Silhouette Christmas Stories

A recipe from Kathleen Creighton:

THE PRETTIEST CHRISTMAS COOKIES IN THE WORLD

(and the best tasting, too!)

2 eggs

2 1/2 cups flour

1 cup sugar

3/4 cup butter

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp flavoring (vanilla or lemon, or a combination of

the two)

In a large bowl cream together butter and sugar. Add eggs and flavoring and mix thoroughly. Set aside.

Sift together flour, baking powder and salt. Add to the butter mixture and stir in until well blended.

Cover and chill for 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 375° F.

Roll out dough to 1/8" thickness. Cut into shapes with cookie cutters. (Note: The trick to rolling and cutting these cookies is to use plenty of flour. Don't be too kind to the dough-it's not important anyway.) Place on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake 6 to 8 minutes, until delicately brown. Do not overcook.

Remove from pan and let cool on racks.

What makes these cookies special is what comes next: DECORATING!

To decorate the cookies you'll need:

Frosting-Sorry, I don't have an exact recipe. I just dump a box of powdered sugar into a bowl, add a couple of big spoonfuls of soft butter, a capful of whatever flavoring appeals to me (rum is nice!) and enough milk to make the right spreading consistency, and mix until creamy and smooth.

Colored Sugar-Blue, green, red. If you can't find it at the store in handy little bottles, make your own! Just put a couple drops of food coloring into a couple of teaspoons of sugar and mix with your fingers until evenly distributed and the shade you desire.

flaked coconut

chocolate sprinkles

colored sprinkles

cinnamon imperials (red hots)

tubes of decoration icing (optional)

cocoa (for chocolate frosting for snowmen's hats and

Santa's eyes)

Frost cooled cookies generously with white frosting. Immediately sprinkle with decorations of choice. Work quickly before frosting dries out or the decorations won't stick!

What makes these cookies the Prettiest Christmas Cookies in the World (and the best tasting) is generous use of white frosting. How you decorate is, of course, entirely up to you, but here are a few suggestions: Christmas trees with colored sprinkle ornaments and green sugar leaves, and a red-hot star on top; reindeer with chocolate sprinkles and a red-hot Rudolph nose; snowmen with flaked coconut snow, chocolate hats and red-hot buttons; blue sugar stars and colored sprinkle sparkles. The simple designs are the prettiest.

That's all you need. Put on some Christmas music (Elvis's "Blue Christmas" is great!) and invite friends and neighbors to help. (Eggnog adds a lot to the spirit of the thing.) Oh-one more thing-the secret ingredient: lots of laughter!

Prologue

He first saw the train in the window of Duffy's Pawnshop on the Monday after Thanksgiving. He hadn't noticed it there the week before; Duffy had probably hauled it out and dusted it off in honor of the official opening of the Christmas shopping season.

It looked strange there, out of place among the cameras and gold watches and Swiss army knives-a rusty, worn-out child's toy sitting slightly askew on a section of bent track.

He wondered who in the world would hock a beat-up old electric train.

In any case, from the price on it he figured Duffy was looking to unload it in a hurry, or else he didn't have a clue what collectors were paying for vintage trains these days. Even in the condition this one was in, somebody was bound to snap it up pretty quickly. It would probably be gone by tomorrow.

But that night, for some reason, he thought about the train. He thought about what it must have looked like when it was new-the gleaming black locomotive, with a shiny silver bell and a headlamp that really worked; the yellow cattle car with a loading ramp that folded down, and the green boxcar with doors that slid open and shut; the bright, shiny red caboose. Somebody must have had a lot of fun with that train. A boy, maybe… and his dad, of course. And maybe his mom, too.

Suddenly he could almost see that train chugging 'round and 'round, engine huffing away, wheels whispering smoothly over the track, whistle sounding clear and shrill. He could see a boy-a particular boy- bending over the controls, face intent, breaking now and then into smiles of pure delight. And the boy's mother, watching, with Christmas lights reflecting in her eyes, and in her hair…

Yes, he thought with a secret smile, it would take some work, but with a little bit of help a boy could still have fun with that train.

The next day, although it was out of his way, he went by Duffy's Pawnshop again. He was surprised to see that the train was still there in the window. Surprised, too, to find it looking so battered and forlorn after the vividness of his daydreams.

For just a moment he paused there, with his hand on the glass, seeing in its murky reflection the boy's face once more, alight with joy and wonder. And his mother's, softer but no less radiant.

Then he turned and went into the pawnshop, smiling his secret smile.

Chapter One

"Andrew," Karen Todd said to her son over breakfast, "I have some bad news." She took a fortifying breath and broke it to him. "The mouse is back."

Andrew's eyes shifted from the cereal box he'd been reading and focused on his mother's face over the top of his glasses. "How do you know?"

How like him, she thought, smiling to herself in spite of the multitude of worries that had kept her awake half the night. The Little Professor, she and Bob had called him when presented with that solemn, analytical stare.

"Did you see him?" the boy persisted, looking both fearful and eager.

"Well, no," Karen admitted. "But I found another mess. I had to throw away a whole box of Crispy Oats, a brand-new box I just bought yesterday."

Andrew tilted his head and chewed thoughtfully, staring into space. After a moment, unable to find a loophole on which to base a rebuttal, he shrugged and said, "I really thought scaring him would work. Mice don't like loud noises, you know. Maybe next time, if we-"

"Andrew," Karen interrupted, and took another breath. "I'm sorry, sweetheart." She flinched and braced herself against the stricken look in her son's eyes. "I'm going to have to set a trap."

With false brightness, like someone clutching at straws, he said, "Couldn't you just put everything in the refrigerator, so the mice couldn't get it? Or… or, hey, how's this? We put all the food in jars-you know, glass? And that way-"

"Andrew… "

He gave up then; his lashes fell across his eyes, taking all expression out of his unformed, eight-year-old face. Neatly and methodically he stacked his orange juice glass in his cereal bowl, pushed back his chair and carried both his dishes and the cereal box to the sink- but not before Karen caught the slight but unmistakable quiver in the vicinity of his chin. Love, frustration and helplessness rose in her throat as she watched the little boy rinse his dishes with adult thoroughness and place them in the drainer. The back of his neck looked so slender… so vulnerable.

She went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Honey, I don't like killing them any more than you do. But I just can't have mice in the house, you know that. I explained-"

He shook off her hand and gave an oddly grownup-sounding sigh. "I know, I know. They'll get into the drawers and chew up the clothes to make their nests, and gnaw on the furniture, and it doesn't even belong to us, it belongs to Mrs. Goldrich. And besides that, they go to the bathroom on everything, and they stink." He turned to her suddenly, his eyes bright and hopeful behind his glasses. "Do we have to kill them? Maybe we could get one of those traps, you know, like Cinderella? Sort of like this little cage, where the mouse just goes in and can't get back out. And then we could take it out someplace and turn it loose. Or, hey- I could keep it for a pet! How would that be, Mom? Don't you think that's a good idea?"

Karen pressed a distraught hand to her forehead. "Honey, I don't think they even make mousetraps like that anymore. I wouldn't know where to look." She'd certainly never seen one at the supermarket or the hardware store. Maybe she could ask at the feed store out on Route 7… Oh, how she dreaded disappointing Andrew again, even more than she dreaded the prospect of sitting alone in the long winter evenings after he'd gone to bed, listening for that horrible, lethal SNAP!

In a tone that bordered on desperation, she said, "I'll see what I can find, okay? No promises. Now, you go brush your teeth and get your backpack. Hurry up-it's time to go."

"No, it isn't," Andrew countered matter-of-factly. "It's not even quarter till." He paused, doing the calculations in his head. "We still have… twenty minutes."

"We have to leave early," Karen explained, "so I can drop the car off at Angel's Garage."

Andrew's face lit up. "Cool. Can I go with you? You could walk me to school after."

"Then we'd both be late. Run along now. Scoot." She aimed a gentle swat at the seat of his blue jeans, which he eluded without difficulty.

"Then can I go after school? You could pick me up when you get the car."

"What in the world," Karen inquired with exasperation in her voice, "would you find to do there for two hours?" The subject of her car, and the increasing frequency of its visits to Angel's Garage, was as sore a subject to her as the unwelcome visitor in her kitchen. More so, at the moment.

"Help Tony," said Andrew. He turned in the bathroom doorway to add proudly, "He lets me."

"Well… " Karen said. She coughed and muttered something vague about asking permission, though for the life of her she couldn't understand what her son found so fascinating about that garage and its surly proprietor, Tony D'Angelo. In her opinion, the mouse was more appealing.

Not that the man was repulsive, or anything. Far from it, in fact, which Karen was willing to admit might be at least part of her problem. She had always had trouble dealing in a cool and businesslike manner with men she found physically attractive, and without a doubt, Tony D'Angelo did have more than his share of animal magnetism. He had typically Italian good looks-thick, wavy brown hair and a cleft in his chin, a nose like the ones on old Roman coins, and dark, arresting eyes-looks that were usually described in pulp fiction as "smoldering." But somehow, whenever those beautiful eyes were aimed at her, particularly after surveying the steaming innards of her car for the third time in a month, Karen felt obscurely defensive, as if she were being accused of some particularly unpardonable form of child abuse. The man was often brusque, sometimes to the point of rudeness, and she had to be on guard constantly to keep from being intimidated by his superior attitude-not an easy task, considering she knew absolutely nothing about cars.

She told herself she only went to Angel's Garage because it was the most convenient one, located within walking distance of both her work and Andrew's school, but the truth was that for all his brusqueness, Tony D'Angelo was simply the best mechanic in town. Karen depended on him for her very livelihood. And, what was more, she trusted him.

"Go see Tony D'Angelo-he's as honest as the day is long." She wished she had a day's salary for every time someone had said that to her, beginning with that memorable, baking-hot day last August when she'd arrived in town with her car overheating and wisps of steam beginning to seep ominously from under the hood. "Oh yeah," everyone she'd asked had told her without hesitation, "what you want is Angel's Garage. Tony'll fix you right up, and he won't steer you wrong, either. He's as good-hearted and trustworthy as they come, and a darn good mechanic to boot."

In the three months since, Karen had come to believe in and appreciate the last two attributes of the garage owner's character; of the first she had yet to see any convincing evidence. Why her son seemed to enjoy his company so much, when all he ever did was bark orders at the child, was beyond her.

"What's wrong with the car this time?" Andrew now inquired, shrugging into his backpack and baring his freshly scrubbed teeth for Karen's inspection.

"Nothing, I'm just having it serviced," she said, mentally knocking wood as she brushed traces of toothpaste from her son's chin and tried without noticeable success to flatten his cowlick. "I just want to be sure everything's all set for winter. Everyone's saying it's going to snow next week."

"Cool!" said Andrew with the enthusiasm of a child born and reared in the Southern California sunshine.

Karen just sighed. The thought of something going wrong with her car at any time was a source of nightmares. In the wintertime it was unthinkable.

The car had been a long way from new when she and Bob had bought it, but it had been all they could afford then, as newlyweds. With Bob in the army, it had been primarily Karen's car from the start, and she had always driven it with great pride and proper respect for its venerable age. In another few years, she thought, it might even be considered a classic, although it came from an era not known for distinguished automotive design, and people had been known to break into impolite gales of laughter when she suggested such a possibility.

Still, she was rather fond of the old heap, and in any case, she couldn't afford to replace it even if she'd wanted to. The move had wiped out a good portion of her savings, and the rest had been taken care of by the discovery, during the school's routine vision screening in September, that Andrew had developed nearsightedness and would definitely need glasses. As far as Karen was concerned, Tony D'Angelo's mechanical expertise was all that stood between her and economic disaster. She would forgive him his surliness and put up with his arrogance if he would just-please, God-keep her car running!

"Hey, Mom, what's this?" Andrew asked suddenly as they were leaving their apartment.

Karen, who was struggling with the old-fashioned key and lock, answered absently without turning around, "What's what?"

"Look at this. Somebody must have sent us a present."

"Probably for Mr. Clausen," Karen said, glancing over her shoulder at the large brown box that was sitting on the landing's threadbare carpet, just to one side of the door to their apartment. "The delivery person probably didn't feel like carrying it up those narrow stairs. Just leave it there. Mr. Clausen will see it when he comes back from his morning walk."

"Mom… " Andrew's tone was hushed. "I think it's forme."

"What?"

"Come and look. It has my name on it."

Karen bent over the box, her fingers brushing the letters neatly printed on the top with a black indelible marker. TO: MASTER ANDREW TODD. And that was all. No address, no labels, no return address, no stamps or postage of any kind. "How odd," she murmured.

"Oh boy, somebody sent me a present!" Andrew was already on his knees beside the box, measuring it with his hands. "I wonder what it is. Can I open it? Who do you think it's from?"

"I don't know," Karen said, frowning. "It doesn't say."

"Maybe it's from Santa Claus. Can I open it? Please, Mom, please?"

"Of course you can't open it, not right now." Once again, exasperation was creeping into her voice. Karen didn't like mysteries, and the box disturbed her in ways she didn't understand. "You're going to be late for school, and I'm going to be late for work, if we don't leave right now, this minute."

"Aw, Mom… "

"No arguments! We'll just have to wait until tonight to open it." She was already unlocking the door. "Come on, I'll help you push it inside."

The box was both heavy and bulky; it took both of them to get it through the door and into the apartment. Karen wondered, as she locked up for the second time, how on earth anyone had managed to carry it up the stairs and deposit it at the door without making any noise. And who would send her son a package? It had to be someone local, someone she knew, since there was no address or postage. Who? She knew so few people in town…

"Oh boy!" Andrew was hopping with excitement. "I wonder what it is! Who do you think it's from, huh, Mom?"

"We'll both find out," Karen said firmly, taking him by the hand and starting down the stairs. "Tonight." There would be a card inside, she told herself, determinedly squelching her own curiosity. All would be explained soon enough.

"Maybe it's from Santa!" Andrew was tugging at her hand like an exuberant puppy. "I bet that's why there's no stamps."

"It's a little early for Santa Claus, isn't it?" Karen said mildly, wondering whether an eight-year-old boy who still believed in Santa might be cause for parental concern.

Andrew paused, looking inspired. "Well… " Karen sighed inwardly and braced herself; she knew that tone of voice. "… Everybody else starts Christmas this early, so why shouldn't Santa?"

There was more to the argument, of course, a great deal more, but Karen didn't even try to refute it; her mind was already tuning him out returning to her own more pressing problems and questions.

At the foot of the stairs she hesitated, looking toward the closed door at the end of the hall, wondering of Mrs. Goldrich knew anything about the package Perhaps she had even seen who had delivered it.

But she decided against disturbing her landlady at that hour. They were late already, and besides, she told herself, there would certainly be a card inside the box.

As they were going down the front steps they met Mi Clausen, the elderly gentleman who lived upstairs in the attic of the small, wood frame Victorian, coming back from his morning walk. The cold air had reddened his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and his vapored breath wafted about his head like smoke. A breeze parted his long white beard and lifted a few stray wisps of his hair from his rosy scalp as he swept off his Tyrolean hat in response to their greeting.

"And a good morning to you, Mrs. Todd, young Andrew!" the old man's voice boomed out, as mellow and rich as church bells on a winter morning. His eyes twinkled, as if they beheld delicious secrets. "A beautiful morning! Snow in the air!" He drew a deep breath, expanding his considerable girth as he clapped both hands to his chest. "Yes indeed, snow before the week is out." A large gloved hand intercepted Andrew. "What do you think of that, young man? Do you like snow?"

"Yeah," said Andrew enthusiastically.

The old man laughed and winked sympathetically at Karen, then, with a wave of his cane, proceeded on up the walk.

"I'll bet he sent it," Andrew said in a hoarse whisper as he scrambled across the front seat of the car.

"Why do you think that?" Karen asked, laughing a little, forgetting to scold him for the dusty footprints he was leaving on the driver's seat. Encounters with Mr. Clausen had a strangely revitalizing effect on her, like a brisk breeze.

