Praise for Susan Wiggs

“Susan Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the finesse of a master.”

—Jodi Picoult

“With the ease of a master, Wiggs introduces complicated, flesh-and-blood characters into her idyllic but identifiable small-town setting, sets in motion a refreshingly honest romance, resolves old issues and even finds room for a little mystery.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Winter Lodge (starred review, a Best Book of 2007)

“[A]n emotionally gripping tale centered on family. Wiggs is in top form.”

—Booklist on The Summer Hideaway

“Susan Wiggs writes with bright assurance, humor and compassion.”

—Luanne Rice

“A lovely, moving novel with an engaging heroine. Wiggs’ talent is reflected in her thoroughly believable characters as well as the way she recognizes the importance of family by blood or other ties. Readers who like Nora Roberts and Susan Elizabeth Phillips will enjoy Wiggs’ latest.

—Library Journal on Just Breathe (starred review)

“Wiggs’ storytelling is heartwarming.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Susan Wiggs is a rare talent! Boisterous, passionate, exciting! The characters leap off the page and into your heart!”

—Literary Times

“A poignant, beautiful romance.”

—Kristin Hannah on The Lightkeeper

Lakeshore Christmas
Susan Wiggs

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Also by SUSAN WIGGS

Contemporary Romances

HOME BEFORE DARK

THE OCEAN BETWEEN US

SUMMER BY THE SEA

TABLE FOR FIVE

LAKESIDE COTTAGE

JUST BREATHE

The Lakeshore Chronicles

SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE

THE WINTER LODGE

DOCKSIDE

SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE

FIRESIDE

LAKESHORE CHRISTMAS

THE SUMMER HIDEAWAY

Historical Romances

THE LIGHTKEEPER

THE DRIFTER

The Tudor Rose Trilogy

AT THE KING’S COMMAND

THE MAIDEN’S HAND

AT THE QUEEN’S SUMMONS

Chicago Fire Trilogy

THE HOSTAGE

THE MISTRESS

THE FIREBRAND

Calhoun Chronicles

THE CHARM SCHOOL

THE HORSEMASTER’S DAUGHTER

HALFWAY TO HEAVEN

ENCHANTED AFTERNOON

A SUMMER AFFAIR

To the many librarians I know—including John, Kristin, Nancy, Charlotte, Wendy, Cindy, Rebecca, Elizabeth, Suzanne, Melanie, Shelley, Stephani, Deborah, Cathie—and to the many more I’ve never met…You have no idea how much you enrich people’s lives. Or maybe you do. I hope you do.

Thank you.

Acknowledgments

I get by with a little help from my friends—Anjali Banerjee, Carol Cassella, Sheila Roberts, Suzanne Selfors, Elsa Watson, Kate Breslin, Mary Buckham, Lois Faye Dyer, Rose Marie Harris, Patty Jough-Haan, Susan Plunkett and Krysteen Seelen—wonderful writers and eagle-eyed readers.

Thanks to Sherrie Holmes for keeping all my ducks in a row.

Thanks to Margaret O’Neill-Marbury and Adam Wilson of MIRA Books, Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for invaluable advice and input. Thanks to my publisher and readers for supporting the Lakeshore Chronicles and for inspiring me to return to Avalon again and again.

A very special thank-you and all my love to my daughter Elizabeth, for her help with the recipes and for her marketing expertise. Thanks also to my sister, Lori, for proofreading, and to my mother, Lou, for mothering me no matter how old I get.

My family—the reason for everything—is bigger and more blessed than ever this year. Welcome to the family, Dave.

Part One

Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.

—Hamilton Wright Mabie (1846—1916), American essayist

One

The boy came to the edge of town at twilight, at the close of a winter day. Although the snows had not yet begun, the air was brutally cold, having leached the life from the fields and forests, turning everything to shades of brown and buff.

The road narrowed to one lane and passed through a covered bridge on ancient river stone pilings. Through the years, the structure had weathered and been replaced, plank by plank, yet it never really changed. The tumbled rocks and sere vegetation along the riverbanks were rimed by a delicate breath of frost, and the trees in the surrounding orchards and woods had long since dropped their leaves. There was an air of frozen waiting, as though all was in readiness, as though the stage was set.

