“Oh, I think I do remember you mentioning her. I think I answered the phone that day."

“Could be. Of course, I had you and Steve's mother, Thelma, and didn't need her—didn't even want her, to be truthful. Phyllis was really a virtual stranger to me by that time. But a month or so later, when I was getting back to being able to think and talk a little, she called again and asked if I'd like to bring the children down to their island for a visit. I begged off, and I must have inadvertently given the impression that I couldn't afford to go. Not that I could have afforded it, but that wasn't the reason. So in the next mail there was a registered letter containing four plane tickets."

“You never mentioned that to me! Why didn't you go?"

“I didn't tell you, because I was afraid you'd make me go. I couldn't pull myself together and figure out what to do about the dog and the cats and clothes and stopping the paper. You know what a zombie I was for a while. Besides, I—well, I just didn't want to spread my grief around. The only place I felt I could heal was at home.”

Shelley nodded her understanding.

“I sent the tickets back with the gooiest thank-you I could write," Jane went on. "She returned a heart-breakingly sweet letter, very understanding, saying how she'd been selfish to try to get me there, but she'd missed me so much all those years. Of course, I had to write and offer to have her visit here after all she'd done, or tried to do  for me. To my astonishment, she took me up on it. Not then, but she said she'd like to visit this winter. So, here we are, picking her up. I don't know why she's not visiting Chet's son and his Joannie instead of me. I don't think they're close, but she'd never indicated that they don't get along. Although, as boys, when she and Chet were first married, his sons gave her trouble. One of them—John, I think his name was—was especially close to his father."