"I told you," Andrew said, still whispering even though Mr. Clausen had disappeared inside the house and they were now safely enclosed in the car. "I think he's-"

"Andrew!" The car responded to her first attempt to start it in predictable fashion: a cough and then nothing. "That's ridiculous."

"Mom, he looks just like him, and he's even got the same name."

"Andrew… " Karen shook her head and pumped the gas pedal several times before trying the ignition key again.

"Well, he does," Andrew said stubbornly in the ensuing silence.

Karen set her lips firmly and sent up a prayer. This time the engine coughed and sputtered grudgingly to life. She nursed it carefully until it had settled down to a surly growl; then, with a sigh of relief, she backed out of the driveway.

A glance at her son caused her to sigh again, this time with exasperation. What in the world was she going to do about him? He really was too old for these fantasies. Believing in Santa Claus was one thing, but… Mr. Clausen?

Andrew spent entirely too much time reading, she told herself. That was the problem. Reading and watching television. He needed to get outside more. He should be spending more time with other children, playing ball, climbing trees. Karen had originally decided to rent the apartment in the little Victorian because it had such a nice big backyard, with grass to run on and trees to climb. She'd thought it would be a good place for Andrew to play. Now she almost wished she'd taken a place in a crowded, noisy apartment building, one teeming with children, children Andrew's age who could teach him how to roughhouse and get his clothes dirty. Her son really needed to be around boys more, she knew that. He needed someone to teach him the things she couldn't, like how to throw a football, and slide into second base. He needed-

But Karen knew very well what Andrew needed. And she shied away from that truth now just as she had for the last five years, ever since a helicopter crash during a routine training operation had killed her husband and robbed her son of his father.

It had been easy, at first; no one expected her to think about it. It was too soon. It takes time, everyone said; just give it some time. But then Andrew had started school, and the questions had begun. All the other kids had dads, why didn't he? Where was his daddy? What had happened to him, and when was he coming back? Karen had answered the questions as simply and truthfully as she knew how, but Andrew was an uncommonly observant and intelligent child, and it hadn't taken him long to find a loophole. Some kids, he pointed out to his mother, had more than one dad. Since his own was gone and not going to come back, and since there seemed to be extras around, couldn't she simply find him another one?

Eventually, though, the questions had stopped. Andrew, being both observant and intelligent, saw that his questions made his mother unhappy, and although for a while he still made subtle references to the subject in his bedtime prayers and birthday candle wishes, he finally stopped asking. But Karen knew. And sometimes when she looked at her son-a certain way he had of smiling, the tilt of his head, the wistful softness of his jaw and chin-her emotions swamped her, and she had to pretend that it was just her hay fever acting up again.

Emotions-such a painful, confusing stew of them! Anger and guilt, fear and longing, all mixed up together. It wasn't, Karen told herself time and time again, that she expected never to marry again. But such things couldn't be forced; they had to just happen, the way miracles do. The way it had happened for her and Bob. They had truly had something special, the two of them. And then, of course, the three of them. The chances of that kind of miracle happening again for her seemed remote… impossible.

Every day Karen told herself that she was doing the right thing, insisting on the miracle rather than settling for something less just for the sake of providing her son with a father. But every day she faced the anguish of a mother's guilt, knowing that the one thing her child needed most, she couldn't give him.

"What do you think is in the box?" Andrew asked as the car pulled up in front of the school building with its usual clatter and bang.

Karen leaned over to kiss him. "I don't know. You can have fun thinking about it today. We'll find out tonight, won't we?"

"Maybe," said Andrew casually, grunting a little as he hopped from the car to the sidewalk, "it's what I wished for."

"Oh?" Karen probed with tender amusement, hoping for a Christmas hint. "And what's that?"

"It's a secret," he said, turning to look at her over the hump of his backpack. Then he went on up the walk to the school, smiling his secret smile.

Tony heard the car coming from two blocks down the street. Even flat on his back on a dolly looking at the underside of Mrs. Kazanian's Lincoln, he knew who it was. Inner disturbances caused by the sound of that particular engine made him give the wrench he was wielding an unnecessarily vigorous turn.

"Ouch!" He resisted the natural impulse to stick the injured knuckle into his mouth and swore inventively instead. "Damn bucket of bolts."

Although it would have been difficult for a stranger to tell the difference, and though Tony certainly wasn't about to admit it, his tone was more affectionate than bitter. He had always been a sucker for old junkers and strays. He wasn't sure whether that was because he liked to feel needed, as a girl he'd once dated-a psych major at Fresno State-had suggested, or whether he just liked a challenge. One thing was sure-keeping that old Plymouth of Mrs. Todd's running did present a challenge.

So, for that matter, did Mrs. Todd.

Mrs. Todd. Tony grimaced as the unholy racket died in midcough, a car door slammed, and the lady's voice called with a note of uncertainty, "Hello? Mr. D'Angelo? Is anyone here?"

Mr. D'Angelo. "Yeah!" Tony grunted. "Be right with you."

She was a challenge, all right. In the three months since she'd pulled into town with a broken thermostat and a radiator about ready to blow, he hadn't been able to figure out a way to get beyond that "Mrs. Todd" and "Mr. D'Angelo" nonsense. And he wanted to; he'd known that much from the first moment. He wanted to get to Karen and Tony, and maybe beyond that all the way to the things people called each other in the velvet darkness that had no meaning to anyone but themselves.

He had to admit it was partly her looks, at least at first. Not that she was so spectacular, or that he hadn't known prettier women, but sun-streaked, long-legged blondes just weren't as common in this part of the state as they were where she was from. Apart from that, though, there'd been something about her even then that had intrigued him, challenged him. A certain aloofness-not arrogance; her voice had been polite and her manner genuine, her eyes direct and respectful, and worried-which was natural enough, given the circumstances. Even in shabby, crumpled clothes, tired, sweaty, with wisps of hair sticking to the dampness on her neck and temples, she'd had a natural, unconscious elegance. Blond, aloof, elegant-the classic ice-princess. And yet Tony was certain there was nothing cold about her. There had been warmth in her eyes when she looked at that little boy of hers, and tenderness in her hands when she touched him. He'd seen both vulnerability and courage in the way her lips first trembled, then tightened, when he told her what it was going to cost to fix her car. No, he knew she wasn't cold. The emotions were there, just held in reserve.

Reserved. That sure was the word for Mrs. Todd. Tony understood that; he was reserved himself. He never would have said shy. And that was really the problem-he was used to being someone else's challenge, to having other people banging on his doors, trying to knock down the walls of his reserve. He'd never had to be the one to reach out before, and he wasn't sure how to go about it. How the hell did a reserved man make contact with a woman who was even more reserved than he was?

He already knew quite a bit about her, of course; it was a small town, and not too many out-of-towners came to take up permanent residence. For instance, he knew she'd come from someplace in L.A., that she'd rented an apartment in one of those Victorians over on Sierra Street, that she was single-whether divorced or widowed he wasn't certain, but for some reason he couldn't put his finger on, he would bet on the latter- and that she had a nice little kid. A bit too polite and quiet, maybe. Too reserved, like his mother.

Tony listened to the tap, tap, tap of Karen Todd's shoes coming toward him across the concrete floor of the shop. High-heeled shoes-black pumps, he saw, as they came to a stop beside the Lincoln, a few feet from his head. Nice slender ankles, encased in nylons… sweetly curving calves disappearing under the hem of a brown wool coat…

He wondered if she would still wear those high-heeled shoes when there was a foot of snow on the ground and a windchill factor of twelve below. She worked right around the corner, he knew, at Frank James Insur-ance, which had made him wonder at first, given old Frank's penchant for fooling around. By this time, though, Tony figured that if old Frank had entertained any ideas along those lines when he hired Karen Todd, he'd been in for a big disappointment.

Taking his time about it, Tony tightened down the last of the bolts and wheeled himself out from under the Lincoln. "Yeah," he grunted as he got to his feet, "what can I do for you?" He gave the woman in the brown coat only the briefest of glances before he turned away, looking for a clean rag on which to wipe his hands-and staunch the flow of blood from his wounded knuckle.

She followed him, stepping gingerly between the front end of the Lincoln and a pile of new tires. She had her hands in her coat pockets and her shoulders hunched up as if she were cold-or nervous. Must be cold, Tony thought; he couldn't imagine why she would be nervous. She'd definitely have to get herself some warmer clothes if she was going to survive a winter here on the steppes of the Sierra Nevadas.

"You said- You told me to bring my car in this morning. I spoke to you about it yesterday. On the phone… "

"Right," Tony said, frowning at his hand. "Tune up, winter safety-check."

"Well, yes, I guess that's… I just want to be sure it's going to be okay in the cold weather. I suppose antifreeze… " Her voice faltered. "You've hurt yourself."

He glanced up. Her eyes-very light, clear blue eyes, the only startling thing about her-were riveted on his hand. "Nah," he said, "it's nothing. Just a scrape."

Frown lines appeared between her eyes. "You're bleeding."

He'd already noticed that; he was going to have to put a bandage on the damn thing, and probably some iodine, too. Because that wasn't a pleasant prospect, he growled impatiently, "Don't worry about it-happens all the time." Wrapping the rag around his hand, he jammed it into the pocket of his coveralls, where, he hoped, it would be out of sight and out of mind. He couldn't for the life of him understand why, but her unexpected concern unnerved him; he felt as jittery as a kid.

"Okay," he said in the most businesslike manner he could muster, "let's write you up a ticket." He turned away from her, heading for his office. "You want to give me some idea how much you want done on this thing? You just want antifreeze and wiper blades, or do you want a tune-up?"

"Well… " She came tap-tapping after him, slightly out of breath. "I was sort of hoping you could tell me what I should do. I don't have any idea how much everything costs. If you could look at it-"

"Look, I can tell you what you should do." Tony sat down on the corner of his desk and faced her, steeling himself against the worried look in her eyes. Push the damn thing over a cliff! he wanted to say, but he didn't. Instead he gave her the bad news, making it blunt, because it was so hard to do. "I can almost guarantee you're going to need points, plugs, condenser- How long's it been since you had all your hoses checked? Battery? I don't suppose you have tire chains?"

She shook her head, squared her shoulders and looked him bravely in the eye. "How much is it going to cost?"

He told her, then watched all the color go out of her face. But after a moment she nodded and said in a quiet, firm voice, "All right, if that's what it needs, do it."

Tony exhaled audibly and reached for a service order form. Avoiding her eyes, he said gruffly, "Look, that's just a worst-case scenario. I'm not going to know what's what until I take a look. Could be all you need's antifreeze and wiper blades. I'll just put down 'Check,' and I'll give you a call if-" He broke off, swearing, as a drop of blood made a neat, scarlet polka dot on the multilayered form.

Chapter Two

Karen stiffened and looked wary, like a bird poised for flight. "What is it?"

"Agh," said Tony disgustedly, and stood up, jerking his head toward the only chair in the cramped office, the swivel chair behind the desk. "Have a seat. I'm going to have to get a bandage on this damn thing-"

"Can I help?" Her voice sounded breathless. Tony paused in the act of unwrapping his hand to look at her and saw that the color was back in her face, perhaps even a little more than had been there before. It made her seem younger, softer. The pads of his fingertips tingled with a disconcerting urge to touch her.

There was a pause while he wrestled with the impulse, and then he said, "Yeah, okay, sure. There's a first-aid kit in that filing cabinet over there behind you-bottom drawer."

The old chair creaked as she swiveled toward the cabinet, groaned when she leaned over to open the drawer, squeaked as she turned back to the desk. Tony watched her, liking the way she moved.

She placed the first-aid kit on the desk, then unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it, letting it fall over the back of the chair. The dress she was wearing had a high round neck and long sleeves, and was made of some sort of soft knit material in a dark, somber color-maroon, he supposed. On her, it looked good. The slightly curled ends of her tawny hair just brushed her shoulders and swung across her cheeks when she leaned forward. It looked soft and clean. He imagined that it would smell good, too.

"Just a bandage," he said as she hesitated over the array of medical supplies. "And some of that iodine there-nothing fancy."

She glanced doubtfully at his hand. "Don't you think you should wash it first?"

"Nah, then the bandage won't stick. Look, just cover it up so it won't get in my way. The iodine'll kill everything, anyway." Tony thrust his hand at her, impatient with himself for the disquieting images her presence was fomenting in his mind. "Come on, get it over with. If you want that car of yours by tonight- OW!" That was followed with a sharp, sibilant oath as he tried to jerk his hand away from the stinging brown liquid she'd just poured into the gash on his knuckle.

But before he could, before he knew what she was going to do, perhaps even before she knew herself, Karen Todd had caught his oil-stained hand in both of her soft, smooth, clean ones. The next thing he knew she was bending over it, blowing frantically on the cut and casting him quick, angry glances between puffs. "Why in the world… don't you use the kind that… doesn't sting?"

"Because this way, at least I know it's working," Tony managed to grate between his tightly clenched teeth, then went on swearing.

Karen made a derisive sound and gave him another bright blue glare. "Then you could at least try to be brave," she said as she went on blowing.

After a moment or two of tense silence, he surprised both her and himself by chuckling.

"What's funny?"

Tony muttered, "Nothing." Then he shrugged and smiled. "My mother used to do that."

"Ohh… " The angry glint faded from her eyes. He watched them grow round, luminous, as if she'd just seen something unexpected and wondrous. He couldn't imagine what he'd said or done to put that look on her face, but it had a profound effect on him. Pretty much as if someone had sat down heavily on his midsection.

While he was trying to remember how to breathe, it apparently occurred to Karen that she was still holding his hand. She dropped it like a hot rock and began to rummage in the first-aid kit for a bandage, acting as if his life depended on her finding it. When she did finally locate it, she seemed to have trouble getting the paper wrapping off, and when she went to put it on his finger, Tony noticed that her hands were shaking a little.

He let her struggle with it, not offering to help, just keeping his mouth shut and holding himself very still, watching the way her teeth pressed into the soft pillow of her lower lip, and the way her lashes made crescent shadows on her flushed cheeks. It wasn't until she was finished and they both let go of a breath at the same time that he realized he'd been holding his all the time.

"There-is that all right?" She looked up at him, and the light betrayed a fine film of moisture across the bridge of her nose.

"Yeah, thanks," Tony said absently. "I think that should do it." But for some reason he just went on sitting there, studying her, flexing his hand.

After a moment or two, Karen suddenly pushed the first-aid kit away from her and stood up, groping for her coat. "I, um… I have to go- I'm late for work. Is it all right if I stop in after work to pick up the car? Oh-" She paused; he could see her steel herself before she turned back to him. "I forgot- I know it's an imposition, but I promised I'd ask you. Is it all right if Andrew-if my son comes over here after school? He usually comes to my office and reads, or does his homework until I'm ready to go home, but he wanted-he said-"

"Yeah, sure," Tony said. "No problem."

"Are you sure? I don't want him to be in the way. If you'd rather not-"

"He's not going to get in my way," Tony interrupted her, more sharply than he intended. And then, because he didn't want her to think he was annoyed with her, he tried to soften it as best he could with a lopsided smile. "Hell, I'm shorthanded today-one of my mechanics called in sick- I might just put the kid to work."

There was a little silence while she looked at him, face thoughtful, hands in her coat pockets. Then she said softly, "Thank you. That's very nice of you."

Tony made an ambiguous sound-a grunt, or a snort. He couldn't have explained his feelings right then, or why it bothered him that she thought she had to apologize for her kid, and that she was treating Tony like some kind of saint for having him around. He was just a kid, for Pete's sake. A nice kid. "Here," he growled, putting an end to the matter, "you want to sign this work order?"

He handed her a pen, but instead of giving the clipboard to her, he left it on the desk and just angled it toward her a little bit, so she'd have to step over close to him in order to sign it. He did it quite deliberately, to test her responses to him, just in case he'd been mistaken before and it was only the sight of blood that had made her so nervous.