He felt a quiet sense of purpose, knowing his task here wouldn’t be easy. Hearts would have to break and be mended, truths would be revealed, risks would be taken. Which, when he thought about it, was simply the way life worked—messy, unpredictable, joyous, mysterious, hurtful and redemptive.

A green-and-white sign in the shape of a shield identified the town—Avalon. Ulster County. Elevation 4347 feet.

Farther on, a billboard carried greetings from the Rotary, the Kiwanis and at least a dozen church and civic groups. The message of welcome read Avalon, in the Heart of the Catskills Forest Preserve. There was another sign exhorting travelers to visit Willow Lake, The Jewel Of The Mountains. The bit of hyperbole might apply to any number of small lakeside towns of upper New York state, but this one had the earnestness and charm of a place with a long and complicated history.

He was one of those complications. His understanding of what brought him here only extended so far, a narrow glimpse into the mystical realm of the human heart. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to know why the past and present were about to collide at this moment in time. Perhaps it was enough to know his purpose—to right an old wrong. Exactly how to accomplish this—well, there was another unknown. It would reveal itself, bit by bit, in its own time.

The main feature of the town was a pretty brickwork square around a Gothic block structure which housed municipal offices and the courthouse. Surrounding that were a variety of shops and restaurants with lights glowing in the windows. The first Christmas garlands and light displays of the season adorned the wrought-iron gas lamps around the square. In the distance lay Willow Lake, a vast indigo sheet under the brooding sky, its surface glazed by a layer of ice that would thicken as the season progressed.

A few blocks from the main square was the railway station. A train had just pulled in and was disgorging passengers coming home from work in the bigger towns—Kingston and New Paltz, Albany and Poughkeepsie, a few from as far away as New York City. People hurried to their cars, eager to escape the cold and get home to their families. There were so many ways to make a family…and just as many to lose them. But human nature was forged of forgiveness, and renewal might be only a word or a kind gesture away.

It felt strange, being back after all this time. Strange and…important. Something was greatly at risk here, whether people knew it or not. And somehow he needed to help. He just hoped he could.

Not far from the station was the town library, a squared-off Greek revival structure. The cornerstone had been laid exactly ninety-nine years ago; the date was seared upon his heart. The building was surrounded by several acres of beautiful city park, lined by bare trees and crisscrossed by sidewalks. The library occupied the site of its original predecessor, which had burned to the ground a century before, claiming one fatality. Few people knew the details of what had happened or understood the impact the event had on the life of the town itself.

Funded by a wealthy family that understood its value, the library had been rebuilt after the fire. Constructed of cut stone and virtually fireproof, the new Avalon Free Library had seen nearly a hundred years come and go—times of soaring prosperity and crushing poverty, war and peace, social unrest and harmony. The town had changed, the world had changed. People didn’t know each other anymore, yet there were a few constants, anchoring everything in place, and the library was one of them. For now.

He sighed, his breath frosting the air as old memories crowded in, as haunting as an unfinished dream. All those years ago, the first library had been destroyed. Now the present one was in danger, not from fire but from something just as dangerous. There still might be time to save it.

The building had tall windows all around its periphery, and a skylight over an atrium to flood the space with light. Through the windows, he could see oaken bookcases, tables and study carrels with people bent over them. Through another set of windows, he could see the staff area.

Inside, laboring at a cluttered desk in the glow of a task lamp, sat a woman. Her pale face was drawn with a worry that seemed to edge toward despair.

She stood abruptly, as though having just remembered something, smoothing her hands down the front of her brown skirt. Then she grabbed her coat from a rack and armored herself for the rapidly falling cold—lined boots, muffler, hat, mittens. Despite the presence of numerous patrons, she seemed distracted and very alone.

The sharp, dry cold drove him toward the building’s entrance, a grand archway of figured stone with wise sayings carved in bas-relief. He paused to study the words of the scholars—Plutarch, Socrates, Judah ibn-Tibbon, Benjamin Franklin. Though the words of wisdom were appealing, the boy had no guide but his own heart. Time to get started.

Hurrying, her head lowered, the woman nearly slammed into him as she left the building through the heavy, lever-handled main door.

“Oh,” she said, quickly stepping back. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s all right,” the boy said.

