts. It was rumored that he went as far north as Vermont, hoping to find work in a county sheriff’s office, but she wasn’t sure. Denby wouldn’t contact her now; it had been over two years. She opened the envelope, sliding out a videotape, with no indication as to what was on it. How strange, there was nothing else in the package.

Without thinking, she got up, walked over to her VCR, inserted the tape, and hit play.

*

One hour later, she picked up her phone and asked Information for the New York number for NBC Studios. When she was connected, she heard a cheery voice on the other end welcome her.

"I'm calling about a program that I believe is on your network and filmed in New York, it's called Grayson’s Law."

"Yes, that program is filmed entirely in the city. What would you like to know?"

"Well, I'm really interested in the writing staff and if they're based in the city or elsewhere?"

"I'm sorry, Madame, I'm not at liberty to give out any of the writers' personal information. What is this in reference to?"

"I'm a detective with the 1-5 precinct here in Manhattan, and I was curious about one of your writers for this show, his name is, well, he might be on your staff, the name is Harry Denby. Does that name sound familiar?"

Silence. "One moment, please." She put Diane on hold, then picked up a few minutes later.

"Well, since you're a detective at the 1-5, and I know the precinct well since my uncle used to work there many years ago, I'll tell you this, there's no one by that name on the writing staff. However, some writers use pen names."

Diane thought a moment. "Yes, I should have known. Thank you very much for your help."

She quickly rewound the tape a few minutes to the show's credits, pausing when it came to the names. There was a staff of two principle writers, big names that she knew, so she ruled them out. And there were two technical consultants. Jotting down those names, both males, she shut the tape off and sat in silence. Her eyes blurred looking at the names: Jack Casella or Michael Kelly.

Again, she dialed Information. "Yes, Grand Isle, Vermont, please. I'd like the telephone number, but please don't connect me, for a Mr. Harry Denby."

She waited. "No listing. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No, thanks." No listing? Maybe it's unlisted. It just had to be from him. She had never seen the program before, but she knew of its popularity. And this episode had Denby written all over it. That was the clue, no need for a note, but why send it now?

Later that night, she tossed and turned, reflecting back to that time, trying to remember when she lost track of him. Not that she had cared, she hated him for what happened to Jill and the boys -- she hated him for what he had done to himself. He deserved to be suspended, as brilliant as the undercover operation was at the beginning; he let it get out of his control. All because he couldn't resist Don's moneymaking scheme. She never got an explanation or an apology from him; yet, she made sure she stayed away.

The episode detailed a detective's undercover search for the truth, but he ended up taking the fall and suffering the consequences because of his own greed, as did Denby. She jumped out of bed, and ran the tape again and again. She watched it three times before dawn. What now, Diane? If this is from Denby, and I’m almost positive it is, and this is his way of explaining and admitting his mistakes, what now?

*

He knew she must have gotten the tape by now and surely knew it was from him - it had been one month. Regret set in, then satisfaction for actually having the nerve to send it, then regret again -- the story of his life. Well, he told himself, this is the last downswing on this emotional roller coaster I’ve been living. If she doesn’t come, then it wasn’t meant to be.

No one in town knew Denby very well; however, they did know that he had a connection to show business and typed at his computer all day -- something that the folk on "the isle" didn't have a need for. His closest neighbor was two city blocks away, as he often remarked. He still couldn’t lose the city-slang, and many times, the locals found themselves giggling at his references. Just the other day, he told Mr. Jeffries to keep his freakin’ cow dung off of his property. Of course, he was upset because he had stepped in it, but later laughed at how silly it sounded. He was well liked, though, and no one bothered him.

And that was precisely why he chose Grand Isle. Out of the way, secluded, accessible only by bridge or by boarding a ferryboat - car and all. The winters were long and hard and lonely, but refreshing and peaceful - and, because of this, most people didn’t come.

His anxieties were taken out by chopping and hauling firewood, a much-needed commodity in a log cabin. Afterwards, he’d sit and write - a most cherished part of his life now. He never knew he had it in him, but the words were flowing, daily, and he was being well paid for it. The money was plenty to live on, and he never gave them grief, other than to remain anonymous. His pseudonym was chosen in honor of his late father, Jack; Casella, the last name of a childhood crush. And the producers gave him his anonymity, respectfully.

This last script was his story, unbeknownst to anyone else - except Diane. He had to write it, it was his way of explaining for his screw-up. She didn’t want him and, certainly, after all of this time, she may have moved on with her life and forgotten about him. But, they were so impressed with this script, they wanted to give him top-billing as Head Writer, he declined the offer. “Just send me my check, that’s all I want.” So they obliged him, and they took the credit.

The episode was the first run show of the new season, a hit, by Neilsons’ standards. Since then, they were hounding him for more, but he kept them at bay, wanting his space and reminding them of his title of consultant. He wanted to keep it that way. If he chose to give more, he’d let them know. Instead of taking the risk of losing him for good, the producers left him alone, holed up in his cozy cabin in the woods.

*

“So, Diane, are you sure you need a full two-days' vacation? I mean, it’s only been five years since you actually went anywhere?” Andy snidely remarked.

“You’re a riot, Andy. Besides, what do you need me for? Other than a cleavage shot every now and then, am I right?” Diane sassily asked.

“Now who’s the riot?”

“It's just a long weekend. You have my beeper.” She hugged him, planted a kiss on his cheek and whispered, “You’re my best friend, Andy. Don’t ever forget that.”

And, as she left, she stole a glance back at a very proud, and very happy, good friend.

 PART TWO

She clenched the railing, her knuckles turning ghostly white. Not that she was afraid of boats, but more so of its destination. Looking across the majestic, but choppy, Lake Champlain, she lost sight of land for an instant. She didn't tell a soul where she was going, she couldn't even admit to herself what she was doing.

"First time up these parts?" The gentleman next to her asked.

"You can tell?" Diane held her coat collar closed with one hand, and held tight with the other.

"It’s a grand isle, but not in size. Visitors are a dead give away."

Diane was silent. First time for a lot of things, you could say.

"Well, you'll find the Isle small, quaint, and cozy. Staying at the Lakeshore or the Lakeshore?" He laughed.

Diane caught his meaning. "Well, I heard the Lakeshore was a decent place."

“Maggie will take good care of you, she runs the inn.”

The ferry gave a jolt into the landing dock, and it was time all passengers got back in their cars. “It was a pleasure.” Diane turned and walked to her rental.

“Enjoy your stay. The Lakeshore serves the best shepherd’s pie, Maggie’s specialty.”

