Iced Read Free Page B

stay with a friend who was opening a restaurant and inn out there. She and Louis had met three years ago in traffic school in L.A., both having been nailed by the same cop in a speed trap on the Santa Monica Freeway. Rather than get points on their licenses, they had each opted for the choice of attending traffic school, which meant classes run by stand-up comedians. Louis, an occasionally successful dilettante, was a co-founder of the Silver Dollar Flapjack Chain, and he had confided to Regan his dream of someday opening up a restaurant of his own in Colorado.
    Now, at age fifty, Louis had finally achieved his goal. He had sold his house in L.A., invested his last red cent, and had begged and borrowed the rest. His new restaurant was called the Silver Mine, and there would be a kickoff party there on December 29 to benefit the Rescue Aspen’s Past Association.
    While Regan stayed at the Silver Mine, her parents would be the houseguests of Kendra and Sam Wood. Sam was a prominent Broadway producer. Kendra, an actress who had starred in one of Nora’s television movies, was about to make her Broadway debut in Sam’s upcoming production.
    Regan put down her teacup and pulled the requisite multi-colored afghan on the back of the couch around her. She snuggled into the arm of the couch, the only arm around, when the phone began to ring. She picked up the cordless phone next to her, willing her voice to sound bright and holidayish.
    “Hello.”
    “Reilly!”
    “Kit!” It was one of Regan’s best friends. They had met ten years before, in college, when they’d both spent their junior year abroad, at Saint Polycarp’s in Oxford, England. They’d become fast friends when at the first evening meal they’d deemed the cafeteria food unfit for human consumption. Dumping their trays, they headed downtown for spaghetti, which they ended up living on all year. Regan sat up on the couch. “How are things in the land of the insurance policy?”
    “Hartford’s all right. I’m trying to get into the spirit before I head to my parents’ house for dinner.”
    “I don’t suppose you’re nibbling on any of that fruitcake your company sends out?” Regan asked. “Unless of course you keep a power saw in your apartment.”
    “No way. We had about a dozen left over from last year. We sent them out to people who canceled their policies.”
    “So how else are you getting into the spirit?” Regan asked.
    “Well,” Kit sighed. “I bought some mistletoe.”
    “I admire your optimism.”
    “Very funny. You know what we’re heading into, don’t you?” “No. What?” “The start of the Bermuda Triangle. And believe me,
    it’s deadly.”
    Regan frowned. “What are you talking about?”
    “Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day. The three worst holidays for single women. Will you get a present for Christmas, a date for New Year’s, a lone flower on Valentine’s Day?”
    Regan laughed. “I have a feeling that on February fifteenth I’m going to be zero for three.”
    “Why?”
    “Well, I’m sitting here staring at the presents under the tree. Every single one that’s labeled ‘Regan’ has handwriting that looks suspiciously like my mother’s. New Year’s Eve in Aspen should be fun, but I’m sure it’ll be a group affair. But that’s okay. Ever since Guy Lombardo died, New Year’s Eve just hasn’t been the same. Valentine’s Day I don’t want to even think about. Now”—Regan paused slightly for emphasis—“you are coming to Aspen, aren’t you?”
    “I think so.”
    “I think so’s not good enough. I know you’re off next week.”
    “Well, I should go in and clear up some odds and ends before the end of the year.”
    “I thought you sent out all the fruitcake.”
    Kit laughed. “I’ve checked the flights. I’ll probably be there by mid-week.”
    “What do you mean, probably? There isn’t anything else stopping you, is there?”
    Kit hesitated. “No.”
    “What is it? You bought