Something in his voice made her pause, study him for a moment through the thick lenses of her eyeglasses. He tried to envision himself as she saw him—a boy not yet sixteen, with serious dark eyes, olive-toned skin and hair that hadn’t seen a barber’s shears in too long. He wore a greenish cargo jacket from the army surplus, and loosecut dungarees that were shabby but clean. The winter clothes concealed his scars, for the most part.

“Can I help you?” she asked, slightly breathless. “I’m on my way out, but…”

“I believe I can find what I need here, thanks,” he said.

“The library closes at six tonight,” she reminded him.

“I won’t be long.”

“I don’t think we’ve met,” she said. “I try to meet all my library patrons.”

“My name is Jabez, ma’am. Jabez Cantor. I’m…new.” It wasn’t a lie, not really.

She smiled, though the worry lingered in her eyes. “Maureen Davenport.”

I know, he thought. I know who you are. He understood her importance, even if she didn’t. She’d done so much, here in this small town, though perhaps even she didn’t realize it.

“I’m the librarian and branch manager here,” she explained. “I’d show you around, but I need to be somewhere.”

I know that, too, he thought.

“See you around, Jabez,” she said.

Yes, he thought as she hurried away. You will.

Two

Maureen Davenport’s cheeks stung after the brisk walk from the library to the bakery. Although she loved the nip of cold in the air, she was grateful for the warm refuge of the Sky River Bakery. Peeling off her muffler, hat and gloves, she scanned the small knot of people crowded around the curved-glass cases of pastries and goodies. More couples gathered at the bistro booths and tables around her.

He wasn’t here yet, clearly. It was a singularly awkward sensation to be waiting for someone who didn’t know what you looked like. She considered ordering a big mug of tea or hot chocolate, but there was a line. She sat down and opened the book she was reading—Christmas 365 Days a Year: How to Bring the Holiday into Your Everyday Life.

Maureen was always reading something. Ever since she was small, she’d found delight and comfort in books. For her, a story was so much more than words on a page. Opening a book was like opening a door to another world, and once she stepped across the threshold, she was transported. When she was reading a story, she lived inside a different skin.

She loved books of every sort—novels, nonfiction, children’s books, how-to manuals. As the town librarian, books were her job. And as someone who loved reading the way other people loved eating, books were her life. She tried not to sink too deeply into the page she was currently reading because of the upcoming meeting. She kept reminding herself to keep an eye out for him.

Him. Eddie Haven. And he was late.

As the minutes ticked by, Maureen grew paranoid. What if he didn’t come? What if he stood her up? Could she fire him? No, she could not. He was a volunteer, and you couldn’t really fire a volunteer. Besides, he’d been court ordered to work with her.

Why else would a man like Eddie Haven be with her except by judicial decree? She tried not to be insulted by the notion that the only way he’d ever be found with the likes of Maureen Davenport would be through court order. The fundamental mismatch was a simple fact, perhaps even a law of nature. He was heartthrob handsome, a celebrity (okay, a D-list celebrity, but still) and a massively talented musician. He was almost famous.

Long ago, his had been one of the most recognizable faces in the country. He was one of those former child stars who had rocketed briefly to fame at a young age, and then flamed out. Yet his role in that one hit movie—along with twenty-four-hour cable—kept him alive for decades. The Christmas Caper, a heartwarming movie that had captivated the world, had become a holiday staple. She’d heard his name linked with a number of women, and every once in awhile, one of the gossip magazines pictured him with some starlet or celebutante. For quite a while, he had fallen off the radar, but a fresh wave of notoriety surrounded him now. The silver anniversary DVD of his hit movie had just been released, and interest in him had skyrocketed.

Maureen had nothing in common with him. Their lives had intersected one night he didn’t remember, though it was seared in her mind forever. He lived in New York City, but came to Avalon each holiday season—against his will. She’d heard he had friends in town, but she wasn’t one of them. To her knowledge, he’d never set foot in the library.

Even so, arranging to meet him here had almost felt like a date. The rendezvous had been organized via e-mail, of course. Using the phone would be far too bold and intimidating. She was much better in e-mail. In e-mail, she didn’t get flustered. In e-mail, she almost had a personality. So she hadn’t actually spoken to him—who needed to talk when there was e-mail?—yet the give and take as they settled on a day and time had borne all the hallmarks of a date. It wasn’t a date, of course, because that sort of thing didn’t happen to women like Maureen.

Except maybe in books. And of course, in dreams.