“Thanks, I’ll give it a try.”

Thankfully, she didn’t share any personal information with this stranger, it would have just figured he’d turn out to be Denby’s neighbor, or something. Grand Isle was small, and that was precisely why she didn't offer any details.

*

She exited the ferry, made two left turns, and was immediately at the inn. Folding the travel map back up, she slipped it into her purse, and went to check in. Sure enough, a woman named Maggie got her settled, and told her what was on the menu that evening for dinner.

“Tonight, pot roast and steamed vegetables, honey. And, tomorrow, our Friday night special, shepherd’s pie.”

“Which I hear is a must.” Diane said. “What time is dinner?”

“Five o’clock, sharp.” Maggie cheerfully said as she turned to lay fresh bath towels on the bed. “Make yourself comfortable, and just press the Intercom button if you need me - we’re quite informal around here; oh, and by the way, call me Maggie.” With that, she left.

*

Quiet. That’s all she heard now. Ringing profusely; beating in her ears. She felt sick. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror at the end of the double bed, she plopped down and stared back at herself.

Two and a half years and, in that time, so many changes. First Jill, then the department shakedown and IA’s investigation, then Fancy left, then Denby left after his eventual suspension -- she was worn out. Explanation enough for getting into a tumultuous relationship that was wrong from the start. But she felt lonely and needed someone; unfortunately, she hadn’t seen it coming.

*

The fax machine woke him up. Eight in the morning, that figures, the city never slept, and that’s who was trying to talk to him right now. He closed his eyes, rolled over and drifted back to sleep, when, finally, the sun shone through the curtains and onto his face. He drew the covers up and tried for a second time to squeeze in one more hour of sleep.

But it never came, it never did. No matter, the day awaited him and he jumped up with a vengeance to begin it with a brisk walk, or jog, down to O’Malley’s for the local papers - and just one New York paper. No need to inundate oneself with daily crime stories when there were certainly enough of them in his own memory. This morning, the weather was a cool 45 degrees, just right for mid October, but soon to be much colder, and Denby decided to just walk.

“Morning’, Mr. Denby,” the young lady tending the counter called. She was the owner’s daughter. He never bothered to actually introduce himself, it seemed folks already knew the newcomer’s name.

He quickly read her Welcome sticker. “Just coffee, and my usual papers…Kathleen.” He saw her smile.

“Out jogging then this morning, are ya, Mr. Denby?” She was freckled and friendly and as Irish as these Vermont hills were green. Do these people ever get pissed off, he wondered?

“Not this morning, but there’s plenty of time left fer that - wouldn’t you be a’greeing with me, Kathleen?” Denby smiled, using his best brogue.

“With the way ya work? I should say not. From what I hear, yer quite the famous writer, aye, famous fer these parts, ya might know.” She looked embarrassed for apparently knowing too much about him.

“Aye, but not as famous as yer sweetbread, I think not, dear Kathleen,” he toyed with her and made her blush. “Might I be havin’ a little this morning, then, somethin’ fer the long road home, aye?”

“Ah! Go on with ya, now, Mr. Denby, yer as sly as the rest o’ them, I’ll tell ya.”

On his way back to the cabin, eating his sweetbread and smiling devilishly, he seemed to not notice the light skip in his walk and how comfortable he was becoming living in his new home town.

*

By mid-morning, Diane was ready to start investigating. Actually, she wasn’t sure exactly how she was going to go about it; what with small-town watchful eyes on every corner, she’d have to be careful. If Denby was here, and she was positive he was, then he’d be fairly well known. Maggie might be a good person to start with; after all, Denby might have stayed here when he first arrived. But she was too nervous to start asking questions just yet. She decided to put some feelers out right now. Walking into the lobby and catching a glimpse of Maggie behind the desk, she walked casually over to the coffee urn and poured herself a steamy cup.

“Sleep well, Miss Russell?” Maggie asked, knowing she was there, but not looking up from her ledger entries.

“Very well. In fact, it was very good, Maggie, the best in a long time, I might add.”

“Winters in Vermont, refreshing, indeed.” Maggie looked up, and removed her eyeglasses. “Some breakfast before you start your day?”

Diane flinched. “My day? Yes, today I’m going to sightsee a little, see the town, I’ve heard so much about Grand Isle…my aunt and uncle were here a few times many years ago.”

Maggie smiled and just listened. “Thinking about moving here then?”

“Oh, no, no. Just some vacation time from work, and I thought I’d…like you said, get some refreshing country air. All that city living, you know.”

“City living, sure, I’ve heard firsthand what that can be like.” Maggie went back to her ledger.

Diane took the opportunity to ask her first question. “Do you get many city people here?”

“A few.”

“Probably just passing through, they wouldn’t be able to adjust to such a slow, ahh, relaxed way of living, would they?” Diane bit her lip.

“Oh, you’d be surprised. We know how to stimulate and invigorate a person’s soul - so much so that there are many New Yorkers who come for a short visit, and wind up staying…for good.” Maggie glanced up over her eyeglasses. “Someone in particular you wanted to know about, Miss Russell?”

“Oh, it’s Diane. Please call me Diane.” She faltered. “And, no, there’s no one in particular, just curious.”

“What’s your line of work, Diane? You look like a businesswoman, smart, good head on your shoulders.” Maggie inquired, rather pointedly.

Oh, Jeeze, now how do I get out of this one?

“Retail, I’m in retail.”

“Retail? As in what, farm equipment? You know, there are a lot of people here who could use a good deal on some hay stackers and…”

“No, no.” She laughed. “Clothes, retail clothing.” This is fast becoming a disaster. “Well, Maggie, I’d better run and let you get back to your work. Thanks for the coffee.” She turned to leave through the front lobby door.

“Shepherd’s pie, tonight, five o’clock sharp!” Maggie yelled; Diane gave a wave and smiled.

Maggie watched her hop into the red Cherokee Jeep and peel out of the parking lot. “Retail?” She said aloud to no one - then noticed it was time to begin her chores.

*

“How do you know who she is and what she’s doing here?” Martha, Maggie’s sister, asked her over a hot stove in the back of the inn.

“Because, my dear, sweet, naïve sister, I snooped.”

“You did not?”

“I most certainly did.”

“When?”

“After she left this morning. I went in to change the linens and give her fresh towels, and just happened to see a brown, leather billfold stashed inside the top drawer of the desk and, well…”

“You didn’t go through it, did you?”

