"Remorseless. It's been delayed."

"Again?"

"It happens all the time."

"Oh, really? Must cost a lot. More money than sense, I suppose, these film people."

Diane wasn't going to give the woman the satisfaction of knowing that the movie would now, in all probability, never be made. Herb Kanter had told her only last week that Gary Cooper had cancer and had been given only a few months to live. Herb asked her to keep this news to herself for the moment because only a few people knew. He claimed he was confident they would be able to recast, but Diane didn't really believe it.

There was a long pause, just the clack of the dishes in the sink and laughter from the TV in the next room.

"Of course, she never got over it," Vera said.

"Sorry, who never got over what?"

"Your mother. When you told Tommy about... you know. It broke her heart."

"Why don't you just say it?"

Auntie Vera turned to stare at her. Her face was flushed with drink.

"Say what?"

"That I killed her. It's obviously what you think."

"Don't be so melodramatic."

"Get out," Diane said quietly.

"What?"

"Put your coat on, take that drunken old fool of a husband with you and just go. Now!"

Not another word was said. When they'd gone, Diane went into the sitting room and slumped on the sofa beside Tommy.

"What happened with Auntie Vera? I heard you arguing."

"Oh, nothing really. I just lost my temper."

"I'm glad they've gone."

"Me too. Give me a hug."

She put her arm around him and he snuggled in close.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too."

For a long time they sat there, staring at the TV. It was some kind of variety show, full of forced Christmas cheer, two men in reindeer suits doing a comic dance routine. It was so alien to how Diane was feeling that it could have been a broadcast from Mars.

The satisfaction of throwing Auntie Vera out of the house was giving way to guilt. But at least the anger had been reassuring. It was the first genuine emotion Diane had felt since learning of her mother's death. All there had been was a vaguely aching void. She hadn't managed to shed a single tear. She tried to tell herself that this was perfectly normal, that she was simply in shock. But she wasn't convinced. The truth that she was slowly being forced to confront was that she had never really loved her mother nor felt loved by her. All she had ever been to the woman was a tiresome problem.

Diane sometimes worried about how this might have affected her. Could an unloved child, she wondered, ever know how to love a child of her own? Perhaps she had been forced to become so intensely selfish, obsessed with her own survival and desire to prove herself of value, that she was incapable of loving. She was certain (or as certain as she imagined one could be in such matters) that what she felt for this other being that she had created, now nestling against her, nine years old but still so small and vulnerable, was a love as true and vivid as any parent could ever feel. Sometimes it was almost too painful to bear. But perhaps that pain was merely guilt dressed in other clothes. Guilt and—the idea so appalled her she could barely name it to herself—pity.

The phone was ringing now in the hallway and she kissed Tommy on the forehead and went out to answer it. The operator asked for her by name and said she had a long-distance call from the United States.

It was Ray. He asked how the funeral had gone and how she was and how Tommy and her father were doing. For weeks, ever since she and Tommy moved out, she had been cold and ungiving with him whenever he called. And he had simply taken it and never complained or stopped calling. But with all that had happened, continuing to punish him seemed petty and wrong. He seemed to sense a thawing.

She told him about their day and realized as she did so how comforting it was to talk with him, to have someone who knew her and listened and supported her. When she told him about throwing Vera out, he laughed.

"That's my girl," he said.

The phrase hung in the ether between them.

"I'd better go," she said at last.

"Okay."

For a moment neither of them spoke.

"I miss you, sugar."

She didn't reply.

"I love you so much."

"Oh, Ray—"

"It's okay. You don't have to say a thing. I just wanted to tell you.... The divorce papers came through."

She didn't know what to say.

"You asked me to let you know," he said, bridging the silence.

"Thank you."

"So, there you go. Say hi to Tommy. And give my condolences to your daddy."

"I will."

She lit a cigarette and stood alone in the kitchen, thinking about Ray. Then she stubbed it out and put on her coat and walked across the back yard to the garage to find her father. The snow had stopped and it was freezing hard. The sky was thick with stars.

He was hunched in a little pool of light over his workbench at the end of the cold, dark tunnel of a garage. He was wearing his headlamp, a magnifying glass clenched in one eye while he delicately painted over the final join of a blue-and-white porcelain vase. She stood beside him, watching, hugging herself against the cold.

"Everybody gone?" he said, without looking up.

"Yes."

"Thank God for that."

It had been years since she'd watched him work. She'd forgotten how nimble his fingers were. He put down the brush and gently revolved the vase to inspect it. You wouldn't know it had ever been broken.

"That looks good."

"Hmm. Not too bad. It was in seven pieces."

"Daddy?"

He took off his magnifying glass, looked up at her for the first time and saw the tears sliding down her cheeks. He reached out and patted her arm.

"Come on, old girl. No need for that."

"I'm so sorry."

"What on earth for?"

She wiped her eyes but the tears wouldn't stop.

"I don't know. Everything."

He got to his feet and put the headlamp down on the bench then awkwardly took her in his arms. The smell of him, that blend of smoke and soap and mothballed tweed, made her feel like a child again, only deepened the sadness. She sobbed into his shoulder.

"I ruined her life," she said.

"No, no."

He was stroking her hair. His voice a rasping whisper.

"I did."

"No, you didn't. She did that all by herself."