It only happened in dreams that a plain, bookish woman caught the eye of someone like Eddie Haven.

Even if the plain woman had once saved his life. She sighed, and shrugged away an aching wisp of memory, quickly stifled.

She hadn’t dated anyone in a very long time. She had exacting taste, or so she told herself and her too-inquisitive siblings and friends. She still cringed, remembering her last two dates—an outing with a stamp collector named Alvin, and a very bad concert with Walter Grunion last year. She’d ended up returning home with a headache, and a resolve to quit going out with guys because it was expected of her. She was determined to stop saying yes to men she wasn’t interested in just because she was still in her twenties—barely—and “supposed” to be dating.

People coming and going in the bakery barely looked at Maureen, which was fine with her. She never liked being the center of attention. A long time ago, she used to dream of being in the limelight. Life had quickly cured her of that notion. At a mercifully young age, she’d learned that being well-known and recognized was no substitute for being loved and cherished. Maureen was an unobtrusive sort; that was her comfort zone. Flying under the radar took very little effort on her part. She wore a T-shirt that said Eschew Obfuscation and a button in support of intellectual freedom, yet the slogans didn’t seem to draw anyone’s eye. Maybe the trendy shirt was counteracted by her hand-knit cardigan sweater—a gift from a favorite aunt—and Maureen’s tweedy wool skirt, leggings and boots. Though she knew her style of dressing was plain and boring, this didn’t bother her in the least. Fashion was for people who craved attention.

Occasionally, her gaze touched someone else’s and they would give each other a slight, social nod. She was the sort people recognized only obliquely. She looked vaguely familiar, like someone they occasionally encountered but couldn’t quite place.

This always mystified Maureen, because she had a facile memory for faces and names. For example, there was Kim Crutcher nursing a mug of coffee with her friend Daphne McDaniel, who was nibbling a donut with sprinkles in every color of the rainbow. They were both regular library patrons. So was Mr. Teasdale, who sat on the opposite side of the café, gazing dreamily out the window. He used the library’s low vision services on a regular basis. With hardly a stretch, Maureen could name the kids jostling toward the exit with their post-hockey-practice purchases—Chelsea Nash, Max Bellamy, AJ Martinez, Dinky Romano.

She wondered if Eddie Haven liked his notoriety. Maybe now that they were about to be forced to work together, she would have the chance to ask him.

Or not.

The sad fact was, she’d probably be too bashful to ask him what time it was, let alone the way he felt about the vagaries of fame. She knew plenty about Eddie Haven. Yet she didn’t know him. Perhaps over the weeks leading up to Christmas, that would change.

Or not.

She wondered if it was possible to get to know someone without letting him know her. And did she care enough to try?

She read a page of her book, then tried to avoid looking at the lighted neon clock on the wall. A burst of laughter sounded from a nearby table, and the trill of a child’s gleeful voice drifted across the busy café. Along with the library, and Heart of the Mountains Church, the Sky River Bakery was one of her favorite spots in town. It was impossible to be sad or depressed in a bakery. There must be something in the sugary, yeasty scent that imparted serenity, for everyone Maureen could see appeared to be happy.

A girl in a white apron perched on a step stool, creating a list of Thanksgiving pie options and announcing Christmas pre-orders. Seeing that, Maureen felt a thrill of anticipation. Christmas was right around the corner, and in spite of everything else going on in her life, it was still her favorite time of year.

She made the mistake of glancing at the clock. Eddie Haven was officially late. Seven minutes late, to be precise, not that she was counting—though she was. How long did one wait until the other party was considered “late?” Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? And whose responsibility was it to check in with the other? The waitee, or the waiter?

She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered out the window. There were a lot of people out this time of day, heading home from work or after-school activities. A boy passed by, and she thought he might be the one she’d seen earlier at the library—Jabez. He had enormous dark eyes, thickly fringed by long lashes. His poise and formality when he’d greeted her had struck Maureen as unusual in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He regarded the rows of bread loaves and pastries, and his hand went inside the pocket of his olive-drab jacket. Then he sighed, freezing the air with his breath, and moved on. She had an urge to call him back, to offer…what? Maureen wasn’t given to social impulses, and she doubted a teenager would welcome an invitation from the town librarian, anyway.