“No. I opened the drawer, and I must have pulled too hard, and it fell, right on the floor, Martha. We really must have the desks replaced, this is an on-going problem.” Maggie stole a sneaky look at her sister.

“You are lying straight through your dentures, Maggie, and I am appalled that you’d try to convince me otherwise.” Martha waited, tapping the soupspoon on the side of the pot. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense!”

“Well, Martha, as I was putting the wallet back in the drawer, I felt a bulky piece of metal through the leather, and I stole a peek inside, and there, to my shock, was a shiny, silver badge. It seems our Miss Diane Russell is a New York City Police Detective.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Well, why is she here? We didn’t do anything wrong, did we?”

“Snap out of it, don’t you get it? Think, Martha. Think.”

“OK. I’m thinking. I’m thinking. I’m thinking that you have way too much time on your hands.”

“No, silly. Mr. Denby.”

“Mr. Denby? You mean that handsome fellow who stayed here a few years’ ago, right before he moved into his cabin over on Pearl? The writer?”

“Yes, the writer who spends all of his time writing police stories for television, Martha.”

“So?”

“So? He used to be a New York City Police Detective, too.”

“Wait. Don’t tell me that you just happened to pull his desk drawer out and find a badge in his wallet? You have got to stop this, Maggie. We’re going to lose the inn one day, for sure.”

“No, Martha, I did not snoop. I know this to be a fact from none other than Burt.”

“Burt? Now how would a postmaster know that?”

“Because, Martha, it seems our Mr. Denby helped Burt’s grandson out of a jam with Officer Hill one night at Doolan’s Pub. And, who better to do that than a big shot city cop. Now, Martha, put that in your size 16 underwear and sit on it!”

PART THREE

Denby picked up the fax that had arrived earlier. It wasn’t a script for his review, after all; instead, it was a report from the investigator that he hired six months ago. Not that he couldn’t find her on his own, he just didn’t have the time. Besides, she wouldn’t want to see him anyway.

It began:

HD: The party you inquired about has been living in Prospect, Kentucky for the past two years. Identities, intact. No contact was made, as you requested. It went on to state the address, and an acknowledgement of receipt of payment. That was it. It was over. The final piece to his puzzle of madness. And, he was relieved.

Jill hadn’t contacted anyone, not even Diane, from what his former partner could find out. He was the only person left of Denby’s life in the city, and he could be trusted. A partner is a partner for life. So he hired this top-notch investigator, who promised results and confidentiality, and that’s all Denby wanted.

He laid the piece of paper down, went outside, and picked up his axe. He started chopping and splitting, his anxiety building. Reading the fax reminded him of Diane. He chopped harder and harder, the sweat dripping off his brow, down his neck to the muscular curve of his lower spine. It was a healthy way of abusing himself now, instead of with the bottle. Besides, he was assured of having plenty of kindling, at least, for the approaching hard winter.

He stopped, very gently laid down the tool, and sat on the front glider. The creek of the chain, and the distant yelp of a neighbor’s bloodhound, was all the peace he needed right now.

*

It was lunchtime before Diane realized that she was absolutely getting nowhere. And fast. She had two more days to find Denby, and she was driving around in circles. Maggie made her nervous, for sure, just a little too skeptical. So, she bolted as fast as she could without a plan. Deciding to make one, she pulled over into a novelty shop parking lot. She put on her sunglasses, and got out of the car. The Green Frog Gift Shoppe, how quaint. First things first, she needed a hat, or cap, something to hide her face.

Browsing the shoppe, she became interested in a variety of souvenirs. She picked up an “I Love Vermont” snow dome for little Theo, and a wind chime with tiny ferryboats swinging effortlessly -- that was for her. Coming across a plain black cap, good color against her own dark curls, she paid, and abruptly left, avoiding any further conversation with the locals. Good lord, these poor people must not be able to wipe their noses without their neighbors seeing them!

Putting on the cap and sunglasses, she made sure every curl was tucked up underneath. She looked at herself in the mirror. Good. Taking the town map out of the glove compartment, she found where she was, and then decided where she was going next. There was her answer: The Grand Isle Post Office. If anyone would have a listing of residents, it would be there.

Finding the post office, she pulled in and walked timidly inside. She felt like vomiting. She was a detective and had done this sort of thing before, but this was different. This was a personal quest and she shook down to her toes. The place was empty, except for her. What is it around here? Do people just leave their businesses wide open?

She closed the door and stopped. Behind the counter was a wall filled with open postal cubbies, listing only numbers, not names. Darn. Just then, a gray-haired gentleman, stout, and wearing horn-rimmed glasses, appeared to her left.

“Well, howdy-do. Can I help you with something?”

Taken back by his loudness, Diane froze. Instantly, she removed her sunglasses to make better eye contact.

“Yes, I’m just passing through. And I was hoping to look up a friend, an old friend, who might be living here.”

“Well, if you have a name, I just might be able to help you out.” He extended his chubby hand to her. “Burt’s the name, know just about everyone on the Isle, too.”

Oh, great! Gulping, she took the plunge, “Well, my friend might be using another name, for business reasons. Either Jack Casella or Michael Kelly.” She held her breath.

Burt thought a minute. Then immediately said, “No, I’d have to say there are no Isle residents who go by those names.”

Diane forged on. “Well, how about Denby, Harry Denby.” Then she went still and thought she’d pass out.

Burt eyed her suspiciously. “Now, what might your business be?”

Diane had struck gold. “An acquaintance. Actually, I have something I need to deliver to him. If you could just tell me his address and point me in the right direction, I’d appreciate it.”

“Now, not so fast. Mr. Denby happens to be a very well respected, famous writer here on the Isle. And I just don’t give out private information to anyone who walks in here. Even if they’re as pretty as you, I might add.” He smiled.

“Denby’s here, then?” She asked hypnotically.

“Of course, he is. But, wouldn’t you already know that, seeing’s that you’re a friend of his?”

“We lost touch, many years ago.” She spoke softly, with a blank stare.

“I see.” Burt was beginning to put two and two together.

“I’m sorry, what did you say a minute ago about a famous writer? What kind of writer?” She waited, holding her breath.

“Mr. Denby is in show business. He writes for a famous television show in New York….” He stopped. He remembered the package more than a month ago. The name D. Russell, he thought it was odd, since it wasn’t among his typical list of city executives he sent packages to - and he had acted strange about not including a return address. Could this be the D. Russell whose name appeared on that package, and just why didn’t Mr. Denby want her to know his address?

“Yes? And could you maybe tell me where he lives?” Diane prompted him further for more information.

“I can’t give out personal information without proper form of identification.” He waited.