What he didn't expect was that it would also be a test of his own self-control.

He drew a long, slow breath. Her hair did smell good-like nothing he could put a name to. It made him think of sunshine and fresh spring mornings, and clean clothes flapping on the line. If he closed his eyes he could feel it on his skin, cool and soft as a whisper…

"There," she said as she put the pen down, breathless again. "Is it all right if I come by right after work? It's apt to be a few minutes past five."

Tony tore off her copy and handed it to her. The tension in him made his movements abrupt and his voice hard. "I'll try to have it done by then, but I can't guarantee anything. I'm short one mechanic, and I've got to finish with that Lincoln out there before I can start yours."

Her face registered dismay, alarm and, at last, pure panic. "But you told me-on the phone-you told me if I brought it in first thing this morning I could have it by tonight. I have to have my car. I don't have any other way to get home-or back to work in the morning. And Andrew has to go to school-"

She broke off as Tony abruptly stood up, fished his keys out of the pocket of his coveralls and held them out to her. When she just stared at him, he gave the keys a little shake, making them jingle. "Here, you can take mine. It's the white Chevy out back."

From the look she gave the keys, Tony thought, someone would have supposed he'd handed her a tarantula. She transferred the same look to him and began to shake her head. "Oh, no-no, I couldn't." She took a step backward, away from him. When it looked as if she was likely to keep going in that direction, Tony caught her hand, turned it palm up, placed the keys in the middle of it and folded the fingers over them.

"Lady," he said, holding her closed fist in both of. his hands, "didn't you ever hear of a loaner?"

Her eyes locked with his across their clasped hands. He saw something flicker in the translucent blue, darken, and then catch fire. He felt the tension in her muscles as she fought him… and the relaxing when she surrendered. A new emotion swelled inside him: excitement… a strange, fierce thrill of joy.

"All right," she murmured at last. "Thank you." She straightened her shoulders and lifted her head, an unconscious assertion of pride and dignity that touched Tony unexpectedly. Her face was expressionless as she pulled her hand from his grasp, dropped his keys into her coat pocket and placed hers on the clipboard beside the pen. "You'll need these," she said stiffly. "I'll stop by for Andrew at five o'clock."

"No need," Tony said. "I'll bring him home when I bring you your car."

"But you said-"

"I said I didn't know if I could have it done by five, and I don't. Might take me an hour or so longer. Look-" he said when it appeared as if she was going to interrupt him, then had to interrupt himself to take a breath. His voice was gruff; he couldn't believe the tension in him. "Look, I'll get your car done-don't worry about it. I'll have both the car and the kid home by suppertime. Okay?"

She drew a long breath and nodded. "Okay. Thank you. Thank you very much. Um… you know where I live?"

"Yeah," Tony said wryly, "I know where you live."

When his office door had closed behind her he said, "Damn!" and let his breath out in a rush. He listened to the sound of Karen Todd's high-heeled shoes tap-tapping across the shop floor and finally fading into silence before he picked up her car keys, tossed them up and snatched them one-handed from the air. Warmth burst through him, and he began to smile.

The mysterious box greeted Karen when she arrived home from work, giving her a momentary jolt. With everything that had happened since, she'd all but forgotten it. For the rest of the evening, while she rushed to clean up the apartment, it sat there in the middle of her living room like an unexpected and slightly embarrassing guest-like the pastor on a duty call, she thought, or a wealthy but not-too-pleasant uncle-someone you would really rather not have in the house but couldn't risk offending. She'd straightened up around it and moved it in order to vacuum under it, all the while fidgeting with curiosity and vague feelings of resentment.

Who would send her son a package-such a large package!-and put no name or return address on it? There was no one in the world who had the right to do such a thing-no one! Andrew's father was dead. He had only one surviving grandparent, his father's mother, who lived in a mobile-home park outside Fort Lauderdale on a fixed and very inadequate income. Every year she sent her only grandson a Christmas card and a five dollar bill, which had arrived right on schedule two days ago. Beyond that there was no one-no uncles, aunts or cousins. Who could have done such a thing? What in the world could it be? And when in the world was that boy going to come home so she could find out?

Any minute, she thought for the twentieth time, looking at her watch. Any minute now.

She looked around, smoothing the front of her dress. The apartment looked reasonably tidy; thank goodness she'd had time to vacuum. Should she have changed out of her dress? She usually put on jeans and a sweatshirt when she got home from work. Maybe she should change right now: she wouldn't want Tony to think she was wearing a dress to impress him.

Oh, but she was! She was. And she'd vacuumed and tidied up the place for the same reason. For Tony D'Angelo? No, she told herself, she would have done the same thing no matter who it was. She didn't have many visitors. In fact, except for the landlady, Mrs. Goldrich, and that time Mr. James had stopped by on a Saturday to pick up some papers she'd taken home to work on over the weekend-an incident Karen preferred to forget- Tony would be the first. So it was no wonder she was nervous. Oh God, were her hands shaking? She held them up in front of her. No, steady as a rock. Good. She only felt shaky. Inside.

The front door slammed; voices drifted up the stairs. Andrew's voice, excited and young, and another, a low, baritone murmur. Karen's stomach knotted. She took a deep breath and one last quick look around. What should she do? Go out to the landing and meet them, or wait for the knock on the door? No, Andrew wouldn't knock, she reminded herself. He would just open the door and walk in, and here she'd be, standing around as if she'd been waiting for them. It would be better to go and meet them.

Just as she got to the door, it opened and Andrew burst in, cheeks red with cold, eyes shining with an excitement even his glasses couldn't hide. Behind him, filling up the doorway, was Tony.

"Hi, Mom!" Disdaining his usual hello kiss, Andrew brushed by her, dumped his backpack on the couch and made a beeline for the box. "See, Tony? Here it is-it's got my name on it! And I get to open it now, right, Mom?"

Suddenly left to face her guest alone, Karen mustered a smile. "Hi. Please-come in." And then, with a little shrug of apology, "I'm sorry, he's been so excited about this…"

"That's okay." Tony's lips curved in a smile-the same slow, sweet, unanticipated smile that had taken Karen so completely by surprise when she'd encountered it that morning in his office. He smiled in stages, she decided-mouth first, then the creases at the corners of the eyes, and finally the eyes themselves. It was the last part that got to her… a warm brown glow as wicked and rich and irresistible as melted chocolate…

"I don't blame him," he drawled as he stepped into her living room. "There's something about a brown cardboard box, especially one with your name on it."

"Can I open it now, Mom? Can I? Please?"

"All right," Karen said in a weak voice, forgiving her son both his rudeness and his grammatical lapse for giving her something to do, for throwing her a lifeline she could use to pull herself away from the magnetism of that smile. She frowned at the box, gathering her wits. "It looks very sturdy. I think we'll need scissors, or a knife. I'll get one-"

Tony was already pulling one out of his pocket. He paused in the process of unfolding the blade, looked at Karen and said, "May I?" She hesitated, then nodded. He dropped to one knee beside the box.

It's because he looks so different, Karen thought, watching as he split the box's taped seams with a few deft strokes of the pocketknife. It was the first time she'd ever seen him in anything but coveralls. He seemed bigger, somehow, in the teal-blue turtle-necked sweater, brown leather jacket and well-worn jeans. Bigger and… sexier.

Sexier? Where had that come from? It was a word she hadn't even admitted to her thoughts for a very, very long time; doing so now caused her stomach to perform a curious and rather frightening flip-flop.

"There you go, kid," Tony grunted, folding the knife with a snap and tucking it back in his pocket. "Have at it."

It wasn't Andrew's way to go ripping into something helter-skelter; even as a very small child he'd opened his Christmas presents carefully, drawing out the suspense and maddening those with less methodical habits. Now, though his eyes were shining with anticipation, he folded back the box flaps almost reverently. His hands hovered over the layers of crumpled newspaper underneath, then slowly, slowly lifted them out of the box and laid them aside.

"Look for a card," Karen reminded him. The suspense was getting to her; she felt a strange, shivery excitement. "There must be something that says who it's from."

Tony picked up the discarded newspaper and shook it. "Doesn't seem to be one."

Andrew didn't appear to have heard them. He had taken a newspaper-wrapped object from the box and was holding it in his hands, and the look on his face was rapt, almost fearful.

Though she knew it would do no good to try to rush him, Karen couldn't keep from asking, "Well, what is it?"

"I don't know," Andrew answered, his voice hushed. "It's heavy."

"Well, come on, open it up." Even Tony was showing signs of impatience.

Andrew caught his breath and held his lower lip between his teeth. Then he slowly peeled away the paper and let it fall. For a heartbeat or two he was silent- dumbstruck, it seemed-cradling the small, heavy object in his hands as if it were made of glass, or high explosives.

"What on earth…?" Karen murmured.

"It's a train," Andrew said at last, beginning in an awed whisper and picking up speed and volume as the wonder of it sank in. "This is the engine-it's a locomotive. It's an electric train, a real one. It's a whole, real electric train!"

"Here," Tony said, "let me see that." Andrew handed over the engine and picked up another paper-wrapped package. Karen sat down on the arm of the couch.

"I don't understand this," she muttered, shaking her head. The whole thing made her feel edgy, even angry. She didn't like mysteries, especially those that involved her child. "Who would do this? Who would do such a thing? Where did this come from?"

"It's an old one," Tony said, squinting thoughtfully at the underside of the locomotive. "I wonder if it runs."

"An old electric train?" Karen said on a rising note of disbelief. And then, because it seemed so crazy, so implausible, so unbelievable, she threw up her hands and began to laugh.

"Oh, cool!" Andrew exclaimed. "Hey, look at this."

In a moment he had the whole train unpacked and lined up on the living-room rug, the engine and five cars: a coal tender, a flatcar, a boxcar, a cattle car, and, of course, a caboose. The paint was faded and completely gone in spots, with patches of rust showing through, but Andrew didn't seem to notice. He was busy examining each car, exclaiming with delight and enthusiasm over each and every detail-doors that opened, wheels that turned, removable side racks, and on the front of the locomotive, a tiny silver bell.

"Look, Tony… "

"Hmm?" Tony glanced up from the control box he'd been examining, then leaned over to see what wonders Andrew had discovered now.

The two heads came together, bending low over the train… two heads with dark, wavy hair, a little too long at the back of the neck, brushing collars and the tops of ears. And for a moment, just a moment, the picture froze in Karen's mind, as if someone had snapped a photograph. She heard-felt?-a click, felt things shift inside her; emotion caught at her breath and rushed stinging to her eyes and nose.

Hay fever, she thought in sudden panic, and rose from the arm of the couch to declare brightly, "Andrew, it's way past your dinnertime. You must be starving."

"Yeah… " Andrew said absently, frowning with the concentration required to fit two slightly bent pieces of track together. Then he looked up, his face alight with the infusion of a new idea. "Hey, can Tony stay for dinner, Mom?"

"Oh-" said Karen and Tony at the same time, and then stopped.

"You can stay," said Andrew, both assuring and imploring. "My mom's a good cook. Do you like grilled cheese?"

"Yeah, sure-with ketchup." Shining with amusement, Tony's eyes met Karen's over the top of her son's head.

"Of course," she heard herself say. "You're welcome to stay."

There was a pause, a moment of silence that seemed much longer than it was. Then Tony cleared his throat and said, "All right, sure. Thanks very much."

"Well," Karen said, "all right, then."

As she made her way to the kitchen on legs that weren't quite steady, she heard Andrew say, "Ketchup? On grilled cheese? That's gross!"

Chapter Three

When Karen came back, Tony was on his hands and knees on the carpet, helping Andrew lay track. There was enough of it to make a figure eight that stretched half the width of the living room, from the bay window that looked out over the street all the way to the front of the couch. They'd even had to move the furniture a little to make room for it.

The boy turned as his mother approached, looking like someone who'd just discovered birthday presents. "Hey, Mom-look, we can put our Christmas tree right there, in the middle of that loop over there by the window, so everybody can see the lights. And then the train can go around the tree-won't that be neat? We're getting a big tree this year," he confided to Tony. "A real big one, tall as the ceiling. Right, Mom?"

Karen glanced upward. Tony could see her calculating the height of the Victorian ceiling, the probable cost of a twelve-foot tree, and the logistics involved in getting such a tree up the stairs and into the apartment. Then she uttered the age-old maternal cop-out, "We'll see," as she placed a tray on the floor beside the train track.

On the tray, Tony observed, there were two plates made out of plastic decorated with cartoon characters, two plastic glasses in bright primary colors, two neatly folded paper napkins and two small plastic spoons. On each of the plates was a grilled cheese sandwich nicely browned, a little pile of carrot sticks, and a tiny plastic cup of applesauce. The glasses were filled with milk.

"There," she said, plunking down a bottle of ketchup like an exclamation point. She had her lashes lowered, trying to shield the laughter in her eyes from him, but parted lips and a rosy blush betrayed her. "Now, is there anything else I can get for you?"

Though he was shaking inside with his own laughter, Tony managed to keep his face and voice absolutely deadpan. "No thanks, this is great." Karen's eyes flew open, then widened at the unmistakable challenge in his when he added softly, "If I think of anything, I'll let you know."

Oblivious to any adult undercurrents, Andrew was already tucking into his sandwich, taking bites out of the middle, the way Tony himself had done when he was a kid. The boy did stop chewing, though, to watch Tony pour ketchup on his plate, dip a corner of his sandwich into it and take a bite.

"Is that good?" he inquired, looking skeptical.

Tony offered the ketchup bottle. "Why don't you try it?"

Andrew shrugged. Tony poured him a small dollop. Andrew dipped, took a wary and tentative bite, chewed judiciously and finally conceded, "Not bad." Tony just grinned.

Karen had moved away from them, following the train track. Though he wasn't looking at her, Tony could tell she was nervous again. It had seemed as if she'd gotten over it while she was in the kitchen, but it was back now, once more confirming his suspicions that he was the cause of it. He decided he liked the fact that he made her nervous. Eventually, of course, he'd want her to feel comfortable with him, but right now that fidgety self-consciousness was telling him what he wanted to know, which was that she was aware of him in all the right ways.

"Does it work?" she asked, bending down to give the locomotive an experimental push, rolling it a little way along the track.

She caught Tony with his mouth full, so all he could do was shrug. Andrew, whose mouth was also full, said, "It's going to. Tony says he can fix it-right, Tony?"

For some reason, instead of answering with the confidence he felt, Tony glanced over at Karen. He found her studying him in a way that made him feel uncomfortable; all the nervousness was gone now, her eyes quiet and watchful, full of appeal and an unspoken warning. So he found himself hedging his bet. "Well, I don't know, kid. I said I'd try."

There was a little silence, and then Karen said meaningfully, "Andrew, do you have homework this evening?" It was a tone even Tony recognized.

Andrew groaned. "Spelling. Mom-"

"Better finish eating and get started on it," his mother gently but firmly interrupted. "The train will still be here tomorrow."

Tony, who knew a hint when he heard one, polished off the last of his applesauce and stood up, taking his plate with him. "I gotta go anyway, kid. We'll work oh this some other time."

"Tomorrow? Can you come over tomorrow night? Please? Mom, can he?"

They both looked at Tony. He shrugged in what he hoped was an offhand way and muttered, "It's all right with me."

"Mom? If I promise to do my homework first?"

"Well… " Tony could see the ominous "We'll see" hovering on the tip of her tongue, but when she opened her mouth, the words that came out instead were, "All right. If you do your homework first. Now, scoot-and take your dishes to the kitchen!"

Obviously satisfied with the terms, Andrew "scooted."

As soon as her son was out of earshot, Karen lifted her head and drilled Tony with a look that reminded him of the one she'd given him that morning when she'd finally accepted the loan of his car.

"Is it true?" she demanded without beating around the bush. "Can you fix that train?"

