The temperature was in the high teens but as the sun began its ascent it felt far warmer. The snow was typical; light and fluffy and a mere six inches required no more effort than a sweeping motion to blow it away. Dean never ceased to marvel at the difference of high mountain snow from the heavy, wet precipitation of the East and the endless problems it caused with man and auto. The town of Ouray was so oblivious to these frequent winter gifts from Mother Nature that snow caused not a hitch in the local activities. School was never so much as delayed. Most locals maneuvered their jeeps, Subarus or pickup trucks on the sparsely traveled roads with little notice of the winter deposits. It was business as usual. Besides, by noon the sun would have cleared all but the most shaded roadways. And, if practice makes perfect, Ouray, blessed with a beautiful but long winter season, gave its citizens ample opportunity to do just that.
By the time Dean finished shoveling, Edith Shipton was seated alone in the dining room eating her breakfast while Donnie and Fred were poring over the Annie Quincy letters and notebook in the parlor. There was no luggage standing by to indicate an imminent departure. Edith was as nervous as the prior evening, glancing across the hall at her son, as if danger lurked in every corner of Bird Song. Cynthia was busy feeding linens into the insatiable washing machine. As Dean took off his overcoat, Janet O'Brien and her young niece Martha arrived. Both had matched missing buttons on their worn winter coats.
Dean often thought if Janet O'Brien were pushing a grocery cart containing all of her belongings, she wouldn't seem out of place. Her dress was a half a step above the rag she used to polish the furniture and her hair had longer roots than Elmer Fudd's garden. She was a no nonsense woman in her thirties, time-worn to a mid-forties look, at best a five-beer take-home from an otherwise empty closing-time bar. She said almost nothing. A lengthy conversation was two grunts instead of one.
The unemployment rate in Ouray was one-point-four. Dean wondered why he kept getting stuck with the point-fours. You'd never see Janet on a TV quiz show yet the woman showed up for work, most of the time, complained infrequently, and, except for mandatory cigarette breaks, worked like a sled dog on short rations. Most importantly, because she'd burned her bridges with every other domestic job in town, Janet was available. Her presence reduced Cynthia's domestic chores and eliminated the need for Dean and Fred to pick up more than the occasional dust rag.