“Russell. Diane Russell.” She showed her license, and that was all he needed to know.

*

Furiously editing a submission that was sent two days’ ago, he made his corrections and emailed them back. Then he called the New York office to let them know it was on its way. Any changes the executive producers had, they’d email him back.

He decided to walk down to the corner store and have some lunch. Leaving his cabin, he threw on a heavy parka and his favorite Yankees’ cap. Nope, they could kick the boy out of the city, but some things they couldn’t touch. It was starting to fray, but he’d never let it go.

*

With a map in one hand, and the other on the wheel, Diane found her way to Pearl Street. Before making the turn, she pulled over in a field at the side of the road. She looked at herself in the mirror, hat and sunglasses in place. Then, she casually drove down his street, turned around, and came back the other way. There were few houses on Pearl, and only one cabin, set back furthest from the road. The postmaster said a log cabin on Pearl Street - that’s gotta be it. Well, naturally, Denby would live in something so remote. There was no good way to actually see it. She hunted for the package of peanut butter crackers and a can of Coke she grabbed on the way out of the novelty shoppe. It’ll have to do until Maggie’s pie at five.

Now that she knew where he lived, she breathed a sigh of relief. What an odd place for a person like Denby to live; yet, it wasn’t. And that’s exactly why he chose it, now she knew. The opposite of everything he had in New York, no questions, and just plain, simple folk who genuinely cared about him.

No judgements on character, that was his desire.

He owed nothing to anyone here, except himself.

*

Finishing his lunch, he paid and left, wanting to get a long walk in before he started thinking about the Jill information. Kirkendall, how did you end up in Prospect, Kentucky? Secluded and away from Don, that’s for sure.

He turned to walk in the other direction of home, since he wanted to stop by the post office. He looked at his watch, Burt would be locking up soon.

*

Giving up, Diane went back to the Inn, took some aspirin and lay down. She flipped on the weather channel and saw that it was expected to hit the teens tonight, but rise again by noon tomorrow. She had one coat with her, and it was not a very heavy one. But it would have to do. She scanned the channels for local news but must have fallen asleep, for her watch alarm beeped and she jumped. Almost five o’clock, better get over to the dining room or Maggie will have me hog-tied for the entire town to see.

*

He saw Burt starting to close up.

“Anything for me today, Burt?”

“Well, I was just thinking about you, Mr. Denby. Yes, what great timing you have.”

“More work from New York, then?”

“Oh, a couple of large envelopes, scripts, I’d say. And something else that was too big actually for any mail slot I might have.”

Denby looked at him questioningly. “And what would that be, Burt?”

“Now, Mr. Denby, don’t go jumping to conclusions or anything that I don’t mind my own business, because I do, but I check every piece of mail that goes out of this post office, as well as every piece that comes in. So…”

“Burt, what is it?”

“So, when you had me mail that little package last month without a return address, I’m certain you recall which package I’m referring to. Well, I noted the name and address of the person you were sending it to, and I couldn’t help but think it was odd that it was not one of your usual studio names. In fact, it was a D. Russell, who…”

“Burt, it’s OK if you looked at who it was going to. Just tell me what you’re trying to say.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I know all about D. Russell.”

“What?”

“D. Russell is a woman. And she’s right here on the Isle.”

Denby stopped breathing. He put his hands on Burt’s shoulders.

“Please, Mr. Denby. Don’t hurt me! I promise I won’t snoop anymore at your mail…”

“No, Burt, it’s alright. It’s fine. I can’t believe what you just said.”

“What’s the matter, Mr. Denby? Did I do something wrong? Should I have not told her anything?”

“When was she here? What did you tell her, Burt? Try to remember everything.”

“I…I think I might have told her where you lived, I’m sorry.”

Denby stepped back, put his hand on the back of his neck, and felt his pulse beating wildly.

“Burt, calm down. Everything is fine. Take a deep breath and just start from the beginning.”

“It was a little after lunchtime, and this woman walks into the office here, sunglasses and dark cap. Said she was just passing through and wanted to look up an old friend, said she had to deliver something to him, yes, that’s what she said.”

“Go on, Burt.”

“Well, she first mentioned two names that I’d never heard before. Then, she mentioned you, and that’s when I got wary of giving any details to a stranger.”

“It’s OK, just continue.”

“She kept asking for your address. Well, finally I gave it to her, after she showed me her identification.”

“She did?”

“Yes, and there was the same name I had seen on your package to New York, D. Russell.”

*

 PART FOUR

“Well, Maggie, that was absolutely the best shepherd’s pie I’ve ever had.” Diane daintily wiped her mouth. Not that I’ve ever tasted it in my life. This woman, for some reason, intimidated her. Maybe it was her breathing over her shoulder while she ate that had something to do with it.

“Diane, I’d like you to meet my sister, Martha. She runs the Inn with me.”

“Nice to meet you. My sister has told me so much about you.” Martha felt Maggie’s foot kick her in the shin.

“Martha just loves to hear all about our visitors on the Isle, don’t you sister, dear?” Maggie coldly stared through her.

“Of course, especially when they’re as young and beautiful as you, Miss Russell. It is Miss, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, it is.” Diane tried to wedge her chair back and get out from between these two. “And it is just as lovely to meet you, Martha.”

“Oh, you’re leaving so soon? You must sit and have a piece of Martha’s homemade peach pie and a nice scoop of vanilla ice cream…”

“Really, I couldn’t eat another bite. But maybe later, a nightcap, perhaps.” Diane managed to stand up.

“Well, dear, that sounds just fine. We’ll be waiting for you then.” Martha sweetly said, and watched Diane back out of the dining room.

*

“Now, look what you did, Martha. You scared her off by making her think that we were talking about her.”

“Well, we were. All that dog-gone snooping and oh, dear, I just don’t like it when you start fiddling around in other people’s stuff.”

“Relax.”

“How can I relax, Maggie? Besides, you have the biggest feet on Grand Isle, you dang near broke my leg.”

“Don’t worry so much, sister. Besides, she has other things on her mind right now.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Martha, if there’s one thing I do learn from being so nosy is that you get to know a person. And our darling detective from the city is not just here for some rest and relaxation. No, sir-re, my guess is that she’s here to meet up with our handsome, Mr. Denby.”

*

By the time Denby got back to his cabin, he was walking on air. He was also a bag full of nerves. Diane was here, in Vermont, here on the Isle? It was too good to be true. He didn’t actually believe it, but Burt seemed accurate in his description and there was no way he could have made it up. How many D. Russells would be looking for him on Grand Isle? Only one.