Tony shrugged. "I think so, yeah."

Her eyes clung to his, searching, searching- It gave him a strange feeling, as if he needed to take a deep breath but couldn't.

Finally, in a voice tight with controlled emotion, she said, "Please, don't tell him that unless you're sure. Don't promise something you can't deliver. I don't want him-"

"Lady," Tony said softly, "I don't make promises I don't mean to keep."

He saw a flicker of something in those transparent eyes of hers, something he couldn't quite name. And once again, although he wasn't touching her this time, he felt the struggle as she fought him and the easing when she let go.

"So," he said, "do you want me to give it a shot or not? It's your call."

She closed her eyes, let out a breath and nodded. "Yes… thank you. It's very nice of you. Andrew will be so-"

Nice. That damn gratitude again. Impatiently shaking it off, Tony said, "Tomorrow, then? About the same time?"

"Yes. Yes, that will be fine."

"Fine, I'll see you then." He was so distracted that he was out the door before he remembered he still had her car keys. And vice versa. He turned back with a smile that felt trampled. "Oops," he muttered as he handed them to her, "almost forgot."

"Oh-wait a minute, I have your keys right here…" Just like that, she was nervous again, like a bird in the presence of a cat. She flitted away for a minute, came back with her purse, fumbled in it for the keys and gave them to him. "Thank you so much-it was really nice of you to do that. And, uh… " She took a deep breath. "Do you have my bill?"

Tony took it out of his back pocket and handed it over. He watched her unfold it, holding his own emotions carefully in check while he watched hers play like shadow pictures across her face. He thought he recognized dread, all mixed up with pride… blank, uncomprehending shock… and finally, confusion.

"I don't understand," she said, throwing him that fierce blue glare that demanded nothing less than truth. "This is so much lower than the estimate. What about the battery and… all those other things you told me I needed? This is only-" she gave the paper in her hands another glance "-a routine service!"

"Plus wiper blades and antifreeze," Tony pointed out. Then he shrugged and tried to wave the subject off, wanting to get away before she nailed him to the wall; outright lying didn't sit well with his Italian-Catholic upbringing. "Listen, I'd rather tell you the worst up front and have the surprise be pleasant, that's all. Turned out you were in better shape than I thought. It happens. Hey, I'll see you tomorrow night. You can pay me then, okay?"

She hesitated while suspicion struggled with relief, then finally nodded and whispered, "Okay."

Relieved himself, Tony fled. He was two steps down the stairs when he heard her call his name. Feeling as guilty as only an honest man can, he paused and looked back.

She was still standing in the doorway, holding the bill in her hands, and for a moment Tony's heart stopped beating. Then he realized that she looked different somehow. More relaxed, as if a load had been lifted off her shoulders. And he realized then that she had called him by his first name. Tony…

"How's your hand?" she asked softly, a smile in her voice and eyes. Even from where he stood, Tony felt the gentle warmth of it, like candle flames.

He glanced down at his bandaged hand, then looked up at her, slowly flexing it, remembering her touch. "Oh, it's okay," he said gruffly. "You did a good job." Karen…

"Good… I'm glad. Well- I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Yeah, tomorrow. I'll be here."

"Bye."

"Bye… "

Their voices were low and husky, the words uttered absentmindedly, as if, Tony thought, they both knew that what was being said was far less important than things that weren't spoken of at all.

About midway through the next day, it occurred to Karen that she was looking at the people around her in a new light. Which one? Which of these people- friends, acquaintances and co-workers-could have sent Andrew that train? Even relative strangers were suspects. Maybe she had a secret benefactor-a fairy godmother, a guardian angel, someone who admired her from afar. Ridiculous as that seemed, it almost made more sense than the alternative, which was that one of the people she knew had sent that box. She'd been over the list in her mind a dozen times. They all seemed unlikely, if not impossible.

Her first thought, before the box was opened, had been of her boss, Mr. James. As unpleasant as that suspicion was, it wouldn't have been the first time the lecherous old so-and-so had tried to get to Karen through her child. But she'd crossed Frank James off the list the minute she saw that broken-down old engine. It just wasn't his style. In the first place, he would never give Andrew something secondhand and in need of repair; he would buy the newest and most expensive thing available-and probably leave the price tag on it "by accident." And, of course, he wouldn't do it anonymously; he would want to be sure he got full credit for his generosity.

Then there was Louise, the other girl in the office with whom Karen sometimes shared lunch and minor confidences, and the closest thing she had to a friend in this town. But she had a husband who worked in the fruit-packing houses, when he could get work at all, and four school-age kids of her own. Why would she spend money and effort on Andrew?

After that, the list got very short indeed. Mrs Goldrich, the landlady? Ridiculous. She tolerated Andrew, but had never given any indication of possessing a warm or generous bone in her entire body. Mr. Clausen? Well… as a matter of fact, the old gentleman who lived in the attic apartment above Karen did seem a less unlikely candidate than some of the others. Andrew was certainly convinced he was the culprit, anyway. That morning, when they'd met on the front walk as usual, Andrew had told the old man all about his mysterious gift. Mr. Clausen had laughed, clapped him on the shoulder and said, "So, young Andrew, Santa's come early this year, has he?" Afterward, Andrew had given his mother a superior look, one that clearly said, "See? I know I'm right."

Andrew's fantasies aside, the old man did seem jovial and kind, and he appeared to have a genuine fondness for the little boy. But how would an elderly and overweight gentleman who walked with a cane get such a large, cumbersome box up those stairs? And there was the question of expense. Mr. Clausen didn't appear to have much money; he lived in a tiny, one-room apartment, didn't own a car, and always wore the same suit, a vaguely dated three-piece pinstripe with an old-fashioned watch fob looped across the front of his vest. Karen had an idea that electric trains might be expensive. Even old ones in need of repair.

And that, of course, was the biggest question of all: why would anyone, friend or stranger, give a child an old, worn-out, broken-down toy? It didn't make sense.

She was still stewing about it, and having a hard time concentrating on work as a result, when Andrew arrived from school. Fortunately, while he was shrugging out of his backpack, she remembered the small package she'd purchased at the hardware store on her lunch break, scooped it up from her desktop and, in the nick of time, dropped it into her purse. Thanks to the train, Andrew seemed to have forgotten all about the mouse; with any luck, the problem would be resolved by the time he thought about it again.

"Hello, sweetheart," she said, remembering just in time that he considered himself too grown up to need help with his jacket. "How was your day?"

"Fine." He held out the construction paper object he'd been carefully juggling. "Here- I made it," he said in the offhand way he always adopted when he was feeling especially proud of himself. "It's a… a polyhedron. It's a Christmas ornament. You can hang it on the tree, if you want to."

"It's beautiful," Karen said, giving it a place of honor on her desk. "Of course we'll hang it on our tree. Now, do you have any homework?"

"Nah, it's the Friday before vacation. No more homework 'til next year. Can we get our tree tonight? After you get off work?"

"Have you forgotten?" Karen reminded him. "Tony's coming over to work on the train."

"Well, he could come with us."

For a moment she couldn't answer him. She sat there looking at her son's face, at the hopeful light that lurked behind the caution in his eyes, and felt an odd little knot form somewhere in the middle of her chest. Tony? She laughed softly and shook her head. "Sweetheart, I think you'd have to ask him first. And by the time he gets here-"

"I could ask him now. I could go over there-"

"Not today," Karen said firmly. "You were over there all afternoon yesterday. I won't have you getting in Tony's way."

"But I'm not. He lets me help him. He said-"

"Andrew, I said no. Not today."

Andrew retired momentarily to think over his options. "Can we go tomorrow, then? I could ask Tony tonight when he comes over."

"Well… " She took a deep breath and murmured, "We'll see."

"If we get a great big tree we're gonna need help, Mom," Andrew pointed out, trying to give an impression of innocence by widening his eyes and looking solemn. "Tony could help carry it."

"Andrew, about the tree… " Karen closed her eyes for a moment, then rested her forehead on her hand and looked down at the scratch pad on her desk so she wouldn't have to see the disappointment on her son's face when she told him the bad news. The numbers on the pad were bad enough. Even with yesterday's good news about the car repairs, money was still going to be tight this month. The heating bill, which was not included in her rent, was bound to be higher, and she and Andrew were both going to need some warmer clothes. Even if she could manage the cost of the tree, there was still the matter of decorations.

"I'll make decorations," Andrew said when she'd explained it to him. His voice was tight, his face set and stubborn. Karen's heart sank; she knew that look. "I can make some more poly… polyhedrons. And- and those paper chains, like I made in kindergarten."

She drew another deep breath, this one to ease the ache in her chest. "All right," she whispered, caving in. "If you really want to, sweetheart, we'll get a big one. We'll make do, somehow. Now, scoot-go on and let me get some work done!"

Andrew's small hand patted her shoulder. "It'll be all right, Mom, you'll see," he said with a knowing smile, and went off to make some more polyhedrons.

Karen sat with her head in her hands, rubbing at the tightness in her temples. Though it made her feel guilty to admit it, the burden of single-parenthood seemed very heavy sometimes. There was never any respite from it; that was the trouble, no chance ever to lay it down, even for a moment…

Tony could help carry it.

Andrew's innocent words popped into her head from out of nowhere, sharp and clear and as impossible to ignore as a silver bell on a holiday street corner. The thought shocked her so much that she sat bolt upright, headache forgotten, heart racing. Tony?

It was like opening the door to an overful closet; thoughts and revelations tumbled into her consciousness like an avalanche. Tony! Could Tony have sent the train? Yes! Yes, he could have. He seemed genuinely fond of Andrew; he knew where they lived; he was certainly strong enough to have carried that box up the stairs. It made sense-except for one thing. Why would he do such a thing? Why?

Andrew answered the door that evening with a breathless and eager, "Hi." Then, instantly curious, he blurted, "What's that?"

Tony growled, "It's pizza, what's it look like?"

"I didn't mean that one," Andrew persisted unperturbed, evading the large flat box Tony had thrust at him. "I meant that one-the bag. Is it stuff for the train?"

"You didn't have to do this," Karen murmured, coming up behind her son.

There was something different about her tonight, Tony thought. He couldn't put his finger on anything specific, but she had a kind of radiance, an aura of suppressed excitement, as if she knew a wonderful secret and was dying to share it. Whatever it was, the excitement was contagious; he could feel his own heartbeat quicken as he handed over the pizza box.

"Here, kid, see for yourself," he muttered, relinquishing the brown paper bag from Hoolighan's Hardware and Paint to Andrew, who promptly dropped to his knees on the floor with it in that boneless way kids have. Tony stepped over him and went after Karen, who was heading for the kitchen with the pizza. "Look," he said as he held the kitchen door open for her, "I came over here to fix a train, not invite myself to dinner."

She turned to smile at him over her shoulder. "Are you sure it isn't that you just don't like my cooking?"

"Hey-" Tony held up his hands "-grilled cheese and ketchup happens to be a personal favorite of mine. Last night you fed me, tonight it's my turn. Fair's fair."

Something in his tone warned her. She got a wary look in her eyes and said, "Uh-oh-what kind of pizza is this, anyway?"

"The works," Tony confirmed with wicked relish. "Including olives, onions and anchovies. Hey, I'm Italian. What do you expect?"

She groaned, but mixed it with laughter. Oh yeah, he thought, there was definitely something different about her tonight; if it had been anybody but her, he would have been pretty sure she was flirting with him. Whatever the difference was, the effect it had on his vital signs was both predictable and devastating.

A second or two later, though, she got that closed, careful look on her face again and, like a little girl remembering her manners, said, "Well, thank you anyway. You really didn't have to do this. It's awfully nice of you."

Tony snorted. "I wish you'd quit saying that." When Karen cast him a questioning glance he shifted his shoulders and growled, "Look, let's get something straight. I don't do anything just to be 'nice.' I only do things because I want to, you understand? That makes me selfish, not 'nice.'"

"Bah, humbug," said Karen, as a smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing. So-you brought pizza because… "

"Because that's the only way I can be sure I get what I want on it." That smile of hers was so bright and contagious, it was all he could do to repress the urge to smile back.

"And," she persisted, stifling laughter, "you're helping Andrew because you just happen to like playing with trains?"

"Right!" Tony shot back, still scowling gamely. "All men are kids when it comes to trains-don't you know that?"

"Really?" She said it on a quick, indrawn breath, her eyes shining with that strange excitement. While Tony's pulse surged in automatic response, she seemed to teeter for a moment on the brink of saying something else, something of profound importance. Then she turned abruptly and opened a cupboard, and he heard the sigh of her exhalation.

I can't do it, Karen thought, as she reached for the plates. I can't ask him. He would only deny it, and she would feel foolish. She'd probably embarrass him, and he'd wish he'd never done it. Maybe, she thought, it was better not to know.

But she couldn't resist saying brightly, as she placed a stack of three plates on the table, "Did you have a train like that when you were a little boy?"

"Me?" Tony coughed and said in his old, gruff way, "Are you kidding? I'm the second youngest of seven kids. My folks raise almonds and peaches, down in the valley. We weren't poor, but we sure as hell didn't have money for things like electric trains."

Frowning and fidgeting, obviously looking for a change of subject, he picked up the empty paper bag that was lying on the counter. "Looks like we were both in Hoolighan's Hardware today," he com-mented, peering into the bag and then putting it back down.

"Oh, yes." Karen closed her eyes while her stomach rolled over, something it did automatically whenever she thought of the deadly little contraption in the cereal cupboard. "I had to buy a-" she glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen door and lowered her voice to a whisper "-a mousetrap. Andrew doesn't know. I hated to do it, but I've had this problem for a while, and I don't know what else to do."

She looked at Tony, and her breath caught. Audibly. A soft, telltale gasp. He was leaning against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, impossibly handsome, thrillingly masculine, annoyingly superior.

"So," he said, "you've set a trap for your mouse?"

Since she couldn't, for some reason, trust her voice, Karen nodded.

With his chocolate eyes glowing and a smile that was almost tender, Tony said softly, "Have you thought about what you're going to do if you catch him?"

Chapter Four

Tony wasn't sure how long she might have stood there looking at him, her blue eyes swimming with mute appeal, or how long he could have gone on resisting his natural impulse to respond. There was something about those eyes of hers. They made him want to put his arms around her, gather her close and promise her the moon if she would only promise never to let those tears loose. He'd grown up with four sisters and was used to feminine waterworks, but he didn't think he could stand to see this woman cry.

Finally, just when she was opening her mouth to say something, there came a bellow from the living room.

"Mom! Come see what Tony brought!"

Karen replied, "Coming!" She cast one last beseeching look at Tony as she hurriedly divided the pizza among the three plates, then picked up two of them and marched out, head high. Tony picked up the third one and followed her.

Andrew was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the train track, with the engine and cars all lined up in front of him, looking pleased with himself. He had a way of peering out over the top of his glasses, Tony noticed, that made him look like a fledgling owl.

"Hey, look, Mom-paint! It's a special kind of paint, too. It's for metal-to keep it from getting rusty. And there's all the colors, see?" He'd matched them all up, black for the engine and coal tender, green for the flatcar and cattle car, yellow for the boxcar, and red for the caboose. "And look, there's white paint for the writing, and even paint thinner, and these little brushes. Do I get to do it, too, Tony? Huh? Can I help?"

"Help? No way. I'm going to have my hands full just getting the thing to run. That's your job."

"Mine? You mean, I get to do it all by myself?"

"What's the matter? Don't you think you can handle it?"

"Well," Andrew said slowly, "I'm not too sure about the writing."

"Writing?"

"Yeah, you know-like the name of the railroads and stuff." His face was wistful. "I want it to look just like a real train, with the different names on the cars. I don't know if I can do it right."

Tony coughed, but it didn't do much to clear the gravel from his throat. He looked at Karen, and when she met his eyes, the look in hers nearly stopped his heart. Without breaking that contact, he said gruffly, "Well, maybe your mom'll help you. If you ask her."

