Outside, it was a Christmas card. The snow had been falling since midmorning and it was now a little past eleven in the evening. The streetlight showed a white sheet of fine snow coming down, the kind of snow that was deceptive, the kind that covered relentlessly. As she stood at the window, Alice guessed there was now more than a foot of the stuff out there, judging from the way the wind was causing it to drift up against the house. The tops of the shrubbery were still visible, but it would not be long before they, too, were buried in the whiteness. It had been more than an hour since a car had driven past the house, its slow pace proof enough that the driving was treacherous.

Alice pulled the white lace curtain back and craned to see signs of a car coming from the north. None came. She walked back to the sofa and once again picked up the magazine she had leafed through several times this evening. She wasn't worried, she told herself. Nicholas was a good driver, was used to the snow, the car was in good condition, and its tires almost new. There was nothing to be concerned about, of that she was certain. She looked at the clock on the mantle over the fireplace, then at her own watch. It was ll:23. Nicholas had promised to be home by eleven. It wasn't late enough to start pushing the panic button, she mumbled to herself, and tried to smile. She got up again and once more went over to the window. She was standing there, lost in thought, when the telephone rang. She hurried out to the kitchen to answer it.

"Nicholas? Oh, sorry. Yes, this is the Keene residence."

"There's been an accident." The voice on the other end identified itself as belonging to Sergeant Brown of the Ocean City Police Department.

Alice felt her whole body suddenly become stiff, her arm frozen in an awkward position as she pressed the receiver to her ear.

The sergeant verified Nicholas' license plate number, told Alice where the accident had occurred: at the 34th Street bridge, on the Ocean City side. She managed to say that she would be there as soon as she could. In a daze, she grabbed the first jacket she found in the hall closet, threw it over her shoulders and pulled her old red knitted toque down over her hair. She slammed the front door behind her, then ran through the snow to her car. She backed out of the driveway onto Route 9 and headed north. Underneath, she could feel the tires slipping.

Alice drove half-blindly along the road. The headlights bounced off the falling snow, giving her a visibility of no more than a couple of yards in front of her. The tears in her eyes made it even more difficult for her to see. She drove slowly. Several times the car swerved, and she narrowly escaped driving into one of the snowdrifts along the side of the road. She left Ocean View, went through Seaville, Marmora, then turned right (without actually being conscious of making the turn), onto the causeway which led into Ocean City.

That telephone call should never have come. The stupid policeman--everyone knows how dumb they can be, never getting anything right--must have made a mistake. It was the wrong car, the wrong license plate. Later, when Nicholas got home, Alice decided, they would both have a good, long laugh about the whole thing. Then why was she driving in this terrible storm? She couldn't answer her own question. The quiet evening, the beautiful snow, should never have been violated by that cruel telephone call.

The windshield wipers were slowing down. The snow, which had become wet and heavy, was piling up on the glass. She was grateful there were no other cars on the road tonight. "I'm the only one," she said aloud, "crazy enough to be out on a fool's errand on such a night."

Her Ford strained to make the steep incline of the bridge. Alice changed to a lower gear, the better to control the car. It swung from side to side as she reached the top of the bridge. There were several sets of amber flashing lights below. She began the descent down the other side, her mind, every nerve, concentrating only on keeping the car under control. As it skidded, she pulled in the opposite direction and came out of the skid. She finally came to a stop behind one of the three police cars.

On the island, the snow was not quite as deep as on the mainland. The salt air, the warmer air currents, caused the precipitation to fall as rain for most of the day. It was not until late afternoon, after sundown, that it turned into snow and began covering the ground. Alice could still see patches of dune grass here and there along the side of the road.

She got out of the car. The wind whipped her face and she pulled the collar of her light jacket up around her ears. A policeman was standing next to one of the cars.

"You Mrs. Keene?" the officer asked. "You know that car down there?" He pointed towards the water with a pencil stub.

Alice followed the direction in which the policeman was pointing. She could make out, at the water's edge, another police car and several uniformed policemen standing on the strip of beach. They were studying an object protruding from the water. Even from this distance, with very little light shining on it, Alice could make out the silhouette of a large car, a silver Oldsmobile, suspiciously like the one Nicholas owned.

