I wasn’t due for a paycheck at The Alpine Advocate for another two days. As the newspaper’s editor and publisher, I could have given myself an advance. But that was cheating, which I despised. I’d done it once, with somebody else’s husband, and the price had been high. In this winter of my introspection, I’d finally closed that long-overdue account. Waiting to cross Front Street, I pondered my old sin and my new attitude. The affair twenty-three years ago had given me a son, a broken heart, and a skewed slant on love. The object of my blighted affection was currently separated from his certifiably crazy wife. But divorce wasn’t imminent. Waiting for Tom Cavanaugh to leave Sandra was like winning the lottery—there was always a chance, but the odds were terrible. My patience with Tom had run out. I’d finally exorcised him on New Year’s Eve. He’d called from San Francisco to tell me how much he loved me. I’d said that was nice. Tom was justifiably bewildered. I wished him a Happy New Year and hung up.