"Mom? Please?"

"Of course-" Karen began in a whisper, then paused and went on briskly, "of course I'll help. What we need is a book about trains, don't you think? I'll bet the library has some. Tomorrow we'll go and see. Now, have some pizza before it gets cold. Who wants something to drink? Milk or apple juice?"

"Milk, please," said Andrew dutifully.

Tony muttered under his breath, "I don't suppose you'd have a beer?"

He meant it half as a joke, expecting the look of maternal disapproval, that old "please-not-in-front-of-the-children" look his mother used to lay on his father. But when Karen murmured, "Sorry," there was a gleam in her eyes to suggest that she, too, might be thinking how well a glass of cold beer would taste with pizza.

He wondered, suddenly, how long it had been since she'd done something for herself, just for fun. How long since she'd tasted a cold beer, taken in an R-rated movie, gone out on a date. How long since she'd thought of herself as a woman-just a woman, young, beautiful, sexy-instead of Andrew's mother. The thought stirred strong emotions in him, some of which he couldn't quite name, but one of which was definitely anger. Not that he had anything against kids in general-he meant to have a couple of his own, someday-or Karen's in particular. He'd gotten pretty fond of the kid, as a matter of fact. But, damn it, she was a woman, plus all those other things, in spades. And he knew that, more than he'd wanted anything in a long time, he wanted to be the one to make her remember it.

"I just remembered something," said Andrew, eyeing a suspicious black spec on his slice of pizza. Without impolite comments he'd proceeded to remove everything he considered to be inedible from each piece of his pizza and deposit it carefully on his plate. "We can't go to the library tomorrow, because we're going to go get our Christmas tree." Finally satisfied with the condition of the pizza, he trans-ferred his cloudless blue stare to his mother. "You promised."

"Yes," said Karen, knowing what was coming, "I know I did." The bite of pizza she'd just swallowed lodged in her chest, making the sudden pounding of her heart that much more painful.

"And," continued Andrew with bland innocence, "you said we could get a big one. A really, really big one. You promised."

"Yes," Karen sighed, "so I did."

Tony chewed and swallowed, took a long drink of milk and said thoughtfully, "A really, really big one, huh? You think you and your mother can get a big tree up those stairs all by yourselves?"

"Well," said Andrew, elaborately casual, "you could come with us, if you wanted to. Then you could help us."

Oh boy, Karen thought. Subtle as a truck. She drew a quick breath. "Listen, you don't-"

"Sure, I guess I could do that," Tony interrupted, imitating Andrew's carefully offhand manner. "I'll give you guys a hand. What time you planning to go?"

"I hadn't really thought," Karen said. "When-ever's convenient for you…" Inexplicably, she felt a desire to cry.

"Well," Tony said, "why don't we go early, then? That storm's supposed to get here tomorrow night. Why don't I pick you up around noon? We can go get some hamburgers or something, pick up the tree and get back before it hits. How's that?"

"Yeah!" said Andrew.

"That's… fine." Karen stood, hurriedly gathered up plates and pizza crusts. "Thank you-that's really… very nice of you," she said, and fled to the kitchen.

Alone, she steadied her hands on the edge of the sink and stared at her reflection in the dark window. What's happening to me? she thought, trying to quiet the panic that was rampaging through her insides. Something's happening, and I don't know what to do about it!

It's too soon.

But that wasn't true, not anymore. It had been five years. And it seemed that Andrew had grown tired of waiting for her miracle to happen and had simply taken matters into his own hands.

But what about the miracle? The miracle of love, real love, the kind that lasts forever, the kind that she had known with Andrew's father and that had been so cruelly taken away from her. The kind she had believed she would never know again.

Right now, for the first time in five years, she wasn't sure of that. She wasn't sure of anything. Something was happening to her, and she was frightened.

For the rest of the evening Karen tried her best to avoid the living room. She carried in two more glasses of milk, carried out the last remains of the pizza, and spent more time than was really necessary tidying up the dishes and scouring the sink, running water to drown out the unfamiliar sound of a masculine voice. When she ran out of chores, she sat down to write a Christmas card/thank-you letter to Bob's mother. But after "Dear Elaine… " and ten minutes of listening for the sound of the mousetrap, she abandoned the effort.

After all that, when she finally did gather her courage and return to the living room, both Tony and her son were so engrossed in what they were doing that they didn't seem to notice she was there. She spent several moments gazing at the two dark heads-how uncannily alike they were!-and bathing in the warm, syrupy feelings that vision evoked within her, then retired to her bedroom, where she spent the next hour or so ironing.

And trying not to think. Which was, of course, like reading a sign that implores you to ignore it. The more she told herself not to think about Tony, the more his name seemed to fill her mind, flashing like neon, first one color then another: Tony. Tony!

It seemed so unlikely. Almost impossible. It had come out of nowhere, so suddenly, so surprisingly. But… when she did allow herself to think about him, really think about him, remembering the way he looked at her sometimes, the feel of his hands enfolding hers, the contrast between the gruffness of his voice and the kindness of his actions… her stomach felt hollow and her skin too hot. Tony…

No! It's too soon, she told herself, pressing her cold fingers to her burning cheeks. Too soon to know whether or not to believe in second miracles.

Andrew knocked on the door to say good-night promptly at eight-thirty, which surprised Karen a little. She'd expected him to put up a fight and beg to stay up later, especially since it was Friday and there wasn't any school tomorrow. She didn't want to ask about it and maybe embarrass him in front of Tony, so she just kissed him, reminded him as usual to brush his teeth and told him that she would be in later to tuck him in.

Tony was in the living room, putting the lid back on the last can of paint. He stood up when she came in and made a gesture with his hand that took in the newspapers spread out on the carpet, the paint-spattered paper towels, the brushes soaking in a jam jar on the coffee table, the towels and engine parts neatly arranged on a flannel cloth.

"Sorry about the mess," he said in the gruff way that was already becoming familiar to her. "Is it okay if we leave it there? I guess I could have moved everything over there by the window, out of the way, but I figured that's where you'd want to put your tree. If you'd rather-"

"No, no, it's all right," Karen hastily assured him. "I don't mind."

There was a curiously awkward little silence, and then Karen said, "Well, did you-" just as Tony said, "Well, I guess I'd better-" They both laughed, and Tony reached for his jacket while Karen tried again. "Did you get a lot accomplished?"

He shrugged his jacket on, making it an answer to her question at the same time. "Hard to say," he said with a little half smile. "I've never worked on an engine that small before."

"But," Karen persisted as she followed him to the door, "you do still think you can get it to run?"

He paused and looked at her. "I sure as hell mean to try."

"I know. I didn't-"

"Hey, it's okay." The smile was lurking again, teasing the corners of his mouth. "So I'll see you to-morrow, I guess. I'll pick you up about noon, and we'll go get that tree."

"All right," Karen murmured. "Thank you. It really is… so very ni-"

"Shh." His finger touched her lips, tingling as if it carried its own electrical current. "Don't say it."

She stared at him, her heart hammering so hard it rocked her, until it seemed as if the silence might go on forever, as if the dryness in her throat was permanent, and she would never speak again.

But the silence wasn't permanent; it lasted for only a second, perhaps two. The sound that broke it wasn't loud, but as shocking in that stillness as cannon fire.

SNAP.

With one small, anguished cry, Karen lurched forward and buried her face in the nylon softness of Tony's jacket.

"Bingo," he said, with sympathy but no apparent surprise.

The instant she felt his arms come around her, she pulled away from him, but it was already too late; his warmth was in her bones, his masculine smell under her skin, awakening dormant instincts and responses. She whispered, "I'm sorry… " and brushed at the front of his jacket as if trying to set it to rights. But, of course, it wasn't the clothes that wanted tidying- just her own chaotic emotions.

Tony wasn't saying anything. His hands were still on her shoulders, palms flat against her back, thumbs lightly stroking. His eyes were warm chocolate, perhaps a little amused.

"I'm sorry," she said again, forcing herself to quiet her hands. Her nerves were fluttering like moths in syrup. "It was an accident. That awful thing startled me-"

"Accident, huh?" His voice was a soft growl. "Well, this isn't… "

It was the same little struggle they'd had before. He felt the resistance in her tense shoulders, in the fists pressed against his chest, in that one quick gasp just before he kissed her. Surrender came gradually, by degrees. He felt it first in her mouth, the trembling, the softening, the slight parting of her lips, followed almost instantly by the faintest of sighs. Her hands stopped pushing against him; the fists slowly uncurled; her fingers opened and spread across his chest in a widening pool of warmth. The temptation was strong to pull her closer, to let himself feel her body all along his and explore the warmth beyond those sweetly parted lips. But there was still that tightness in her muscles, the last bastions of her resistance, so he kept it light, a tentative kind of kiss, and left the options to her.

She ended it finally, twisting her mouth away from the gentle contact as if it were a struggle, tilting her face down so that his lips brushed her forehead instead. A tremor rippled through her; she muttered something he couldn't hear.

"Hmm?" he said, massaging her shoulders, monitoring the tension in them.

"Nothing," she whispered, and shook her head. "I didn't say anything."

She couldn't tell him, because she didn't know herself. It could have been any one of the panicky phrases that were ricocheting around in her head: It's too soon! It's been too long! It's not supposed to feel like this! It feels too good… too good!

It's not fair, she thought. She wasn't prepared for this. No one had told her that beginning to feel again would be so painful and confusing. Or so frightening.

"You're shaking," Tony murmured. "Does it upset you that much?"

"Upset me?" She hedged, thinking wildly, Oh God, can he see inside me? Do I betray so much?

"I'll take care of it for you, if you want me to." His voice was soft and warm, like his eyes.

The mouse. Karen closed her eyes. Of course, he was talking about the mouse. "Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."

"Stay here." His lips brushed her forehead, and then he was gone.

Karen let her breath out slowly and sank down on the arm of the couch. Her legs were shaking and her heart was beating like-she glanced at the clutter on the floor at her feet and gave a shaken laugh-like a runaway freight train, what else! She sat still, counting her heart's frantic cadence, until Tony came through the kitchen door.

She rose and said bravely, "Well?"

He lifted his shoulders and held out his hands. "Nothing. No mouse."

"What?"

"Nada. Looks like the crafty little devil took your bait and got clean away."

"He got away?" Karen said incredulously, giving him a long, narrow look. Her heart was slowly filling with suspicion-a wonderful, shimmering, golden suspicion.

Tony gave another eloquent shrug. He looked, Karen thought, exactly like an altar boy with a frog under his surplice. "Must have. The trap's empty. Guess you'll just have to try again."

She said with a shaky laugh, "Well… maybe I'll just wait until after Christmas."

He laughed, too. "Good idea. A holiday reprieve. Well… if everything's okay, I guess I'll see you tomorrow." He touched her chin with a knuckle, nudged it upward and brushed her mouth with his. And before she could do more than catch a quick, surprised breath he murmured, "Good night," and went out the door.

Karen stood where he'd left her, absolutely transfixed. He'd lied. Joy and warmth and wonder filled her. He'd lied about the mouse; she was certain of it. He'd disposed of the mouse and then lied about it to spare her pain. What a sweet, beautiful, wonderful thing to do!

In a daze, she wandered into the kitchen. The mousetrap lay on the countertop, disarmed and empty, with not a trace of the peanut butter-smeared cracker she'd used for bait-or anything more grisly-in evidence. She picked it up by one corner and dropped it into a drawer, then leaned her hands on the edge of the sink and stared at her reflection in the dark window. Her face stared back at her, pale and somber and frightened.

Yes! she thought, gripping the cold porcelain while shivers of excitement cascaded through her body. I'm scared-and why not? Falling in love is always scary. And so are miracles.

The next day was dark and cold, with lowering clouds and the promise of snow. December twenty-first, the first day of winter, the shortest day of the year.

After breakfast, while Andrew went to work painting the caboose, Karen mixed up a batch of cookie dough and put it in the refrigerator. While she waited for it to harden, she finished the letter to her former mother-in-law and wrote brief notes in several Christmas cards, some of them to couples who had been friends of hers and Bob's. As always, there was a certain poignancy in the ritual, but this year, for the first time, she was conscious of a growing sense of distance. As if, she thought, she were on a fast-moving train that was carrying her steadily farther and farther away from the times and places of her life with Bob, until now they seemed to her no more real than dots on a distant horizon.

When the dough was hard, she cleared away the Christmas cards and took out the rolling pin and cookie cutters. Andrew heard the preparations and came in begging to help, as he always did. But Karen took one look at his paint-stained hands and sent him outside to play, promising that he could help with the frosting and decorating, which was his favorite part, anyway.

The time passed quickly, while Karen rolled dough and cut out Christmas shapes the way her grandmother had taught her when she was no older than Andrew. "It's the lemon flavoring that makes the difference," she could almost hear her grandmother say. "Put more flour on your rolling pin, Kary, dear…"

Christmas trees and bells and wreaths, stars and angels, Santas and snowmen. "Not too thick, now…and take them out of the oven when the first tinge of brown shows on the edges!"

Karen was just taking the last pan full of cookies out of the oven when she heard Tony's knock. She carefully slid the cookies onto a dish towel, dropped both the pan and pot holder into the sink, and wiped her hands on her jeans while she took one last look around. Then she went to answer the door.

"Hi," Tony said, breaking into a grin when he saw her. He sounded out of breath, whether from the cold or because he'd sprinted up the stairs Karen couldn't guess. It didn't matter; she was too winded herself to answer his greeting, or to even gasp when he suddenly reached out and brushed at something on her cheek. "Flour," he explained, the smile warming his eyes. "Been baking something?"

"Just some cookies," Karen said, sheepishly rubbing her cheeks. "Oh dear, do I have it all over me? That always happens, I don't know why."

"It's okay. It looks cute on you." As casual and easy as if last night had never happened, as if he'd never even thought of kissing her, as if he'd been walking in and out of her house all his life, Tony moved past her and headed for the kitchen, sniffing the air like a hunting dog hot on the scent. "Hmm… smells good. Can I have one?"

Karen hurried after him, dithering like an overprotective mother. "Well, they're not finished yet. I don't know…"

"Christmas cookies!" Tony's hand hovered over the cookies cooling on the dish towel. He selected a reindeer and gave Karen a look that would have melted a Scrooge's heart. "Please?"

Karen managed a laugh and a grudging, "Oh, all right, if you must. But just wait until you see them all decorated. We make the prettiest Christmas cookies in the world. And the best tasting, too."

"Hmm," Tony muttered with his eyes twinkling and his mouth full. "And she's modest, too."

"Oh, it's true," Karen said simply. "Everyone always says so. My grandmother and I always made them when I was a child." She smiled, remembering. "All my cousins would come to help with the decorating-nobody wanted to be left out-but I was her special helper, because I lived with her."

"How come?"

She glanced at him and shrugged, keeping it light and offhand, because she didn't want him to think she considered herself unfortunate to have been raised by warm, loving grandparents. "My mother died when I was a baby, and… I never knew my father."

Tony's eyes were dark and intent. "No brothers and sisters?"

"No," Karen said, "just me." She smiled and added softly, "Now it's just Andrew and me."

"Hmm." Frowning, Tony popped the last of the cookie into his mouth and brushed crumbs from his fingers. "Speaking of the kid, where is he?"

"I sent him outside for some fresh air. He should be… " Karen leaned over the sink to look out the window. "Yes, there he is… Oh, look, there's Mr. Clausen. I wonder what they're doing?"

"Mr. Clausen?"

"My neighbor," Karen said, and caught her breath as Tony brushed against her, reaching past her to twitch the curtain out of the way. "He lives upstairs."

Tony's laugh gusted warmly past her ear and teased the wisps of hair on her temple. "Looks just like Santa Claus, doesn't he?"

Karen snorted. "That's what Andrew says." But when she turned to give Tony an exasperated look, she found that his face was closer to hers than she'd expected. And suddenly it was hard to be exasperated about anything… or even to think clearly. She frowned in concentration and whispered, "I'm… a little concerned about him."