Alice nodded. "He was on his way home. From Atlantic City."

"Drugs? Alcohol?" the policeman, whose voice was unmistakably that of Sergeant Brown, asked without looking up. He was writing with that same pencil stub in a small black book.

"No!" Alice snapped at him. "He didn't drink and never touched drugs. Sorry to disappoint you."

"That's aright," the sergeant said, looked out towards the expanse of bay which spread out before them, and shrugged his shoulders. "We'll probably never find the body, anyway. The undertow along here's pretty strong."

"Body? You haven't found him? Then ... then he could be ... maybe he isn't dead. You told me ... led me to believe that he was dead, but now you tell me there's no body. You don't really know, do you?"

Alice felt sick. The car which was down there, lying on its side in the water, looked exactly like Nicholas'. Now they were telling her, after making her drive here in the blinding snow, that maybe ... maybe.... "Maybe he isn't dead after all," she thought to herself. "Maybe he climbed out of the car and made it to the shore. He could be here, on the bank, a few feet from where we're standing, looking for help, looking for me!"

Sgt. Brown busied himself with his walkie-talkie.

"Have you looked everywhere?" Alice asked him. "Here, on the bank? It's so dark. It's been snowing. He could be lying here someplace, covered with snow, cold, wet. Have you looked for him?" Her voice was reaching the point of hysteria.

"Your husband's not anywhere along here," Sgt. Brown answered. "We looked real careful. We don't overlook things like that. You say he was in A.C. today? What was he doing there? Meet anybody?"

"I'm not sure. I think so." Her voice was nearer to normal. She was searching the surrounding area with her eyes, up and down the embankment, hoping for some signs of movement, tracks of any kind. Two sea gulls stirred near a sewer pipe that fed into the bay. "All I know is he had an appointment to meet someone there. In one of the casinos, I think. I don't know if they met or not."

"What kinda work did he do?"

"He is a writer." Alice resented the use of the past tense.

Another policeman came over and spoke to Sgt. Brown. They walked together down to the water's edge. Alice wanted to follow them, but her feet refused to move. Cold and fear kept her glued to the spot where she was standing. What, she wondered, if Nicholas were still in the car in spite of what the sergeant had said? Alice couldn't bear the thought of going down there to the water, approaching the car, and seeing Nicholas inside, trapped like a terrified animal, his face pressed against the glass and turned towards her, with panic and pain written across it.

Suddenly, the snow changed direction. It had been swirling around her, but it changed its path, moving out towards the bay, leaving an opening down towards the water. With the police car spotlights fixed on it, the car looked like a large silver whale stuck on a sandbar.

Alice spoke aloud, although in a whisper, as though fearing someone might hear her. "How do those damned fools know it's Nicholas' car? The license plate isn't even visible. They could be wrong."

Sgt. Brown walked back up the bank to the road. When he was close, Alice spoke to him: "How do you know whose car that is?"

The policeman stared at Alice and seemed not to hear. He walked on. Alice reached out and pulled on the policeman's sleeve. "I asked you a question," she said, raising her voice and surprising herself at her own boldness.

The sergeant pulled away and turned to another policeman who had followed him. He mumbled something to his partner and smiled. "Now, what was it that you asked?" Sgt. Brown said to Alice.

She repeated her question.

"Because of the license plate, that's how."

"But ... but, it's under water," she protested.

"It wasn't an hour ago when the tide wasn't in so far, and if that damned tow truck don't get here soon, the whole thing'll be under water for sure."

"Look, Sergeant, are you sure? I mean, really sure, that Nicholas isn't in that car? How can you be so positive?"

"No chance. Nobody's in that car. We got a flashlight inside it. Clean as a whistle. Ain't so much as a soda can in that car. Looks like Woodie coming now." He walked away from Alice and waved down a battered tow truck as it approached.

