It was late. The sun was already setting, and the tall mountain peaks were dark and shadowy against a background of dusky-pink, which was punctuated by an occasional twinkling star. The silvery leaves of the trees shimmered beautifully in the moonlight, and birds called to one another in soft, hushed tones, as though afraid to disturb the stillness which was beginning to settle over the world.

Flora Nightswood, a large, matronly woman who was fast-approaching her fifty-fifth birthday, stepped out onto the veranda, wiped her floury hands on her apron, yawned and stretched. Running a motel, practically single-handedly, wasn't an easy task for someone who had 'passed the half-way mark', as she liked to put it. She was looking forward to the day when Gal would be earning so much money that she would be able to give up her job, buy a nice cottage in the country, and settle down with her hobbies and cats. Until then, the dream would keep her going. She was motivated, and what she lacked in physical energy, she made up for in determination.

She felt someone lay a hand on her shoulder. By the strong smell of coffee, she knew that her son had come to join her for a quick coffee-break. She turned and looked into his kindly, consoling face. It was a tired face tonight, but neverthelss, as always, it was etched with a smile.