"Why?" It was a soft, warm sound that barely altered the shape of his mouth.

"Because… " His mouth… so close to hers. "He still believes in Santa Claus."

A smile hovered, just a breath away. "Don't you?"

"Don't I… believe in Santa-" She blinked, straightened and turned blindly back to the window, her heart beating in a crazy, uneven rhythm. "He doesn't get outside enough, that's the problem. He reads too much. He needs to play with other children more. I wish-"

"Careful… " His hands turned her; his finger touched her lips, lightly, as it had the night before. "Don't forget, it's the season for wishes." The smile on his lips faltered, then tilted wryly. "Hey, don't wish for something unless you know what you're getting into. Believe me, having a bunch of kids around all the time isn't all it's cracked up to be."

Karen whispered, "You sound as if you know." His hands were on her shoulders; she could feel the energy in them, like a force field that shut out the rest of the world and pulled her into his orbit.

"I know," he said harshly. "I'm one of seven kids, remember? Four sisters, two brothers. Hey, if your son likes to read, maybe it's because he was born that way. Maybe he's glad he's got space to call his own, and peace and quiet when he wants it, and privacy. Some kids need those things, you know?"

His eyes were dark, intent… and filled with a certain wistfulness. Karen's heart filled up and turned right over; understanding and insight made a lovely star burst inside her. "Some kids," she said softly, touching his face with her fingertips. "Like… you?"

Of course… A shy, private child in a noisy, gregarious household-was that why he'd taken to Andrew? Did he see himself in her quiet, reserved, bookish little boy?

All through her, in every part of her, emotions were burgeoning. She held very still, feeling the smooth, hard edge of Tony's jaw in her hand, the moist warmth of his breath on her thumb… and smiled as she listened to the chaos inside herself, the tinkling, shimmering sound of a miracle-in-progress.

Tony's lips formed a kiss on the sensitive pad of her thumb; his hands moved inward to the base of her neck, his thumbs describing tender circles on her throat, stroking upward toward the soft underside of her chin. She held her breath and watched his eyes come closer…

"Mom!" The front door crashed back on its hinges. "Mom," Andrew shouted, "guess what-it's snowing!"

Chapter Five

Tony's hands shifted back to her shoulders, then lifted. She let her hand drop away from his face, touched the center of his chest briefly, then took a step away from him, and in a carefully neutral voice called, "In here, sweetheart." She felt shaky, as if she'd been too abruptly awakened from a deep sleep. She felt cold and isolated, as if she were a lost traveler and Tony's arms were a safe warm haven, just beyond reach.

Though he didn't say anything, the look Tony gave her as he widened the space between them must have mirrored her own-one brief glance, searing as a whiplash, full of irony and longing.

Andrew burst into the kitchen, as excited as Karen had ever seen him. "Mom! Hi, Tony! Hey, look out the window. It's starting to snow!"

"Sure is," Tony confirmed, and turned to Andrew with a grin of masculine communion. "Looks like it's coming in early. Well, kid, we'd better get that tree while we still can. You ready to go?"

"Andrew," Karen interjected, "what in the world have you got there?"

Andrew said, "Yeah… just a minute," to Tony and went on with what he was doing, which was taking small, fuzzy brown balls out of his pockets and placing them on the kitchen table. When he'd emptied every pocket, he unzipped his jacket and let an ava-lanche of the things tumble out onto the table, a chair and the floor. He was beaming, bright-eyed and rosy with pride and cold.

"Look-sycamore balls! Mr. Clausen said I could paint them, to make decorations for our tree. We have the paint, right, Tony? Isn't that cool, Mom? And there's hundreds of them out there-except some of them are already coming apart, and they're really itchy. Mr. Clausen says not to get 'em on your skin, or they'll give you a rash. What do you think, Mom? See, we don't have to buy any more decorations, we can just make a whole bunch of these!"

"Sycamore balls," Karen said faintly. "Where on earth do you suppose Mr. Clausen got such an idea?"

"Mr. Clausen-" Andrew began, then paused and, with a curiously wary and secretive look, shrugged and said neutrally, "Mr. Clausen knows a lot of things. Maybe because he's old."

"Huh, we used to do these when I was a kid." Tony picked up a ball by its stem, and dangled it between his thumb and forefinger. "Must have been just about every year from kindergarten to third grade. There was a great big old sycamore in the schoolyard, and every fall we'd gather these things and paint 'em for Christmas. We used to dip them in glitter, too."

"Cool! Can we get some glitter, Mom?"

"If we don't get a tree, there won't be anything to hang 'em on," Tony pointed out, dropping the sycamore ball and dusting his hands. "Come on, Andy, let's get this show on the road!"

Karen stifled a gulp of protest as he picked up a star-shaped cookie on the way out the door. Andrew looked at her, grinned, selected a Christmas tree for himself and followed.

"The old guy's right about the itching," she heard Tony confide to her son as they crossed the living room together. "I used to chase the girls with 'em and put 'em down their necks. Especially my sisters-boy, did they hate that."

"Cool," said Andrew, with his mouth full of cookie.

Tony couldn't remember when he'd had more fun in a snowstorm. To accommodate the tree, and because he'd been expecting snow, he'd brought his little four-wheel-drive pickup truck instead of his car, even though it didn't have a very good heater and was going to be a tight squeeze for three. They all piled into the front, Andrew in the middle, laughing, puffing out vapor with every breath and shaking snowflakes all over everything. Tony didn't think he'd ever seen anything prettier than Karen's blond hair with snow melting in it, like tiny glittering stars.

When "Jingle Bell Rock" came on the radio, Karen surprised the heck out of him by starting to sing along. Andrew pretended to be embarrassed at first, but after a while, when Tony started to sing "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer," he laughed so hard he almost fell off the seat. And by the time they got to the tree lot they were all singing along with Elvis's "Blue Christmas" at the top of their lungs.

The biggest tree they could find was a ten-footer, which disappointed Andrew a little bit, until Tony pointed out that once they got it on a stand and put a star on top of it, it was going to be another foot taller, at least. As it was, it took all three of them to get it into the truck and lashed down, and it hung out the back so far they had to tie a red ribbon to the tip of it.

Tony had promised hamburgers, so they went into the Hamburger Chalet, which was a new, touristy kind of place that had just opened up in the shopping center next door to the tree lot. Andrew insisted on sitting where they could keep an eye on the truck, in case anybody tried to steal the tree, which Tony figured was what came of living too long in a place like L. A. They all agreed that the Chalet had pretty good hamburgers, though Tony didn't think they were as good as the ones at Dan's Drive-in out on the highway, where the crowd used to hang out back in his high school days.

For some reason he got to thinking about all the girls he'd dated then and in the years since, all the girls who'd sat across the table from him as Karen was right now, dipping French fries in ketchup and throwing him tentative smiles. He wondered how it was that he hadn't wound up married to one or another of them, all settled down by this time, as most of his friends were-and his brothers and sisters, too-with a couple of kids apiece. Not for want of effort on the part of his family, that was for sure! Especially his sisters, who never let a month go by without trying to set him up with somebody, and his mother, who was always lamenting that he was over thirty now, and time was passing him by. Why, he wondered, had he resisted the invitation in those smiles, and all of his sisters' schemings and his mother's pleadings?

Then he looked at the woman sitting across from him, blond hair falling across her cheek and dipping into the collar of her threadbare coat… blue eyes seeking his from time to time, sometimes shy and puzzled, and other times shining with a strange and contagious excitement. And he thought he knew why. Somehow, when he looked at this woman, things happened inside him. He felt things he'd never felt before… thought about things he'd never thought about before. When he looked at Karen, he thought about going to bed with her, which wasn't unusual. But he also thought about sleeping all night long with her cuddled up beside him, and having her there when he woke up in the morning. And he found himself thinking about babies and private jokes, and the way his mother and father still looked at each other, and held hands in church.

"What?" Karen asked suddenly, smiling but uncertain. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Nothing," he said, grinning at her.

"Just… looking, I guess."

"Oh God-don't tell me, do I have ketchup on my face?"

"No," he assured her tenderly, "you don't have ketchup on your face. Maybe just a little flour on your nose, though."

"Andrew, tell me the truth. Do I have ketchup on my face?"

"No, Mom. Honest."

"All right." Pink and flustered, she turned that fierce blue glare back to Tony and demanded, "Then what were you thinking?"

"Nothing," he insisted, laughing as his chest expanded with all the things he couldn't say to her yet. "I was just… thinking. Nothing important."

Nothing important. For the first time in his life, Tony was thinking about forever.

By the time they started home with the tree, the snow was coming down in big, fat flakes and beginning to stick to the sidewalks and rooftops. The main streets glistened black and wet, reflecting headlights and Christmas lights in the midafternoon dusk, but on the quiet residential streets, car tracks left meandering ribbons on blankets of pristine white. It wasn't bad yet, but getting thick enough to make Tony glad he'd brought the four-wheel-drive.

He and Karen left Andrew making snowballs on the front walk while they carried the tree up the stairs. They made so much noise laughing and falling down and trying to shush each other that Mrs. Goldrich came out to see what was going on.

Karen immediately straightened her face and said solemnly, "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Goldrich."

With all the dignity he could muster, Tony echoed it. "Yeah, Merry Christmas, Mrs. Goldrich."

The landlady grunted and went back into her apartment, muttering something about paying for any damage to the woodwork. The instant the door closed after her, Karen and Tony collapsed, snorting and giggling, into each other's arms.

Eventually, pulling and tugging, swearing and laughing and getting in each other's way, they did manage to get the tree up the stairs, through the door and into Karen's living room. Tony stood it upright in front of the bay window, right in the center of the loop of train track, and they both stood back to admire it. Then they looked at each other-sweaty, dusty, cov-ered with pitch and pine needles-and the last fitful chuckles sighed away into silence.

A second later she was in his arms, and he was kissing her with a hunger he hadn't even known about until that moment, plundering her mouth as if he were a parched and weary wanderer and she the life-giving spring. Searching her mouth, holding her as if he knew that everything he'd ever needed, wanted, or dared hope for, was right there, in her.

When she pulled her mouth away from his, she was shaking like a leaf. He folded her close and held her while their hearts knocked in crazy, mixed rhythms, and finally said in a ragged whisper, "I've been wanting to do that all day."

"Really?" Her voice was weak and faint; he could feel her arms holding tightly to him, and her face pressing into the curve of his neck.

"Longer than that, actually. A lot longer." He separated himself from her just far enough so he could slip his fingers under her chin. He wanted to see her face, her mouth still swollen and moist from his kiss, her eyes dazed and sultry. Even in the semidarkness of premature twilight he could see his own hunger reflected in her eyes. "Yeah," he said softly, "and I think I'm going to have to do it again…"

But he didn't, not right away. Because this time he wanted to take his time about it, think about it, imagine her lips coming to rest against his, opening under his, the warm, sweet taste of her on his tongue. He wanted to watch her eyes while he slipped his hand inside her coat and discovered the palm-fitting curve of her breast, and under it the trip-hammer beat of her heart.

She gave a sharp gasp when he touched her there, and closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the longing in them. It had been so long, and she'd almost forgotten the feeling. But had it ever felt so wonderful, or so terrible, this pleasure that was almost pain? Oh, how she wanted-but in the next moment, instead of leaning into his hand and inviting further explorations as she wanted to do so badly, she was wrenching herself away from him, trembling.

He called her name in a voice she hardly recognized. "Karen… " And then he said it once again on. a soft exhalation as he registered the sound she'd heard already: Andrew's footsteps, clomping up the stairs.

"Hey," Andrew said as he burst into the room, an avalanche of melting snow and childish enthusiasm, "it looks great, doesn't it? And you can see it from down there in the yard, just like I thought. Let's put the decorations on it right now. Can we, Mom?"

"Of course," Karen said faintly. "I'll get them… "

Tony, who'd been standing with his back to them, finally turned and said with gravel in his voice, "What we need to do is anchor this monster to the ceiling so it won't fall over. You wouldn't happen to have a stepladder, would you?"

Karen shook her head. Andrew said, "Mrs. Gold-rich has one. Out in the backyard, by the porch where the washing machine is."

"All right." Tony snapped his fingers at Andrew and growled, "Hey, let's go get it. What are we waiting for? Lead the way."

As he followed Andrew out the door, he threw Karen a look that made her insides react in strange, exciting ways. A look of frustration and promise.

By the time they came back with the ladder, she had her meager supply of decorations spread out on the couch, the ones she and Bob had bought for their tiny coffee table tree their first Christmas together, the year Andrew was born. A box of unbreakable red balls, some white plastic snowflakes, a few feet of silver tinsel garland, a single string of lights, and a crumpled gold foil star. She touched the star, remembering how dismayed they'd been when Bob had stepped on it accidentally while backing up to admire the tree, and how they'd comforted each other, and finally laughed about it and decided to keep it anyway, to always remember that first Christmas…

"It's not much for such a big tree, is it?" she said, clearing her throat as Tony came up behind her. "One string of lights isn't going to go very far."

"It's a start." He had that particular gruffness in his voice that meant he was going to say or do something nice. "And… I've probably got a couple of strings lying around my place we can add to it. Um-" he coughed and shifted uncomfortably "-if you want me to, I can bring 'em tomorrow."

"That would be-" she paused, then, with a soft, inward smile, substituted for that forbidden word, nice "-great! But are you sure you don't need them?"

"Nah, I don't need 'em. I hadn't planned to put up a tree this year, actually. Too much trouble. I'm going to my folks for Christmas, anyway."

"Oh," Karen said. "I see. Well, then… "

"I always go to my parents' place Christmas Day," Tony said. "For dinner, and… you know. Traditional family get-together."

"That's… nice."

"Yeah."

They stood side by side in silence, watching Andrew maneuver the ladder into place astride the train track. Then Karen said, "What about Christmas Eve?"

"Christmas Eve?" Tony coughed and rubbed his nose. "I hadn't actually made any plans."

"Well," Karen said, and took a deep breath, "would you like to come over here? It will just be Andrew and me. Nothing special, but… we'd like to have you, if you don't have anything else planned. I know Andrew-"

"Okay," Tony said, "I'll come." He sort of squinted up at the top of the tree, then looked down at her. "If… you come with me to my folks' house on Christmas Day."

"Come… with you?" Warmth and wonder flooded her. She turned to him slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure."

"They won't… your family won't mind?"

She was a little puzzled when Tony burst out laughing. "You have no idea," he said, still chuckling, "how happy they're going to be to meet you!"

The early winter night was upon them by the time they'd finished hanging the decorations-including Andrew's polyhedron-on the tree. The single string of lights winked bravely from the topmost branches and was multiplied by its reflection in the dark window. Outside, the snow fell silently, drifting on the windowsills like painted-on holiday trimmings.

While Andrew and Tony returned the ladder to its proper place, Karen opened two cans of soup- chicken noodle for herself and Andrew, and mine-strone for Tony. They ate in the kitchen. While the snowflakes sifted past the windows, Tony told Andrew stories of boyhood adventures and mishaps in the snow.

Watching them, listening to the sounds of their voices, laughing with them, Karen felt warm and contented and happy. Happier than she'd thought she could ever be again. So happy it scared her. Because she knew how fragile such happiness was, and how suddenly it could all be taken away. The fear blew through her like a blizzard wind, shaking her so that she had to get up and leave the table, for fear they would see it and ask her what was wrong.

How could she explain such fear? How could she tell anyone that, standing at the sink looking out at the swirling snow, she felt the same cold inside herself, even though the room behind her was filled with the warmth of laughter and much-loved voices? I'm afraid of happiness, she thought, her heart trembling with both those emotions. I'm afraid of loving again. I'm falling in love with Tony, but- Oh God, how would I stand it if I ever lost him? How could I survive that again?