Alice watched as Woodie's truck slowly backed down the slippery bank amid much waving of arms and flashlights and shouts of "More t'left" and "Straight back" and "Whoa, damn it, whoa!" She heard the clanging of metal chains as a hitching bar was attached to the side of the car. The tow truck began its grinding uphill climb from an angle so that the car warbled, slid on the wet sand, rocked sideways several times, and finally righted itself. Alice was freezing. She hugged herself tightly. She was still wondering if Nicholas was wandering about someplace nearby, looking for warmth, looking for her. She wished desperately that she had someone here with her now, someone to talk to, someone to lean against, and tell how much she was hurting inside. Once again, there was shouting coming from down below. The car was slowly sliding up the wet grass as Woodie's tow truck skidded and lost its traction. The climb started over again.

"Tell that drunken sonavabitch to put 'er in low!" Sgt. Brown yelled. Water was pouring out of the car's openings, from the doors, the windows, the underbelly. In the zigzagging yellow lights atop the police cars, Alice got a split-second glimpse of the license plate. She turned away and buried her face in her hands.

"You a'right?" It was Corporal Donnatucci who spoke as he approached. Alice looked up at him. It took a second for her to realize that the corporal was speaking to her. She nodded.

"Get you anything?" the young policeman asked.

"Could I make a phone call? I'd like someone to come here."

"Sure. Where?"

"Ocean City."

"Give me the number. They'll call it in from the station."

Alice gave him the telephone number of Philip Rosen. "Ask him if he can come here. Tell him Alice Keene needs him."

The corporal hurried over to one of the police cars and slid part way onto the front seat. He spoke into the radio. A couple of minutes later, he returned. "Your friend is on his way. Any chance that's Doctor Rosen?"

"You know him?" Alice asked, although she knew she did not care if this policeman knew Philip or not.

"Most people in the city go to him. My mom thinks he's the greatest. I met him last summer in Atlantic City at.... In Atlantic City."

Alice eyed the young policeman. Barely old enough to be on the police force, she thought to herself, but certainly the type to interest Philip. He was short, much shorter than Philip, muscular, with straight black hair and eyes that were such a dark brown, they almost seemed black.

"They'll have the car up on the road in a few minutes." He nodded in the direction of the car which by now was almost level with the road.

Alice did not comment.

"It's hard," Corporal Donnatucci went on. "I guess it is. I never lost anyone ... I've never been that close, I guess, to anyone to...."

Alice appreciated what the corporal was trying to do. Here, in the middle of the night, with the wind blowing and the snow coming down heavily again, with eerie lights flashing against the heavy, pink sky, and sounds of strangers arguing over the right way to extract Nicholas' car from the bay, it was good, she felt, that another human being was trying so hard, however awkwardly, to reach out and tell her he understood, that he knew what it must be like to lose someone.

"Is there anything else I--we can do?"

"You've already helped." Alice tried pathetically to smile.

They stood there, side by side, for several minutes, like two strangers witnessing a tragedy, having nothing left now to share but the silence and the sound of one another's breathing.

Sgt. Brown bellowed, "Hey, 'Tucci, get your ass over here!"

The corporal sprang to attention. Under his breath and without looking at her, he addressed Alice. "You'll be O.K. Philip will be here in a few minutes. Just hang in there."

Alice watched the young policeman run over to the spot where Sgt. Brown was standing. She was no longer conscious of the cold, but was mesmerized by the antics of Herman Woods' Superior Towing Company in the person of its sole proprietor and only employee, the drunken Woodie, maneuvering the silver Oldsmobile onto the road's surface. Alice could still remember the day she and Nicholas went to pick out that car and how excited Nicholas had been, deciding upon the model, choosing the "extras," picking out the color. She was still in the past when she heard the sound of breaks screeching.

Philip Rosen's car came to a halt immediately behind Alice's. He jumped out and ran over. "What hap..? Oh, my God!" He saw Nicholas' car. He put his arms around her.

Alice's tears began to flow, quietly at first, like condensation running down her cheeks, then she could control them no longer. The deluge came.

"Let it all go, Babe," Philip said as he held her tightly. He leaned down and spoke in her ear, "Let the tears come. The world's full of bastards. Someone should shed a tear for someone as wonderful as Nicholas."

"Can you drive me home?" she managed to ask him.