Throwing the mail on his desk, he quickly took a hot shower. No time to shave, so he threw on a pair of jeans and a brown corduroy work shirt. Stopping in front of his door mirror, he looked at himself - he felt like he was going on a first date. He dropped his arms and let them hang by his side. What are you doing? Do you even know what you’re doing and where you’re going?

Well, he had to do something. His energy level was soaring and he had to find her.

*

Diane left the dining room, and went back to her room. Freshening up, she decided to take a ride over by Pearl Street. The darkness would be her shield. Turning to put her coat back on, there was a knock at the door.

If this is Maggie delivering peach pie on a serving tray, I’ll croak. “Maggie, I’m just on my way out and I’ll…”

But she didn’t get to finish. Upon opening the door, there stood Denby.

*

"Denby!"

He looked at her with a longing that he knew must be written all over his face. He looked so hard at her it hurt. “Going someplace?”

Scratching her forehead, she turned to walk back in the room. “Not now.”

He stayed put on the doorstep. When she looked around for him, he still hadn't moved. “May I?”

“Yes, come in.”

He shut the door behind him, hands in the pockets of his jeans, and just leaned against the door, staring at her. And she at him. She couldn’t take her eyes away. Was he always this handsome? And eyes so blue?

“You found me.”

“You wanted me to, didn’t you, Denby?”

“Yes, and I knew you would.”

"And I won't ask how you found me, this being a one-Inn Isle."

He smiled.

She looked down at the floor, and bit her lip.

“This is very awkward and needs some explaining.” He saw her look up. “This may not be the Ritz-Carleton, but I’m sure Maggie could rustle us up some coffee.”

“In that dining room over there?” She snapped.

"That would be where they serve coffee, at least from what I can remember.”

Without speaking another word, she grabbed her purse, and shot over to the door. Stepping aside for her, she instructed him with a short, “Fine. Let’s go, then. Anything so Maggie and her sister will have something to talk about tomorrow morning.”

Denby bowed his head, “After you.”

*

The dining room at the Inn was empty, except for Maggie and Martha. The snoop sisters, Diane thought, a smile at the corner of her mouth, which Denby didn’t miss.

“Something I said?”

“No. Something I just said -- to myself.”

He steered her over to the small table by the fire. “Best seat at the Inn.”

Denby went to help Diane off with her coat and pull her chair out; she let him. He glanced up over to the kitchen door, spotting two white-haired heads peering through the glass at them. He bent to whisper in Diane’s ear, which just added fuel to their fire, and a tingle down her side. “We’ve got an audience.”

"This whole town is an audience.”

He sat across from her and waited for Maggie to make an appearance, which took her all of two seconds.

“Well, good evening, now, Mr. Denby and Miss Russell. What a pleasant surprise.” Maggie was in a spin and the words were flying. “I’ll bet that cold night air brought you both in here for some of our famous peach pie, now tell me. May I get you a little something, a cup of coffee, perhaps?”

“Maggie, my darling.” Denby stood and planted a kiss on her flushed cheek.

“Now, go on with you, Mr. Denby…” Maggie began, getting more flustered and pleased with the attention.

Just then, Martha appeared at his side. “Did you forget someone, Mr. Denby?” And he planted one on her, too.

I’m in Cabot Cove and these two old ladies are the Jessica Fletcher Twins! Diane thought. Next, they’ll be pulling up a chair, wanting to hear war stories from Denby, which I’m sure he’ll relish in sharing with them.

“Fancy you two knowing each other.” Maggie sneakily looked at Martha.

Denby looked at Diane, who wasn’t saying a word. “We’re, ah, we used to work together.”

Maggie eyed Martha with a look of I told you so! Martha spoke first, “Well, then, let’s get busy in the kitchen. Two coffees, is it?”

“Please, and some of your delicious peach pie, Martha darling.” Denby’s flattery was getting him everywhere.

They left and suddenly the small room was too quiet. Diane’s eyes fell upon the roaring fireplace, and the crackling of the wood lulled her to stare even harder. She felt like she was in another time and place, and it was hard to believe that this kind of life existed only a few short hours by car from the bustling city life she knew so well.

She felt his eyes and turned. He said nothing, he just looked at her, the flames casting shadows of red and orange over her cheekbones, and the mouth that he so desperately wanted to touch, again.

He got up then to stoke the fire, and she watched his hands. How rough they’d become; once pale and smooth from paperwork and cases, now callused and hardened from winter and firewood. The contrast between the old Denby and this new one was mesmerizing. She wouldn’t have thought it possible.

When he seated himself across from her, he began. "So, about the tape, Diane."

"Which was quite specific in character, I must say."

"As intended."

"Your way of admitting your mistakes?"

"My only way."

"Why not just write a letter?"

"Less of an impact, I guess."

"So, you opted for the act of grandeur instead."

"It's what I do now, Diane. And it's what I know how to do best." He waited.

"Well, you're a lucky man, Denby."

He looked into the fire, then back to her. "Not entirely."

She let it go.

*

“What are they doing now, Maggie?”

“I thought you didn’t like snooping, Martha?”

“Well, just let me do all the work here, why don’t you? The least you could do is pour the coffees. But no, leave it all to me, and I get to miss what’s happening.” Martha finished their tray and was ready to bring it out.

“Let’s step on it, sister, I need to get out there, I just know I’m missing something good. That girl looks like she’s getting an earful of an apology from Mr. Denby, I’ll tell you.”

“Oh, my. I don’t think I have the strength to carry this out, Maggie. I’m all nerves. I’ll be needing my snifter of brandy a little early, I do believe.”

*

In a flash, Maggie had the coffees and pies served. And, it was much later on that evening, when she realized that neither of them touched a thing on their plates.

*

He walked her to her room. “I’d like to show you my little town.”

“It probably is your town, Denby. You’ve made quite an impression.”

He took her room key, momentarily touching her hand and leaving it there.

“I’m leaving Sunday.” Diane looked up into his eyes.

“I’ll pick you up at 9:00 tomorrow morning.”

Opening the door for her, he swung it open, and watched her go in.

“Good night, Denby.”

*

 PART FIVE

Denby was never late. Even when he screwed up a lot, he was punctual about it. As it was the next morning when he knocked on Diane’s room at precisely 8:55.

“You might want to bring a heavier coat,” he said, noticing that the black, hip-length suede wasn’t going to cut it, especially where he wanted to take her.

“You’re looking at it, I’m afraid.”