After nine minutes, she began to wonder if she had made a mistake with the time and place of her meeting with Eddie. Just to be sure, she opened her clipboard and consulted the printout of their e-mail exchange. No, she hadn’t gotten the time wrong. He was late. Totally, inexcusably late.

By the time he was twelve minutes late, she was seriously nervous. She might need to phone him after all. Good grief, but she hated phoning. Or…wait. She could send him a text message. Perfect. A text message. She could ask him if he was still planning to meet with her.

Yes, that would give him a chance to save face in case he’d forgotten the appointment. Why it was her job to save his face was another matter entirely.

Taking out her mobile phone, she remembered the nophone rule in the bakery. There was a sign just inside the door, depicting a symbol of a phone with a slash through it. Did that include sending a text message? Maureen was new to sending text messages, so she wasn’t sure.

Just to be safe, she stepped outside, feeling almost furtive. Frowning down at the keypad, she composed a text message with too much care. “Come on,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s not as if this is going to be chiseled in stone.” Yet she agonized over the greeting. Did she even need a greeting? Or should she just plunge into the body of the message itself? And what about a sign-off? BEST WISHES? SEE YOU SOON? Was she MAUREEN? M.D.? No, that was weird. Okay. M. DAVENPORT. There.

She hit Send.

At that precise second, she noticed a little flashing icon on her screen, indicating she had a message. Strange. She almost never got text messages.

This one was from—whoops—Eddie Haven, sent about an hour ago.

RUNNING 15 MIN LATE. SORRY. SEE U 6:15.

So now she would look like a neurotic psycho stalker, nagging him over a fifteen-minute delay and too much of a ninny to check her messages.

Staring down at the tiny screen, she stood on the edge of the curb, wishing the pavement would crack open and swallow her up, sparing her this awkward meeting. Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the white, windowless van careening toward her until it was almost too late. She jumped away from the curb just as it angled into a parking spot a few feet away, nearly flattening her against the brick building. Rock music thumped from the scratched and dented vehicle for a couple of seconds before the engine rattled to a halt.

Clutching the mobile phone with frozen fingers, Maureen choked on a puff of exhaust. She heard the thud of a door, footsteps on pavement.

A man in black appeared, glaring at her. She looked him up and down. He had the shaggy blond hair of an old-school California surfer. He wore ripped jeans and black high-top sneakers, and a jacket with a ski pass hanging from the zipper tag, open to reveal a formfitting black T-shirt. Eddie Haven had arrived. Wonderful. He was going to think the world of her.

“Jesus Christ, lady. I didn’t see you there. I nearly ran you down,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t see you,” he repeated.

Of course he hadn’t. And it wouldn’t be the first time. “You should’ve been watching.”

“I was, I—” He raked a hand through his long, wheat-colored hair. “Christ, you scared the shit out of me.”

“There’s no need to take the Lord’s name in vain,” she said, then cringed at her own words. When had she turned into such a marm?

“It wasn’t in vain,” he replied. “I totally meant it.”

She sniffed, filling her senses with winter cold, tinged with exhaust. “It’s just so…unimaginative. Not to mention disrespectful.”

“And self-righteous to boot,” he said with a grin, handsome as a prom king. “It’s been real, but I gotta bounce.” He nodded in the direction of the bakery. “I’m meeting someone.”

A soft burble of sound came from…it seemed to be coming from his jeans. He dug in his pocket and extracted a cell phone.

Maureen glanced down at her own phone’s screen to see that it said Message Sent.

Then she looked back at Eddie Haven. Despite his easy dismissal of polite speech, there was no denying the man had presence. Although he was almost inhumanly good-looking, the strange appeal went deeper than looks alone. He had some kind of aura, a powerful magnetism that seemed to suck all the light and energy toward him. And he wasn’t even doing anything, just standing there checking his messages.

I am in such trouble, she thought.

With a bemused expression, he touched a button. A second later her phone rang. Startled, she dropped it on the ground.

He bent and scooped it up, holding it out to her. “Maureen, right? Maureen Davenport.”

“That’s me.” She turned her ringer off and slipped the phone into her pocket.

“What, you’re hanging up on me already?” he said.

“I suppose that would be a first for you. A woman, hanging up on you.”

“Shit, no, are you kidding?”

She winced. “Don’t tell me you’re going to talk like that the whole time.”

“Great,” he said, “so you’re one of those holier-than-thou types.”

