Stitch in Snow

Начало книги

'You've got problems, Dana Jane Lovell,' said my friend Mairead, unexpectedly grim. She took the newly finished Arran sweater, size 40, absently running her fingers over the pattern before she placed it with indifferent care on the counter.

'Whatever do you mean?'

Mairead's ugly-attractive face screwed into a grimace of distaste.

'That's the second sweater this month.'

'So?'

'So,' she took me by the upper arm, started me towards the door other tourist boutique, calling over her shoulder, 'Sally, watch the shop. I'll be in the other office.'

She marched me out to the street, ignoring my protests that I did not want a drink at this hour of the morning, and pulled me ruthlessly towards the pub across the little square, her 'other office.'

'Hush yourself, Dana, you've been worrying over Tim again.'

'I am not worried about Tim. At 20 my son is old enough to take care of himself…'

'Which is your problem, because he isn't here for you to take care of.'

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