Sunday, October 20th

I wake early, clear-headed and starving. A Tartish breakfast in the lobby restaurant with Vicki, Stella, Lise and Sal takes care of that. I have once again discovered Sal's presence well into the convention and am once again pissed I did not find out she was there earlier. Because she is a West Coaster, I never get to see her in between and I can not understand her passion for attending panels instead of hanging out in the bar. We once again swear to do more things together at the next Bouchercon -- only this time, I really do mean it, and I am sure she really means it, too. I have come, over the past five days, to really appreciate, more than ever, the people I associate with the fun side of being a writer.

After breakfast, we stand in the lobby saying good-bye to assorted B'conners, help Carol on to the crowded shuttle, swap last minute gossip, foist food on Gary Phillips, and wish it wasn't over -- but feel a little relieved we will soon be back to our dull routines. It really is exhausting. I can not believe it, but for the first time in my life I do believe I am well and truly socially-sated.

Lise and I beg late check-outs from an amiable desk clerk and head out for a Last Supper with the boys. Over Texas barbecue -- at a place near the T.G.I. Friday's that we have promised never to speak of again to Gabriel -- Reed speaks passionately of his love for the cha cha while Gabriel unleashes an uncanny (maybe even other-worldy) Jimmy Stewart imitation. His Zuzu's petals speech from "It's a Wonderful Life" reminds me of the beautiful girl I have waiting for me at home. It suddenly seems impossible that I should be so lucky as to have met such great new friends, yet still have my Zuzu waiting for me at the other end. I experience the first pangs (on this trip, at least) of the all-too-familar push-and-pull of motherhood: I want to go home, I want to stay and have fun; I want to go home, I want to stay and have fun.

It's time to go home.

I discover Laura and Lauren tucked away in a corner of the lobby bar and bid them both farewell. A bookseller sitting with them swears he can't keep my books in stock, but as he keeps calling me "Kathy," I have my doubts about the truth of this statement. It is a fine example of Bouchercon in a nutshell: superficially uplifting, perhaps, but is it at all real? I decide to pay no attention to that man behind the curtain. Tomorrow morning, I'll get up and sit down to work and once again it will just be me and my computer. I have made peace with that reality, I have rubbed enough elbows to last me a good long while, and I am ready to go back and fulfill my part of that particular bargain.

I return the rental car without mishap, then run into Bouchercon people all through the crowded airport. I am just in time to see Jeremy frisked by security. It is nice to see him one last time, even if his arms and legs are spread wide and some stranger is waving a wand around his ass. Fittingly enough, I see Margaret -- my 2002 Bouchercon touchstone -- at one of the distant departure gates talking to a friend. She will be heading straight home a few hours before me and I vow to take a non-stop flight next time around, no matter what the cost.

As I am walking down the long terminal hall, I hear my name called -- and, god help me, there is Lise, sitting right at my gate. They have canceled her flight and she is stuck in Austin for one more night. Since she is incapable of sustaining a bad mood for more than 45 seconds, we decide this is a sign that we really need to sit at the bar and have a few final beers and go through the 125 digital photos I have chosen to keep. This, of course, proves the perfect excuse for discussing everyone shown in the minutest detail. My airline cooperates by delaying my flight for more than an hour. We go through a lot of photos -- and a lot of beers -- in that time. It is the perfect ending to a really perfect wrinkle-in-time, and I don't even mind the long wait that follows in Dallas, where everyone's connections are snarled and tempers are exploding all over the terminal. Instead, I throw my heavy carry-on bags to the ground and slump against a column and close my eyes to escape into a zenlike trance of happiness, exhaustion and longing for home.

I take the faces of my friends with me on the final plane and smile as I remember everything we have said and done and promised. When my plane touches down at Raleigh-Durham, the night sky is clear and the air is warm. I make my way across the parking lot toward my car, breathing in the clean smell of home.

I drive too fast on the way to Durham, since it is well past midnight, no one else is on the road and I know every curve and dip of the highway by heart. I walk in my front door about 2:00 AM and my goofy 90-lb. Lab Boskers goes wild, throwing himself against me, peeing on my foot in ecstasy, flipping over in his excitement, knocking me against the wall and whipping me with his tail. My three cats hear the commotion and come out for a peek. They deign to brush against my ankles in a welcome home salute.

Zuzu is waiting for me in my bed, curled up and fast asleep. I prop the bathroom door open so I can watch her as I brush my teeth. She's done well in my absence: she's really growing up, it seems, and that makes me both proud and sad at the same time.

I turn my back to reach for a towel and a high, piping voice behind me asks in a tone filled with equal parts wonder and doubt: "Momma?"

It is a single word, but it defines everything in the world that is most important to me. All thoughts of Bouchercon and margaritas fade in a heartbeat. I turn around just in time to see Zuzu pop up like a prairie dog from a sea of down comforters. A sleepy smile breaks across her face. "Momma?" she asks again. "Is that you?"

"You bet it is," I say as I jump on the bed and pull her to me. She smells like pickles and peanut butter. We tumble across the pillows, laughing and kissing. It is so good to be home.