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time. Mark admired her for it, and the work that resulted from it had made her famous.
    “I’ll be fine,” she reassured him, and sounded as though she meant it.
    After they hung up, she lit candles, turned off the lights, and sat looking at the snow falling outside, through her big windows without curtains. She loved the light, and had never bothered to put up shades. The streetlamps lit up the room along with the candles, and she was lying on the couch, observing the winter scene, when the phone rang again. She couldn’t imagine who it would be, on the night before Christmas Eve. Her phone only rang during business hours, and it was always about work. When she picked it up, the voice was unfamiliar to her.
    “Hope?”
    “Yes.” She waited to hear who it was.
    “It’s Finn. I called to make sure you got back okay. I hear there’s a blizzard in New York.” His voice sounded warm and friendly, and the call was a pleasant surprise.
    “There is,” she confirmed about the blizzard. “I walked from the Metropolitan Museum all the way downtown to SoHo. I loved it.”
    “You’re a hardy soul,” he said, laughing. His voice was deep and smooth in her ears. “You’d do well on the hills where my house is, outside Dublin. You can walk for miles, from village to village. I often do, but not in a blizzard in New York. I tried to call my publisher today, and they were closed.”
    “Everyone is, for the holidays by now anyway, even without the snow.”
    “And what are you doing for Christmas, Hope?” It was obvious she wasn’t going to the Cape now, with a blizzard in New York.
    “I’ll probably float around, and take some pictures. I have a few ideas. And I want to look at your shoot, and start working on it.”
    “Isn’t there someone you want to spend the holiday with?” He sounded sad for her.
    “No. I enjoy spending it on my own.” It wasn’t entirely true, but it was the way things were. She had learned to accept that, from the monks in Tibet and in the ashram. “It’s just another day. How’s your son?” she asked, changing the subject.
    “He’s fine. He’s out for dinner with a friend.” She realized as she glanced at her watch that it was eleven o’clock at night in London, and it made her think of the pleasant evening they had spent together.
    “He’s leaving for Switzerland in two days. I’m getting short shrift this time. That’s what twenty-year-olds are like. I can’t blame him. I did the same thing at his age. You couldn’t have paid me to spend time with my parents then. He’s a lot nicer than I was. His girlfriend is flying in tomorrow, and at least I’ll have Christmas with them, before they leave that night.”
    “What will you do then?” she asked, curious about him. In some ways, he seemed almost as solitary as she was, although he had a far bigger social life, and a son. But the life he had described in Dublin, when he was writing, was much like hers in her SoHo loft, or at the Cape. Despite their differences in style, they had found they had a lot in common.
    “I’m thinking I’ll go back to Dublin on Christmas night. I have a book to finish, and I’m working on the outline for the new one. And everyone leaves London like a sinking ship for their country houses. I’d rather be in Russborough then.” It was the small town outside Dublin, closest to his house, where he lived. He had told her all about it over dinner. His palatial home was just north of Russborough, where there was another historical Palladian mansion, much like his, only in better shape, he claimed. She was sure his was beautiful too, in spite of its need for restoration. “And you’ll go to the Cape after the blizzard?”
    “Probably in a few days. Although it will be very cold on the ocean, if the storm moves up there, which they say it will. I can wait till the roads are clear at least. But the house will be cozy once I get there.”
    “Well, have a nice Christmas, Hope,” he said kindly,