“I’ll bet a convicted felon would be holier than you are,” she retorted.

“I’ve met quite a few felons who were holier than me. Wait a minute, I am a convicted felon.” He touched the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Does that mean I’m holier than me? Jesus, lady, way to mess with a guy’s head.”

“I’m sure I don’t mean to mess with your head or any other part of you,” she said.

He started walking toward the bakery. “So…Maureen Davenport.” He pronounced her name as though tasting it. “From the library.”

“That’s me.” She couldn’t tell if he was surprised, disappointed or just resigned.

He paused, frowned at her. “Have we met before?” Without waiting for a reply, he said, “It’s weird that our paths haven’t crossed, in a town like this. I guess we just move in different circles, eh?”

She considered telling him their paths had crossed, but he simply hadn’t deigned to notice her. Instead, she simply nodded. “I guess.”

“This is going to be fun,” he said, clapping his hands together, then blowing on his fingers. “And fun is good, right?”

She didn’t think he expected an answer to his question.

“I’m Eddie Haven,” he said.

“I know who you are,” she said. Good grief, who didn’t know who Eddie Haven was? Especially now, with his anniversary DVD topping the charts. She knew it topped the charts because the library currently owned a dozen copies, and each of those had more than a hundred patron holds. She wondered what it was like for him to see his own flickering image on the small screen, year in and year out, all hours of the night and day.

She’d have plenty of opportunities to ask him, because this holiday season, she was stuck with him. The two of them had been charged with codirecting the annual Christmas pageant for the town of Avalon. She had taken on the job because it was something she’d always wanted to do, and she was well-qualified for the task. Eddie was her partner in the endeavor thanks to a mandate from a judge ordering him to perform community service. For better or worse, they were stuck with each other.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said easily. “I texted you.”

“I…sent you a text message, as well.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to use texted as a verb. “And after I hit Send,” she added, “I saw your message.”

In the bakery, several people greeted him by name, welcoming him back to town. Several more—mostly women, she noted—checked him out. A group of tourists looked up from studying their area maps and brochures to lean over and whisper about him, likely speculating about whether or not he was who they thought he was. With the publicity surrounding his movie, he was definitely back in vogue.

“Our table’s over here,” she said, leading the way, on fire with self-consciousness. There was no reason to feel self-conscious, but she did. She couldn’t help herself.

“Why do I get the impression you’ve already decided not to like me?” he asked, shrugging out of his jacket.

Was it that obvious? “I have no idea whether I’m going to like you or not,” she felt compelled to say. “Not a fan of the language, though. Seriously.”

“What, English? It’s standard English, swear to God.”

“Right.” She hung up her coat over the back of her chair and took a seat. She didn’t want to play games with this guy.

“You mean the swearing,” he said.

“Brilliant deduction.”

“Fine. I won’t do it anymore. No more taking the Lord’s name in vain or even in earnest.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” she conceded.

“They’re just words.”

“Words are powerful.”

“Right. You want to know what’s obscene?” he asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Violence is obscene. Injustice—that’s obscene, too. Poverty and intolerance. Those are obscenities. Words are just that—words.”

“A lot of hot air,” she suggested.

“That’s right.”

“Now that we’ve established you’re full of hot air, we should get to work.”

He chuckled. “Touché. Hang on a sec. I need to get a coffee.” He dug in his back pocket and took out a well-worn billfold. It flopped onto the floor, and he stooped to pick it up. “Sh—” he paused. “How about shit? Can I say shit?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Jesus—er, gee whiz. What the hell do you say when you drop something?”

“There are many ways to express dismay,” she pointed out. “I imagine you know plenty.”

“I’m asking you. What do you say when you get pissed off?”

“I don’t get pissed off.” She forced herself to use words she’d rather not.

He stood stock-still, as if he’d been planted in the middle of the bakery. She thought for a moment that he might be having a fit or something.

Instead, he threw back his head and guffawed, causing heads to swivel toward him. “You’re killing me,” he gasped. “You really are.”

She tried to ignore the inquisitive stares. “Why is that?”

“Because lady, I can already tell—you were born pissed off.”

“You can tell this,” she said, scowling a challenge at him. “Because you’re…what? Such an amazing judge of character?”

“Because you’re not hiding a thing,” he said.