Watching her, Tony felt the struggle in her as surely as he'd felt it that morning in his office when he'd held her unwilling hands closed around the keys to his car. He could see it in her rigid shoulders, in the white-knuckled hand on the edge of the sink. It was a battle of wills, only this time she was fighting herself, and he wasn't sure which side was winning.

Damn it, he thought, frustration lancing through him, why is she fighting it? Something this good-and it was good, he was sure of it-why didn't she just let it happen? It took all of his willpower to keep from throwing himself into the middle of her battle, to keep from going to her right then and there, putting his arms around her and telling her it would all work out fine if only she'd just stop fighting it.

The evening seemed long to Karen, full of tensions and undercurrents to which Andrew, happily, seemed totally oblivious. He worked diligently on the train, painting with his usual deliberation and painstaking care, while Tony reduced the switchbox to an indistinguishable litter of parts and pieces. It didn't look to Karen like anything that could possibly be in working order by Christmas, but Andrew seemed to have no doubts. He chattered away to Tony about how "cool" it was going to be to have the train chugging around the tree on Christmas morning, and how neat it would be to build tunnels and a village for it to run through. Karen just hoped he wasn't setting himself up for a big disappointment.

She spent the evening sitting cross-legged on the carpet, dipping sycamore balls in acrylic paint and spreading them out on waxed paper to dry. And nervously watching the clock. She didn't know whether she was looking forward to being alone with Tony or dreading it, but the closer it got to eight-thirty, the more butterflies there were rampaging around in her stomach.

In any case, inevitably, eight-thirty did arrive, and once again Karen was surprised to receive no arguments from Andrew in response to the gentle reminder that it was his bedtime. He seemed, in fact, to have anticipated the moment, because the paint he'd been using was already put away, and when Tony sternly asked him if he'd cleaned his brush, he held it up and said proudly, "Yep-see?"

That alone woke Karen's suspicions. They grew by leaps and bounds when her son took off his glasses, gave a huge, stagey yawn and, blinking like a sleepy owl, announced, "I'm pretty tired. Guess I'll turn in… 'Night, Tony. 'Night, Mom."

Turn in? He'd never said that before in his life.

In the doorway, Andrew half turned. "You don't have to tuck me in," he said earnestly. "Just go right on with what you're doing."

That was Andrew, subtle as a truck! Karen was so bemused she even forgot to tell him to brush his teeth.

"What's funny?" Tony asked. She was trying her best to stifle her laughter by burying her face in her hands.

"Oh… nothing." But she made the mistake of looking at him, and just like that the laughter died. Her heart began to hammer painfully; she made a tiny, throat-clearing sound and looked away again. "Well," she said, nodding at the dismantled switchbox and the array of tools spread out on the coffee table, "how's it coming? Do you think you can get it to work?"

"Hey," Tony growled, ignoring her question, "come on up here." Shifting a little to make room, he leaned over, caught her hand and pulled her up beside him. "Forget the damn train. I think you and I have some unfinished business…"

Chapter Six

" 'Unfinished business… '" Karen whispered, looking toward the doorway to the hall. She could still hear the sounds of water running, and the indeterminate bumps and thumps Andrew made getting ready for bed.

"Does it bother you?" Tony asked softly, following her glance. He didn't have to say any more.

She smiled and shook her head. "No… in fact… " Her gaze shifted to her hand, which was still clasped in his. His thumb had begun to stroke lightly back and forth along the tendons in the back of her hand, and to explore the sensitive places between the fingers. She caught her breath. "I think he knows."

"You mean this 'Guess I'll turn in' business?"

She nodded, laughing. "He's never been this cooperative about bedtime in his whole life."

Their chuckles merged, stirring eddies of warm air across each other's faces. Tony's fingers touched her chin, rubbed along her jaw, gently persuading. When she lifted her eyes to his, he smiled into them and murmured, "Well, since we seem to have his blessing… where were we?"

"That's about the place," Karen whispered, sick and dizzy with wanting.

When his lips touched hers, she made a sound, something between a whimper and a gasp; her chest tightened, and all her emotions surged joyously. His fingers fanned along her cheekbone and pushed into her hair, holding her head in a warm embrace while his mouth covered hers, sank into hers… slowly, deeply. She sighed and felt that tender merging all through her body, in every part of her, in the tingling, shivering places and the hot, throbbing places, and, most of all, in the empty aching places deep within her heart. Tears sprang to her eyes. She gave a single shuddering sob and pulled away.

But Tony's fingers held her, spreading through her hair, refusing to let her go, gently guiding her face upward, compelling her to look at him. "What is it?" he asked softly. "I don't want to rush you. If it's too soon…?"

She shook her head and said in a distraught and rapid whisper, "No, it's not that. It's been so long- I don't have any control. I'm afraid I can't… I can't trust my judgment!"

His laughter caressed her lips. His tongue teased and cajoled them, inviting them to join his smile. "Sweetheart, I think this is the time for letting go of control. It's not a matter of judgment, it's just… instinct. Don't try to think too much."

"But I have to think! It's happening too fast. I don't know you!"

Oh, but she did… she did. She knew all that was important to know. She knew that he was honest and compassionate, patient and generous. She knew that he was shy and reserved, which only made the intimate things he shared with her the more miraculous and wonderful. She knew that he smiled with his eyes.

Only, his eyes weren't smiling now. Dark, grave and compassionate, they gazed steadily into hers. "Baby," he said softly, "how long has it been?"

She closed her eyes. "Five years."

"And in all that time, you mean to tell me there hasn't been anyone else?"

"No," she whispered. "No one."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, I guess… I just wasn't ready."

"And now?"

And now… She opened her eyes and looked at him-at his beautiful face, its dark-fringed eyes, chiseled features and warm, sensitive mouth. For some reason it didn't seem so paralyzingly handsome to her anymore, just… very, very dear. Oh God, she thought, reaching with trembling fingers to touch him. How did this happen? In such a short time, how did this face come to be so dear to me? How did this man come to mean so much to me? All of a sudden she felt naked… exposed… frightened. Tears welled up and overflowed. She put up her hands in a futile attempt to stem the tide and sobbed, "I don't know!"

There was a long silence, broken only by a muffled sniff. Then Tony lowered his head and kissed her, gently licking the salty tears from her lips. "You were right," he said in the gruff and tender voice she loved. "It's moving too fast for you. You're not ready. You'll know when you are. Let me know, okay?"

No! she wanted to cry. I am ready! I don't know what's the matter with me… But, overcome with emotion, she could only grip his wrists tightly and nod.

"Hey, it's okay. I'll see you tomorrow." He kissed her once more, lightly, and stood up. Karen stood up, too, brushing at her wet cheeks. He hesitated, reached out as if to touch her, then let his hand drop. "Don't cry," he said in a hoarse whisper, and then he left her.

Karen was glad the next day was Sunday and that she didn't have to fight her way to work, since she had no experience whatsoever driving in snow and would probably have ended up in a ditch somewhere-or worse. Andrew, of course, couldn't wait to bundle up and go outside to play, though his winter clothes were woefully inadequate. His Christmas presents were going to have to be on the practical side this year, Karen thought with a pang as she watched him from the bay window, trying to roll snowballs in a pair of her old driving gloves. Boots, mittens and a warm winter coat-not the sort of things to make a little boy's eyes light up on Christmas morning.

But at least there was the train. It would make up for a lot, if only Tony could get it running in time. If only…

Tony came over a little after noon to work on the train, stopping off in the front yard first for a snowy roughhouse with Andrew. They came in together, noisy and laughing, stomping and melting in dirty puddles all over the floor, thereby overriding any awkwardness that might have remained after last night.

After adding the two strings of Christmas lights he'd brought with him to the one already on the tree, Tony settled down to the painstaking task of reassembling the switchbox. Andrew put a second coat of paint on the caboose, and then, bored with that job, spent the rest of the afternoon hanging sycamore balls on the tree and pestering Tony with questions. Karen stayed in the kitchen and decorated cookies by herself.

Just before dinnertime Tony went home, saying he had some things he needed to do and an early workday the next morning, and promising to come back the next night. Andrew didn't argue or try to persuade him to stay, but Karen caught him looking from her to Tony and back again with worry and uncertainty in his eyes. Oh, how her heart ached for him, for his fear and vulnerability! All her instincts yearned to shield and protect him, but she knew she couldn't, not from this. She didn't know any way to protect her child from the pain and risk of loving someone.

After supper, Karen and Andrew tried to do some more work on the train, but without Tony the apartment seemed very quiet and empty, and after a while they gave up and went to bed early.

By the next day the streets were clear, though wet in streaks and patches from melting snow. Karen had intended to take Andrew to work with her, but when they met Mr. Clausen on the front walk, the old man asked if Andrew would like to stay with him instead. Karen had reservations, but Andrew was so enthusiastic about the idea that she gave in, with the stipulation that he was to call her immediately if he had any problems. They both promised readily and earnestly that they would, and went off together hand in hand, beaming at each other with the special glow of Christmas co-conspirators.

Relieved of the responsibility of entertaining Andrew, Karen used her lunch hour to shop for his Christmas presents. With the money she'd saved on car repairs she bought him a warm coat with a hood, rubber boots, and a ski cap and mittens. She also bought an inexpensive calculator, a book of magic tricks and another of silly riddles, a three-dimensional puzzle and some candy canes to put in his Christmas stocking. As for the other people on her list, she'd already brought a big plate of Christmas cookies for Louise and her family, and a smaller one for her boss, Mr. James. She meant to do the same for Mrs. Gold-rich and Mr. Clausen. That left Tony.

There was nothing like trying to think of the right gift, she reflected, to make you realize how little you know about someone. She realized that she didn't even know Tony's size, or what he liked or what he needed. Everything she saw was either too expensive or just seemed wrong, somehow. She supposed she could always give him cookies, too, and she would. She knew he would love them. But she wanted to give him something else, something… more. Something that would tell him how she felt about him. Something that was special to her, as he was. Something that was a part of her. As he was, now.

When she got home, she barely had time to hide her purchases in her bedroom before Andrew came crashing through the front door, looking furtive with his glasses precariously balanced on the end of his nose and a big bulge under his coat. He scuttled sideways through the living room and slammed his bedroom door, emerging a short while later looking calmer, but with an air of suppressed excitement. He made Karen take a solemn oath not to go into his room until after Christmas. She made him do the same.

That night, Tony brought pizza again, and two wrapped presents to put under the tree. While they were eating, a cold wind sprang up, rattling the shutters and whistling under the eaves. Inside, the old house seemed to shiver with delicious Christmas secrets…

On the day before Christmas, the insurance office was due to close at noon, and since it was only for half a day, Karen took Andrew with her to work. On the way home, they stopped at the grocery store to pick up some wrapping paper and ribbon, and a few last-minute things for Christmas Eve dinner. Back at the apartment, Karen put Andrew to work in the kitchen arranging cookies on plates for Mrs. Goldrich and Mr. Clausen, as well as a nice big boxful to take to Tony's family on Christmas Day.

"Leave some for us to eat tonight," she reminded him.

Andrew looked at her over the top of his glasses. "And some for Tony."

Karen smiled a secret smile, thinking of the gift she'd found for Tony. The perfect gift, a part of herself. "It's all right, I've already got his put away."

"Oh," said Andrew casually. "That's all right, then."

"Andrew," Karen said, "I've been thinking. How would you like to invite Mr. Clausen to join us tonight?"

"You could," Andrew said, licking colored sugar off his fingers, "but I don't think he can come."

"Why not?"

He gave her a patient look, lifted one shoulder and said simply, "It's Christmas Eve."

"Oh, Andrew," Karen said, laughing and shaking her head. It was impossible to be exasperated with a child on Christmas Eve for believing in Santa Claus…

While Andrew was busy with the cookies, Karen wrapped all her presents, including Tony's, and put them under the tree. Then she and Andrew went to deliver the cookies to Mrs. Goldrich and Mr. Clausen.

A man answered Mrs. Goldrich's door and introduced himself as her son, Howard. Through the open door Karen could hear voices and laughter and Christmas music being played on the radio. It made her feel glad to know that Mrs. Goldrich would be happy on Christmas Eve, at least. And somewhat relieved. She'd been feeling guilty about not inviting her landlady to join them, since she was going to invite Mr. Clausen.

But no one was home at Mr. Clausen's. After the second knock, Andrew shrugged and said, "I told you."

"Well," Karen said, "we'll just leave them here, in case he comes back." She ran downstairs and wrote a little note, telling him that he was welcome to join them if he got home in time, then tucked it under the plastic wrapping on the plate of cookies and left everything on the floor in front of his door.

By six o'clock the apartment smelled wonderfully of evergreen and chowder and corn muffins and cranberry tarts, the tree looked festive, dressed in red and white painted sycamore balls and wrapping paper ribbons, the three strings of lights twinkling in the window for all the world to see. The presents were all wrapped and under the tree-except for Andrew's, which were still mysteriously locked away in his room.

Bright with multiple coats of fresh paint, the train waited patiently on its track for the power to send it chugging triumphantly 'round and 'round the Christmas tree…

"Well," Karen said, taking a deep breath and a last look around, "I think we're ready." Good heavens, were there butterflies in her stomach?

"' 'Twas the night before Christmas,'" Andrew quoted, grinning at her as she tried in vain to flatten his cowlick. " 'And all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.'"

Not even a mouse! Karen's heart gave a guilty little bump. Then she laughed out loud and caught her son in a breathless hug. Of course, she thought, it's the night before Christmas! The whole world has butterflies tonight. Wasn't that the magic of Christmas Eve? The suspense, the anticipation, the waiting… the feeling that something wondrous was about to happen.

Tony had butterflies in his stomach when he knocked on Karen's door. The electric train's switch-box was under his arm. He felt like he was seventeen again, standing on Alison Delovitch's front porch with a florist's corsage box under his arm and cold sweat running down his armpits-his junior year, the prom, his first formal date. He'd thought he might die of nervousness that night, but it hadn't been anything compared to this.

He knew how much Karen was counting on his getting that train working in time for Christmas. He'd already taken the engine apart and cleaned and oiled everything, and straightened all the sections of track and checked all the connections. Yesterday he'd taken the box home to work on it where he could concentrate without the distraction of her presence, and he was pretty sure he'd done everything that could be done with it. But until he had a chance to hook it up, he wouldn't know how successful he'd been, and the suspense was just about killing him. He didn't want to disappoint her. He didn't think he could stand it if he let her down.

The door opened, and she was standing there, looking as pretty as he figured it was possible for a woman to look, and suddenly there didn't seem to be enough room inside him for air. So he let it out in a rush and said, "Hi. Merry Christmas."

She smiled and said, "Hi. Come in." She was wearing a long skirt with red in it, and a silky white blouse. There were soft lights shining in her eyes and in her hair. "Let me take your coat."

"Here you go, kid." He handed the switchbox to Andrew. Funny, he thought as he struggled awkwardly out of his coat, in the last week he'd probably spent more of his waking time in this house than he had in his own, and now he felt like a stranger. It was Christmas; that was it. There were too many expectations at Christmastime. Everything was supposed to work out right, nobody was supposed to be disappointed…

"Hey, cool," Andrew said. "Did you get it fixed? Can we hook it up and see if it runs?"

Karen threw him a beseeching look. Tony growled, "Nope, not yet. Not until Christmas Day."

Andrew looked a little let down, but he didn't argue. Karen clasped her hands in front of her like an old-fashioned school teacher and said, "Well, dinner's ready. Is anyone hungry?"

They ate in the kitchen, with the lights out and candles on the table, which was something Tony couldn't remember ever having done before. Everything tasted great, he supposed, although he probably wouldn't have noticed if it had been sawdust and wallpaper paste. Afterward, Karen made him a cup of instant coffee, and she and Andrew took their mugs of hot apple cider, and they all went back to the living room to open presents.