He smiled. “Come on. We’ll think of something.” He opened the door of his pickup for her and helped her step up into it.

Coming around the other side, Denby hopped in, and quickly shifted to fifth gear on the open road.

“Where are we going?” Diane asked.

“The border.”

“What border?”

“Canada.”

Within an hour, they were in Quebec, right over the New York State line. Diane never realized it was practically in Denby’s backyard. He showed her the countryside -- beautiful land and quiet rolling hills. Denby threw a few French phrases at the boarder guards, and she wondered just how much time he’d actually spent in this foreign country.

They stopped for lunch, and he ordered for them, in French. She didn’t know what the entrée would turn out to be but, much to her surprise, it was a good, old American cheddar burger with fries.

He decided to take advantage of the lull in conversation.

“Anyone in your life now, Diane?” He didn’t look at her right away, keeping his eyes on his half-eaten burger.

She answered automatically. “There was.”

Denby looked up quickly to see her downcast eyes. “Was?”

She looked up through her lashes at him but gave no answer.

“What happened to him?”

“He turned out to have other interests.”

“Like what?” he said, grinning. “Coin collecting?”

“Other women.”

His grin faded. “What a fool,” he said slowly, in a voice she didn’t know.

*

On the drive home, Denby told her about his chance of a lifetime writing for television. An old friend made the connection, not that he had many left in the city, but one who owed him. This friend put Denby in touch with a New York producer. From there, he met with the head writers of the show, and submitted samples of his stories. They were impressed. And he didn’t ask for much in return, salary wise. All he wanted from them was to be left alone, and they suggested he use another name.

“So, which is it, Casella or Kelly?” Diane asked.

“Not many people bother reading the credits, Diane.”

“You knew I would.”

“Casella.” He smiled to himself. “How many times did you rewind?”

“Several.” She blushed.

He reached in the back and grabbed a soft, lambswool blanket. He placed it on her lap. “That jacket is cute, Diane, but it wasn’t made for this part of the country.”

She gladly took it.

*

It was late afternoon by the time they got back to the Isle.

“Now what, Denby? Another evening with Martha and Maggie?”

“Diane, they both took good care of me when I first arrived.”

“They’re a funny pair of old biddies, Denby.”

“Besides, I stayed at the Inn for two months before my cabin was finished.”

“A city boy in a country cabin, doesn’t go quite hand-in-hand.”

“You’d be surprised. Would you like to see it?”

“Does it have heat?” She shivered under the blanket, and she caught his devilish grin.

*

The cabin was not what Diane expected. Denby’s home was small but warm, stark but homey, and she was more than impressed - she found it endearing. And all male. Nothing on the windows but cotton panels. On one side of the cabin was a large sofa with throw pillows, and next to it one lonely, over-stuffed chair. And one very large fireplace. The hardwood floors were bare, except for one throw in front of the hearth, and another by the front door. The hallway leading down to the bedrooms and bath was dark, and she purposely steered clear of asking for a tour of that end of the cabin.

“When I stayed at the Inn, the floors were being refinished and new windows and insulation put in. The winters in Vermont, Diane, are not very friendly.” Denby walked behind the kitchen counter, which overlooked the living area and turned on a wall switch. “I can make coffee, or I’m afraid all I have is soda or water.”

“Just water, please.” Diane aimlessly wandered, and Denby watched her. She ran a hand over one of his end tables, straightened a pillow, and looked out the side window at the growing woodpile. Inspecting, he thought, but not realizing it. And he found it charming that she’d take an interest.

He handed her the glass of water, and walked down the hall to what must be his bedroom or an office.

“My office, Diane.” And waited for her to follow.

“The talented, Mr. Denby, is it?” she asked, taking in the small, overcrowded room of books, cabinets, papers, fax machine, computer, and television.

She read aloud the wood-carved sign on the wall over his desk:

“The artist paints it, because he does not see it; the writer writes it, because he cannot live it.” She looked at him then -- and he knew she understood its meaning.

She watched him walk to the fax machine, and pick up a piece of paper.

“This is for you."

She took the sheet and followed him out to the living room. She watched him walk outside with no coat and pick up the wood axe. He beat away at the logs of wood, one long continuous swing after another, not stopping, not breathing, it appeared. When he finally stopped, she looked up from reading the paper, and blankly stared at him through the window. He then began swinging and splitting again and again, as though to block out her reaction.

She folded the paper and put it inside the pocket of her jeans. He came in and went right to building a fire, not looking at her. He crouched in front of the hearth, shirtsleeves rolled up. Her eyes skittered away from the thick black hair on his forearms. When he had the fire blazing, he stood, dusting his hands off with satisfaction.

They stood facing each other, neither speaking a word.

"I waited two years for something, anything, from her." Tears brimmed her long lashes.

"She didn't want to be found, Diane."

"You found her."

"I hired someone."

She felt a sense of relief, but also helplessness. What was he trying to do, fix every mistake he ever made? If so, she was too confused right now to sort it all out. She had nothing but bitterness in her heart for over two years, and now he wanted forgiveness, from her. It was all too much.

He ached to touch her; he ached for her.

"I need to go back, Denby."

"To the Inn." But he knew what she meant.

"No, back home. Where I belong."

He lost. Where you belong, and I don't, anymore.

*

He tried one more time, the next morning, when he knocked on her door at the Inn. She didn't answer. He ran over to the office to ask Maggie.

“You just missed her, checked out about ten minutes ago.” Maggie said.

He jumped into his pickup truck - he knew where she’d be.

“The poor lad.” Maggie later remarked to her sister.

“Who?” Martha asked.

“Mr. Denby, that’s who. You should have seen the disappointment, Martha. If you ask me, that girl should have stayed in the big city.”

“If she’d done that, you wouldn’t have had any fun snooping for the past three days, now would you?”

“Martha, maybe you ought to get an early start on happy hour. Feel free to pour yourself a snifter, and one for me, too, while you’re at it!”

*

 PART SIX

Denby parked his truck and ran over to the ferry

“I’m looking for someone who might be crossing.” His eyes searched for the red Jeep rental with New York plates.

Walking up the ramp, he stopped and saw the truck, then he saw Diane.

She was standing alone, up on the top level, both arms resting on the railing. She was wearing that silly black jacket that wasn’t worth a dam, and he stopped to just look at her. She was all he ever wanted, and now she was leaving him.

Something made her look down to the lower deck, their eyes locked. One step at a time, he walked up to meet her.

“Are you looking for me?” Diane spoke first.

“I am.”

