Patrick nodded at her typewriter, an IBM Selectric II. She'd given up her Olivetti manual years ago, under protest, and had no intention of switching to a computer. "What're you doing?" he asked.

"I'm revising my obituary."

"Aunt Olivia, for God's sake-"

"It's not morbid, Patrick. Not at my age. I intend to have my affairs in order. I don't want to leave that burden to you and the girls."

Patrick had two daughters, Zoe, a law enforcement officer like him but with her grandfather's zest for adventure, and Christina, who was just as rooted on Maine 's southern coast as her father and great-aunt. Their mother had died when they were little girls. Patrick had done a good job raising them. Olivia hadn't bothered trying to replace their mother-she'd never married and didn't really trust her maternal instincts. She thought she was a fairly good great-aunt, though.

"You've had your affairs in order for thirty years," Patrick grumbled.

She glanced at the paper in her typewriter. Olivia West, 101, the author of seventy-two Jennifer Periwinkle novels, died today at her home in Goose Harbor, Maine. It was a sensible first sentence. People tended to think she was already dead. The University of Maine and Bates, Bowdoin and Colby Colleges all offered classes on her work. Her house was on the Goose Harbor walking tour. The town library had an Olivia West Room. In her mind, those were honors more suited to dead people. She knew the local paper kept an obituary of her on file. She'd asked Patrick to get her a copy of it, but he'd refused.

He got up and looked over her shoulder. She was shrunken and white-haired, her fingers gnarled, her veins prominent, her skin brown with age spots-yet she could sit here at her table, where she'd written all her books, and wonder that any time had passed at all.