They didn't seem to know quite where to start, so Tony got the big box he'd brought for Karen from, under the tree and gave it to her. He had another box for her, a much smaller one, in his pocket. He meant to give it to her later, in private, if things worked out the way he hoped they would. He would just have to wait and see…

"Oh," Karen said, "it's beautiful!" It was an angel, made of stiffened fabric and lace. She looked up and found Tony smiling at her.

"My sister made it," he said, clearing his throat with an endearingly awkward little cough. "It goes on top of the tree."

"Well," she said softly, "let's put it up right now."

Instead of going outside in the cold to get the ladder, Tony lifted Andrew onto his shoulders and held him steady while he took the crumpled star down and put the angel in its place. Then they all stood back to admire it. The angel seemed to smile down on them, her arms spread wide in blessing and protection. It seemed so symbolic, Karen thought as she laid the star in the nest of tissue in the angel's box, put the lid on it and set it aside. She wouldn't throw the star away any more than she would throw away her memories of Bob. She would pack it away along with the other precious things from her past-things like Andrew's baby clothes and her first prom dress. Things she'd outgrown and left behind her long ago…

Andrew was opening his presents with his usual precision and nail-biting suspense, professing delight with everything, especially the mittens. "Hey, cool- now I can make really good snowballs!"

"Uh-oh," Tony said, "I'm in trouble now."

Tony's gift to Andrew was a big, glossy book about trains. "Oh, cool!" Andrew said when he saw it and was instantly engrossed.

"Ours is in here," Tony said, reaching over his shoulder to turn pages. "Look-right there. Isn't that it?"

"Hey, yeah," Andrew said excitedly. "Look, Mom, we can copy this picture when we do the writing!"

Karen agreed, hiding a smile. Our train? She wondered if Tony knew how much he'd given away with that tiny little slip of the tongue. Tenderness swelled her chest and tightened her throat as she took his present from under the tree and placed it on his lap. She sat down beside him to watch him open it, holding her hands clasped tightly together, vibrating inside with tension.

"It's a humidor," she explained as he lifted the mahogany box out of the tissue paper wrappings. "It belonged to my grandfather. My grandmother gave it to me when I was a little girl, to keep my doll clothes in. I know you don't smoke cigars, but you can keep other things in it, like-"

"It's beautiful," Tony said in a muffled voice, stroking the glossy wood with his fingertips.

"Open it," Karen whispered.

He did, and there were the cookies, wrapped and padded with plastic-green sugar Christmas trees and holly wreaths, blue sugar stars and angels, chocolate-sprinkled bells and reindeer, cinnamon imperial candy canes and funny smiling Santas.

"I told you," she said, husky and breathless with tension. "The prettiest Christmas cookies in the world."

Tony just looked at her. She could see the soft Christmas lights reflected in his eyes, along with all the things that were in her own heart that she couldn't say. The warmth in his eyes drew her; their silence enfolded them both like a web…

"My turn!" Andrew said, and they jumped a little, guiltily, hearts bumping.

He went running off to his room and was back in a moment, hiding something behind his back and commanding, "Close your eyes… okay, now you can open them."

Karen did. A small, wondering "Oh… " escaped her as Andrew placed his gift in her hands.

"I made it," he said, self-conscious and proud. "Mr. Clausen showed me how. But I could only make one, so it's for both of you."

It was Santa's sleigh and nine reindeer, on a base of rough pine bark covered with cotton snow. The sleigh was made from a matchbox, with pipe-cleaner runners, and was filled to overflowing with old-fashioned hard Christmas candy. The reindeer were made of clothespins, with pipe-cleaner antlers. The lead reindeer had a tiny red nose.

"Oh, Andrew," Karen said tearfully, "it's the best present I ever got."

"Hey," Tony said, "where's Santa?"

Andrew laughed and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and he and Tony grinned at each other as if they shared a secret.

After that, there was the cleaning up to do, and then it was time for Andrew to go to bed. Once again he went without protest, but he came back in his pajamas to lay his Christmas stocking at the foot of the tree, right beside the train.

Tony wished him a gruff "Merry Christmas, kid." Karen went off to tuck him in and kiss him goodnight. When she came back, Tony was on his knees beside the train track, the electrical plug in one hand.

"Well," he said, looking up at her, "shall we see if it works?"

She knelt down beside him, trying to quell the nervousness inside her. "I guess we'd better…"

Tony put the plug in the socket and turned on the switch. The engine made a churring sound and lurched forward an inch or two. Karen's breath caught; she put her hand over her mouth to hold back a cry of joy.

And then the engine stopped.

Tony swore softly, tinkered with the connections, the track, the engine, and tried again. Again the engine churred, moved a little way along the track and then stopped. While Karen waited in agonized suspense, heart thumping, he tried it again and again. And finally sat back on his heels, shaking his head.

"I guess that's it," he said, his voice husky and muffled. "I've done everything I know how to do. It's just… not going to work." His head was bowed, his broad shoulders slumped with dejection and defeat.

Seeing him like that, her own disappointment, and Andrew's, seemed unimportant. Oh, but his pain… his pain was more than she could bear. It filled her up and overflowed. She touched his shoulder and said brokenly, "Oh, Tony."

He turned in a rush and caught her in his arms. They held on tightly to each other, both whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"I'm sorry." Karen felt the tremors deep inside him as he spoke. "I know how much you wanted-"

"Shh," she said fiercely, "it's all right."

"I'll get it running, if it takes all night. I'll start from scratch. I must have missed a connection somewhere."

"Hush." She took his face between her hands and looked into his eyes. "It's all right. Andrew will understand. You didn't make any promises. He knows you tried." He gripped her wrists and looked away, but she pulled him back. "Oh, Tony," she whispered, while tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, "it doesn't matter. Don't you know that? It doesn't matter. I know it's happened quickly, but I don't care. I love you…"

For a long moment he looked at her, his eyes so dark and intent he seemed angry. Then he closed them and pulled her into his arms. "You love me?" he said wonderingly. She nodded. After a moment she felt him take a deep breath. "I have something for you. I was afraid to give it to you. I figured you weren't ready for it yet. I know it's too soon, but… " He let go of her and leaned back so he could reach into his pocket.

"What's this?" Karen said with a watery sniff as he placed the small velvet box into her hands and opened it for her.

"Just what it looks like." His voice was gruff, more so than she'd ever heard it.

"Oh, Tony… " She touched the shining stone with a wondering finger and began to cry again.

"If it's too soon, just say so. I'll wait until you're ready."

"It's not-oh, Tony, I know I love you, but… I'm scared. I'm afraid."

"What?" he said gently, brushing the tears from her cheek. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid-" she took a deep breath "-of losing you."

"Hey," he said with a shrug and a lopsided smile, "I'm not going anywhere."

"But you don't know that! You can't tell me nothing's ever going to happen to you! Don't make promises you can't keep!"

Now it was Tony who held her face in his hands, refusing to let her go. He felt the tension in her as she fought him, fought herself, her own fears and feelings. "I can't promise you I'm never going to die," he said slowly, roughly, the words hurting inside him. "But I can promise you that I'm going to love you, and Andy, too, until the day I die. That's all I can do. That's all any of us can do, isn't it? Love each other as much as we can, for as long as we have?"

For a long time she looked at him, her blue eyes shimmering with love and tears. "Yes," she whispered at last, "I guess it is."

This time, when he kissed her, she didn't fight it. He felt the leap of joy inside her, and then the melting surrender… and finally the growing and merging… the oneness that he knew would last a lifetime.

When he carried her to bed, neither of them thought of Andrew, or the train, or Christmas. But later, deep in the night, Karen stirred and whispered against his shoulder, "What was that?"

"Hmm," Tony murmured, "what was what?"

"Didn't you hear that? I heard… bells."

He chuckled. "Not me. I was too busy feeling the earth move."

Her arms tightened around him, and for a minute or two they didn't say anything more. But presently she murmured, "I'm sure I heard something. Don't laugh, but it sounded just like sleigh bells."

"Well," Tony said, laughing, "it is Christmas." And then, seriously, "Do you think it could be Andy? Maybe I'd better go."

"No!" Her arms tightened again. "Please, stay a little longer. Just a little longer… "

"As long as you want me to," he said, and kissed her again.

"What's that?"

"Oh no," Tony groaned, "not again."

"No-listen," Karen insisted. "There it goes again. It sounds like-but it can't be!"

"It is," Tony said, sitting up in Karen's bed and dragging a hand through his hair. They looked at each other and said it together, joyously, incredulously. "The train!"

"It can't be," Karen was muttering as she scrambled out of bed and began opening dresser drawers.

"It's morning, Christmas morning. I don't believe this." Tony was pulling on his clothes, looking for his shoes. "I didn't mean to stay. God, Karen, I'm sorry. What's he going to think? Is that really the train?"

It was. They stumbled out of the bedroom, tousled but fully dressed, to find Andrew kneeling in front of the Christmas tree with his stocking across his lap. The train was chugging merrily around the Christmas tree, around Andrew, its whistle shrill and joyful in the coolness of the morning.

"Look!" Andrew said when he saw them. "It works, just like you said it would. I knew you could do it, Tony- I knew it!" He looked about as happy as it was possible for a kid to look and still stay anchored to the ground. Reserved, Tony thought, his heart just about full to bursting with his own emotions. Just like his mother.

"Merry Christmas," Karen whispered, slipping her hand into Tony's. "I guess… miracles do happen sometimes, don't they?"

All Tony could do was shake his head.

Andrew glanced at them, at their clasped hands, and asked in his direct, matter-of-fact way, "Are you going to get married?"

Tony opened his mouth and closed it again. Karen burst out laughing. "Yeah," Tony said gruffly, "I guess we are. Is that okay with you?"

Andrew shrugged. "Sure." He was suddenly very busy with the train, so his voice was muffled when he asked, "So… are you going to be my dad?"

The little boy's head was bowed; his neck looked slender and vulnerable. Tony put his hand on it and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Yeah," he said, "I am."

"Cool," said Andrew. He suddenly gave the locomotive a push and turned in a rush. Tony caught him in a quick, hard hug. Over the boy's head he sought Karen's eyes and found them resting on him, shimmering with love, reflecting the soft Christmas lights.

Epilogue

"Guess what," Andrew said as he sat down to breakfast on the day after Christmas. "Mr. Clausen's gone."

"Gone?" Karen picked up the box of Crispy Oats, looked at the new mouse-nibble on the corner, sighed and set it down. "Has he gone somewhere for the holidays? Do you know when he's coming back?"

Andrew shook his head. "I think he's moved away."

"Strange," Karen murmured. "How do you know? Did Mrs. Goldrich tell you?"

Again Andrew shook his head; his mouth was full of cereal. "Nope. This morning I went to see him. I knocked, and the door opened. So I peeked in."

"Andrew!"

"Well, he was gone, anyway. All his stuff's gone, too." He shrugged. "I'm pretty sure he's moved away."

Karen gave him a long, searching look, thinking it odd that he didn't seem upset, or even very surprised. She was sure Andrew had been genuinely fond of the old man.

"Maybe I ought to go and see," she said, worried now. All sorts of possibilities presented themselves. Mr. Clausen was old-what if he'd had a heart attack, or a fall? What if he were lying helpless and ill-or worse? "I'll go check," she said decisively. "Just to be sure. You stay here."

Andrew just looked at her over the tops of his glasses. "I told you-he's gone."

Andrew was right; the tiny garret apartment was cold and empty. From where Karen stood in the middle of it, she could look out the dormer window at the backyard, where patches of snow still clung to the shady places under the sycamores and along the north sides of fences. No longer lovely, pristine white, it now seemed gray and lifeless-abandoned, like the apartment.

"I wonder why," she said aloud, rubbing at the goose bumps on her arms. "Why would he leave like that, without a word to anybody?"

"Maybe," Andrew said, coming quietly behind her, "he left because it was time."

"Andrew, I told you-" She stopped herself. "What do you mean, 'it was time'?"

"Christmas is over," he said with a shrug. "Maybe it was time to go home."

"Oh… Andrew." Karen sighed and put her hands on her son's small shoulders. "Darling, you don't really believe that Mr. Clausen is Santa Claus, do you?"

"Tony believes in Santa Claus." Andrew's chin was up; his face had that set, stubborn look Karen knew so well. "He told me."

"Honey, listen-"

"And anyway, if he's not Santa Claus, then how come he gave me exactly what I wanted? It has to be him, Mom, he's the only one I told. It must be him." He looked so earnest, so grave, so young…

"You mean you told Mr. Clausen what you wanted for Christmas?" Karen said carefully. Understanding was dawning, revelation coming like a sunrise.

Andrew nodded.

Karen took a deep breath; it seemed that the train mystery was solved at last. And she'd been wrong. "But, darling," she said gently, "why didn't you tell me?"

"Because," he said with heart-wrenching simplicity, "I knew you couldn't get it for me."

"But, sweetheart, if I'd had any idea how much you wanted a train, I would have found some way-"

"Train?" Andrew's voice was puzzled.

"Well… yes," Karen said, taken aback by the bewilderment in her son's face. "Isn't that what you asked Santa- I mean Mr. Clausen-for? The train?"

Andrew shrugged. There was an enigmatic smile-a secret smile-on his lips, and an unreadable look in his eyes. "Of course not," he said. "I asked him for a new dad."

Author's Note

The Christmases of my childhood and young adulthood were always spent at my grandparents' house. A few days before Christmas, we'd pile into my grandfather's old pickup-Mom and my Aunt Mary and Uncle Russell and any cousins and friends who wanted to come along-and drive up the canyon to cut a tree. We'd find a nice, hardy little piñon and Papa would chop it down, and we'd take turns dragging it back to the pickup. The tree would be installed in the living room on a base made from an old tire. It was Mary's job to decorate it, because she was the only one who could put the tinsel on right. In the later years, we had electric lights, but when I was very small, I remember, we still used candles. They were only lit once, on Christmas Night.

On Christmas Day, the family would gather for dinner. If the weather was nice-and it usually was at that time of the year in that lovely little valley tucked between the arid Tehachapi Mountains and the southernmost tip of the Sierra Nevada-the children would sit out on the porch. The grown-ups sat at the big dining room table, expanded for the occasion so that it stuck out into the living room, with Papa in his overalls presiding at the head and Grandmother flitting back and forth between the table and the kitchen, ignoring everyone's pleas to "Sit down, Mama, please!"

In the evening, after the livestock had been fed and the cows milked, everyone gathered again around the Christmas tree. The old farmhouse wasn't large, but somehow it always seemed to hold everyone, sons and daughters and in-laws, all the children and babies- especially the babies! There were always a few "extras," too, because anyone who didn't have a place to go on Christmas was welcome at my grandparents' house. And Grandmother saw to it that every person there had a package under the tree. We'd sing carols for a while, until the kids got restless. Then we'd light the candles on the tree and sit in their glow and sing "Silent Night."

Once the candles had been blown out, it was pandemonium, with kids yelling and paper and ribbons flying. Papa's special gift was always a five-pound box of See's candy, which, for the rest of the evening, he took great pleasure in passing around. Finally, stuffed with pumpkin pie and chocolate, loaded down with packages and sleepy children, everyone would drift away. But never very far away. Because to each and every one of us, that old farmhouse was home. And every day my grandparents lived in it was Christmas.

When I was very small, we lived for a time with my grandparents. On one of those long-ago Christmases, a box arrived from far away-no one seemed to know where. In the box was a beautiful, brand-new Lionel electric train.

Everyone thought Papa must have bought it, though he steadfastly denied it, and to be sure, it wasn't his way to be modest about his gifts. I think he would have been proud as punch to be the bestower of that wonderful train, as he was with his annual Christmas box of chocolates. So we never knew where it came from, and if Papa knew, he took the secret with him when he left us.

In any event, on this and every Christmas, I wish for you the gifts my grandparents gave to me and to everyone-kin or stranger-who came into their home. Simple gifts: warmth and welcome and unconditional love.