"Of course. That's why I brought Jerry along, in case we needed him." He tilted his head in the direction of his own car where his friend, Jerome Cameroon, was sitting. "He'll take my car. I'll drive yours. C'mon, get in." He opened the door and helped Alice inside. "I'll be with you in a minute." He shut the car door and walked over to where Sgt. Brown and Corporal Donnattucci were. He was there several minutes, then rejoined Alice. "There's nothing more we can do here," he announced as he slid in next to her.

They rode in silence for a while, then Alice spoke. "Something's wrong." She uttered the words slowly.

"I know, I know." Philip reached over and squeezed her hand.

"You don't understand. It's not because Nicholas is ... is missing. It's not that. There's something else, something entirely different, something I can't put my finger on. I know it hasn't all sunk in and that things like this take a while before you realize their full import, but that's not what I'm talking about. I don't understand, and...."

"Of course you don't," Philip assured her. "We never understand, not really. I've been through this so many times with families of my patients who didn't make it. You have to give them time to realize what has taken place and all one can do is wait. Time takes care of everything. Boy, isn't that a crock!"

Alice looked over and studied this friend. Nicholas and she had known Philip ever since they had moved to South Jersey from Philadelphia. They had grown fond of one another. Over the years--what was it now, ten? eleven years?--they had spent so many hours together, the three of them. They had taken vacations together, like the time they went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and Philip met Frank Godden, the movie star and spent the night with him, and Nicholas and she got so panicky, they went to the police and reported him missing; or the time they were in New York and Nicholas got sick on something he ate and she had her pocketbook stolen and Philip broke his big toe when he kicked the radiator in the room he and Jerry were sharing because they couldn't get any heat out of it. Wonderful times, Alice knew. Those are the memories, she was now thinking, that can never be lost, that nothing, no one, can ever destroy. Only their love and fondness for one another made such memories possible. And it now seemed so long ago. At this moment, all Alice cared about was the fact that Philip was with her, sitting next to her, there to understand, Philip the strong one. His patients felt an immediate sense of strength in those hands of his. Like the rest of him, his hands were big. He was only barely six feet tall, but gave the illusion of towering over everyone. His tight curly black hair, the rugged face that blended a firm jaw with a sensuous mouth and gentle, almost femininely large blue eyes, caused many a woman patient to fall in love with him. His gay patients, of whom he had many, even more so. Straight men were equally willing to put themselves into those same competent hands.

Alice was grateful, too, that at this precise moment, Philip was silent. She did not want to hear words. She craved silence.

They turned onto Route 9 and headed south. Alice kept her eyes closed and Philip drove with his attention fixed on the road ahead of them. It was not long before she felt the car slow down, turn right, and come to a stop.

Philip turned off the ignition. He turned and looked at Alice who at this moment looked to him so like a little girl, like his sister Jenifer who had died at the age of twelve, frail and helpless. She opened her gray eyes.

"We're here," he said and got out.

The house stood back from the road, one of the few remaining perfect examples of a South Jersey Victorian farmhouse. Tall and narrow, it had a porch along the front and one side, the pillars of which were decorated with elaborate gingerbread. The windows in the living room which looked out onto the porch ran from floor to ceiling. The second floor was topped with a steeply pitched attic whose roof boasted a peacock weathervane. Everywhere: gingerbread decorated gables, eaves, and windows. In the back, midway between the rear of the house and the woods which lined the property, was an abandoned barn. Inside the house, the rooms were originally many and small, to accommodate a large family. With the advent of two world wars and a depression, the house underwent many renovations, most of which did nothing to improve either its beauty or practicality. Alice and Nicholas bought the house after it had sat empty for more than twenty years. They were still in the process of renovating it twelve years later. The outside, which they finished first, they painted in true Victorian colors: pale greens, blushing pinks, sky blues, and plumb purples. So authentic was it, that Victorian scholars came to admire it; decorators to copy it; architects to study it; and all came, cameras loaded, to photograph it, especially in the spring when the garden on the south side was in full bloom. Tonight, with the snow piling up against the house and drifting on the porch, the house resembled more a little girl, bedecked in her finest dress complete with ruffles, lost in a blizzard.

Alice got out of the car and ran with her head bowed against the wind, up onto the porch. She opened the big front door and she and Philip hurried inside. The warmth of the old house felt inviting as they shut out the storm behind them.

Jerry, driving Philip's car, pulled into the driveway.