She wrapped her arms around her to stop the shivering. Her cheeks were as red as apples, and her hair was blowing wild.

“Don’t you have a few trees to chop down, Denby, or a script to write?”

He couldn’t think of what to say to her. She made it plain last night that she wanted to go home, and that’s where she belonged.

“Diane, about finding Jill. If that wasn’t the right thing to do, I’m sorry.” He ran his hand through his hair, and stared across the lake. “I don’t want you to leave.”

She looked up into his eyes, so blue; they almost matched the blue of the lake. The ferry horn blasted.

“Denby, you’d better go.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Diane.”

"I'm thinking that it’s time I called my partner. Now, go, before you get stuck on this ferry.”

He backed away, but never took his eyes off of her. “Vermont,” he called, “in December. It’s worth a visit.”

She watched him walk away, down the ramp, and onto the landing dock, and he didn’t move. He stayed there, she knew he would, for a very long time, until each watched the other grow smaller and smaller - out of sight and out of reach.

*

Diane had been back in the city only a few short weeks, and she felt as though she’d never left. Case after case, long hours, missed meals, but it was a regimen that she poured herself back into quite diligently.

She had given the snow dome to Theo and, according to Andy, he slept with it every night - hoping that when he awoke, there’d be snow out his window.

She wasted no time calling Jill upon her return. The information Denby had given her proved correct, even the unlisted phone number. He must have done his homework, this investigator he hired.

Jill was shocked that Diane had found her but even more so when she learned it was Denby who initiated it. They caught up on each other’s lives, talking for hours, promising to keep in touch.

“I never would have thought he’d resurface, Diane. Especially in such a favorable way.” Jill said.

“Favorable?”

“You have to admit, after more than two years of not showing his face, he reached out big time.”

Her eyes suddenly focused on the ferryboat wind chime, which she had carefully placed over the window in the sitting room.

“Yeah, I guess he did.” Was all she could say.

*

Kathleen had seen him every morning at precisely the same time come into O’Malley’s for his usual coffee and papers.

He never missed a day, never off by a single minute, was he.

He’d jog down, and walk home. No matter the temperature, he’d still make the trip on foot. And so it was how Mr. Denby spent his days since she left.

It was on one of these mornings, while approaching the shoppe, Burt and Maggie were head-to-head at the counter themselves.

“Well, here comes Mr. Denby himself.” Kathleen whispered. “Hush, now!”

He walked in and nodded to Maggie and Burt. Stepping up to the counter, he noticed his cup to go, already filled and waiting for him. He smiled at Kathleen.

“Ah, yer spoilin’ me fer sure, Kathleen.” He picked out his newspapers.

Blushing, she asked. “Might ya be wantin’ a delicious piece of soda bread, this morning, Mr. Denby. Fresh from the oven, now.”

“Well, as sure as the day is long, Kathleen!”

Sipping her tea, Maggie rolled her eyes over to Burt to acknowledge Denby’s flirtatious mood.

“Working hard these days, are you, Mr. Denby?” It was Burt who asked, waiting for the answer he always got.

“Seems so, as you can see by the amount of mail I’ve been getting, Burt.”

“I’ll be seeing you later on, then, one and all.” Burt stood to leave. “Gotta get the place open and running before the mail truck brings the morning delivery.”

He left; Denby right behind him.

“Oh, Kathleen, my dear. He is a sight for sore eyes, now, isn’t he?” Both women watched Denby leave, walking solemnly back down the street towards his cabin.

“Ah, a sight indeed, Maggie. It’s a wonder I get any work done ‘round here, that’s fer sure.” Kathleen sighed.

“A handsome man like that shouldn’t be living all alone up there in that cabin in the woods. No, it just ain’t right.” Maggie shook her head.

“Now what are ya tryin’ to say, Maggie?”

“What I’m saying, Kathleen, is that a man like that needs a woman.”

“Yer not thinkin’ of yerself, now, are ya, Maggie dear?”

They both looked at each other and had a very good laugh.

*

“Just give us your statement, brainless, or you’ll have the pleasure of my fist in your throat.” Andy was not in the mood to interrogate another smart-ass today. It was late, Katie was watching Theo, and he needed to get home.

“Andy, I’ll take over. Why don’t you leave?” It was Diane, who also was exhausted, but willing to relieve Andy.

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Don’t you have to get home, as well?”

“Yeah, I need to get home, Andy, just so I can get up and come back here again in the morning.” She smiled. “Go, now.”

*

She let herself into her apartment, and walked over to the desk. Sitting, she thumbed through the mail, bills and advertisements. Then she glanced down at the answering machine, almost afraid to see it blinking and wishing it was; but it wasn’t. She looked around at the stillness of her life, in this apartment that she had shared with Bobby, so long ago. Nothing moved. Nothing had ever been moved out of its place. It is now as it always had been. She walked over to the mantle, bare -- the wedding picture put away in a safe place, for her eyes only. She brushed her hand across the clean, stark white wood, holding nothing of her life; no reminders of commitments, because there was none.

Taking a shower and grabbing a good book, she curled up on the sofa. Unable to concentrate, she switched on the television, and that’s when she saw the tape.

She had forgotten to return it to Denby. And, when she discovered it was still in her suitcase, she placed it on top of the TV. She touched it, for a moment. No. She would not. Turning on CNN, she threw a quilt over her, and stared blankly at the screen. Her eyes slowly moved to the tape, again.

She went to bed.

*

Denby heard the snap of the switchblade and then felt the pinch of its tip pierce his lower right ribs. It’s over, he thought. And I didn’t even start to live. He fought wildly and struck out into the night, fighting for his last chance.

The sweat poured from his face, down his neck, soaking his tee shirt. He sat up and the cold, night air cooled him down. He was in bed, in his cabin. Instinctively, he ripped off his shirt and touched his right side, no puncture. He got up and turned on the hall light; the saturation was his own sweat, not blood. He walked out to the living room, saw the embers from his evening’s fire, dying slowly. Opening the front door, he stood silently watching the snow fall deeper and thicker, covering his truck, until it was nothing but a dim white ghost.

*

 PART SEVEN

It had been six weeks since Diane had last talked to Jill. She promised she’d call before Thanksgiving, but that came and went. Now, the first week in December, she picked up the phone.

“Did you think I’d forgotten about you?” Diane asked, recognizing Jill’s sleepy voice. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Are you kidding? I’m just getting through my third cup of coffee, Diane, you know how long it takes me to get a jumpstart.”

“Listen, I was thinking of using up my two weeks’ vacation. Hint. Hint.”

“Here in Kentucky?”

“I’d love to see you again, Jill.”

“Same here.”

There was a pause.

“Have you heard from Harry Denby again?” Jill asked.

“No." She stole a glance over to the ferryboat wind chime, hanging so wistfully over her sitting room window. She walked over to it, playfully blew on the suspended vessels, and listened to its tinkling.

They were both silent.

“I think you should go.” Jill boldly said.

“Where?” Diane asked, still staring at the chimes.

“To Vermont, Diane.”

"To see Denby?"

"He did invite you, didn't he?"

"Well, yes, he did."

"And I'm sure he meant it."

"I don't know."

"There's only one way to find out, Diane."

"Do you think I should, Jill?"

"You should."

"Do you know what's up there, Jill? It's an island, a small island, full of biddies, and cow manure, and farm equipment, and ferryboats…” She stepped back from underneath the chimes, away from its aura.

“You know what’s up there, Diane, and it’s worth thinking about.”

*

Later that night, Diane heard the soft clatter of the wind chime. Thinking she had left a window open, she got up. As though beckoning her, she followed its sweetness; and there, with no gentle breeze to lure them on, she stood and wondered just what made them move.

*

“Now, Maggie, don’t get hysterical until I tell you why I’m here.” Diane stood, breathless, in four inches of fresh snow, at the Lakeshore Inn’s guest entrance, having just made the trip in five hours flat, ferry crossing and all.

“My dear. Please come in before you catch your death.”

“I need your help, and you’re the only person who has the means to do it. Now, get me a cup of hot tea, and a roaring fire, and you’ll be ready to roll.”

*

“Are you sure you don’t mind, Maggie? You’ll be losing an evening’s worth of business.” Diane was chewing profusely on her lower lip.

“Not to worry, my dear. We’re slow this time of year, anyway.”

"Now, tell me again what he said, Martha?” Diane tapped her fingers nervously.

“He said he’ll be over at 7:00 tonight, which is a few hours from now, dear.” Martha sweetly whispered to Diane, while shoving the roast into the oven.

“And you didn’t slip and tell him I was here?”

“My word, Miss Russell! Of course I didn’t. My lips aren’t loose cannons, I should say.” Martha nudged her sister.

“It was difficult, Martha, I agree, but I kept my word.”

“OK, good, I’m going back to my room to get ready. Are you sure he believes the story you gave him?”

“Go on, dear. Just leave everything to us.” Maggie and Martha shooed Diane out of the kitchen.

*

“Martha, you know I saw all of this coming, what with having the girl stay at the Inn, and all.” Maggie said, setting up the small table by the fireplace. “Yes, I just knew she was here for something other than rest and relaxation, and now, for sure, she won’t getting any of that!” She surveyed the crisp white tablecloth and napkins.

“Maggie. Don’t be crass!”

“It’s true, Martha. That Mr. Denby has been alone too long up in that cabin…”

“Sshh!! You’re turning me all shades of crimson!”

“Indeed, I saw it all coming.” Everything looked perfect.

“Of course, you did, Maggie. You saw it all coming because you can’t keep your nose out of anyone else’s business, that is.” Martha reprimanded her sister.

“And, if I had kept my nose out of it, she wouldn’t have come back asking for my help in the matter, now would she?”

“Well, you have a point there. But from now on, promise me that you’ll keep your mind on Inn business.”

“I’ll not promise a thing to you or anyone else, Martha. Sometimes, these youngsters need a shove in the right direction.”

“And Maggie, my dear, you’ve got the size ten brogans to do it, I’ll vouch for that.”

*

“So what’s the problem with the faucet, Maggie?” Denby arrived at the Inn promptly at seven that evening.

“Oh, Mr. Denby, it’s leaking again, right under the elbow towards the back of main pipe.”

“Now how can you tell that, Maggie? Have you been trying to fix things yourself again?” He looked suspiciously at her and Martha, who were hovering over him under the sink.

“We can’t thank you enough for coming over to help us. We’d have called Jake, but you know how his arthritis has been acting up lately.” Martha rolled her eyes at the heavens for forgiveness.

Denby had a look. “It seems as though the pipe was punctured. Do you know anything about that?” He looked questioningly at their sheepish grins.

“Not a thing, Mr. Denby.” Maggie announced.

“Not a thing, huh? Well, just hand me some of the tape over there, Martha, and I’ll put a temporary seal on it for tonight.”

After washing his hands, he inhaled deeply. “Now what could that be, Martha? Might it be one of your delicious roasts I smell in the oven?”

“It is. And I insist you make yourself comfortable and have a plate.”

“Well, you don’t have to twist my arm.” Denby said, taking a seat right there in the kitchen.

Maggie jumped so fiercely on him that he nearly lost his balance. Grabbing his arm, she steered him over to the swinging doors, Martha on his other arm. “No, no, Mr. Denby. You need to make yourself comfortable, out by the fire, perhaps.”

With one swing, the doors opened, and they pushed him out into the dining room. And, when he looked up, he came to an abrupt halt.

*

Standing in front of the fireplace was Diane. He looked over his shoulder into the kitchen and caught Maggie smiling impishly at him. When he turned back to Diane, she had moved aside to show him the table that had been set for two.

Not speaking a word, he walked slowly over to her.

She was shaking, uncontrollably. “It just occurred to me that I’ve been a big fool,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

He continued to advance toward her, never taking his eyes from her face. “And it just occurred to me that I've been set up." The glow from the firelight illuminated the tiny droplets of fresh snow that danced in her long curls.

“I’ll just leave.”

“Now?”

“In the morning, that is. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Shut up.”

His voice was not harsh or cold, but soft.

“I’m sorry, I should have realized that you might not want to see me.”

“Says you.”

She searched his eyes for a clue as to what he was thinking. He was standing so close she could hardly breathe. The fire behind her was roaring and crackling; but it was the one in front of her that exuded the most heat.

He bent down and kissed her.

She felt something-warm flood through her. And when she opened her eyes, she knew he felt it, too.

He pulled away and looked at her flushed face. “As much as I want to take you back to my cabin, right now, Diane, I'm afraid we can't disappoint the innkeepers."

"And it was all my idea, Denby." He saw her eyes on his mouth.

"It was, was it?"

"Yeah." She licked her lips, staring at his.

"Well, then, I'll have to work on finding my appetite, won't I?"

His mouth; she couldn’t stop herself, so she reached up for more. And he didn't push her away, either.

It had been so long, but more than that, she realized that she felt safe with him. And she realized, too, that she had finally come home.

The End