“You have no idea whether I’m hiding anything at all,” she said. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

His gaze flicked over her, assessing practical boots, the plain cloth coat, the handknit accessories, the glasses, her stack of books and clipboard.

“I know everything I need to know,” he said.

“And what’s that?”

“Ray Tolley says you’re the town librarian.”

Ray, who played keyboard, was in charge of music for the pageant. Maureen tried to decide whether or not she was pleased Ray had discussed her with Eddie Haven. “That’s not exactly classified.”

“You’re a big reader, and freakishly organized,” Eddie said, eyeing her books and papers.

She sniffed. “You’re stereotyping me. Not to mention being completely wrong.” He was wrong. She cleared her throat and glared up at him. It was then that she noticed he wore an earring. A single, sexy golden loop in one earlobe. He also had a tattoo that rippled when he bent his arm. She could imagine how it looked as he stroked the strings of his guitar. Obvious signs of a person craving attention.

“Okay, then you live a secret life, moonlighting as a dominatrix.”

“That’s no secret,” she said.

He chuckled again, his eyes shining. “Right.” He headed for the counter. Halfway there, he turned. “Do you want anything?”

She tried not to stare at the earring. “No. No, thank you.”

With his weight shifted to one hip and a charming grin on his face, he chatted up the counter girl, whose eyes sparkled as she made small talk with him.

Clearing her throat, Maureen organized the papers on her clipboard and adjusted her glasses. She wished she didn’t wear glasses. It was just so…librarian-like. She owned a pair of contacts, but they irritated her eyes.

Her sisters and stepmom had insisted that she opt for trendy Danish-import frames and a good haircut in order to avoid being regarded as a total cliché. But she usually ended up pulling her hair back and not bothering with makeup. The end result was the impression of a librarian trying not to look like a librarian, which was ridiculous.

She eventually surrendered to who she was, and for the most part she was comfortable in her own skin, with a cozy apartment, two cats and plenty of books. She hadn’t always been that way; her contentment was hard-won. And when someone—like Eddie Haven—came along and threatened that, she went into defensive mode.

He returned with a mug of hot coffee for himself, and a cup of hot chocolate. “For you,” he said. “I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I figured I’d give it a shot.”

“Thank you. How did you know I’m a hot chocolate drinker?”

“Who doesn’t like hot chocolate?” He gave her a smile that made her feel as if she were the only woman in the place. “Whipped cream?”

“No,” she said quickly. “That would be a bit much.” She went back to feeling self-conscious. People were probably wondering what the hot guy was doing with the geeky girl. Some things never changed. Everyone who saw them together would assume he was with her out of some kind of obligation, not because he was attracted to her. Getting attention from Eddie Haven was like being the dork in school, having her pigtail tugged by the cutest boy in class. She was ridiculously grateful for the attention, even if he was taunting her.

Five minutes with this guy and she’d regressed to junior high. Just for a moment, she wished she could be someone else. That was probably unhealthy in the extreme—to be with a person who made you dissatisfied with yourself.

She patted the papers on her clipboard. It was always a safe bet to get down to business with someone who made you nervous. “I’ve made you copies of the audition schedule and the rehearsal times and—”

“Thanks. I’ll look at it later. Give me a break, I just rolled into town.”

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“At a place by the lake. It belongs to some friends who go to St. Croix for the winter. Hell, I’d like to be in St. Croix right about now.”

“I hope you settle in quickly,” she said. “This Christmas pageant has to come together in a shockingly short amount of time.”

“And yet it does,” he said, “like a miracle, every year.”

“So it’s been your experience that a miracle occurs.”

“Hasn’t failed us yet. I’m not exactly new to this,” he said.

She was aware of his entire history with the pageant, including the infraction that had earned him his sentence of community service. It was a known fact in the town of Avalon that Eddie Haven had begun his involvement in the town’s annual pageant by judicial order. Following a terrible Christmas Eve accident, he’d been sentenced to help with the program, year in and year out. “It’s been my experience that miracles work out better when they’re preceded by a lot of hard work and preparation.”

“Me, I got faith,” he said easily.

She regarded him skeptically. “Are you a churchgoing man?”

He laughed heartily at that. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m a real regular.” He toned down the laughter a bit. “Trust me, I can deal with the pageant without divine intervention, okay? And how did you end up with this job, anyway? Did you volunteer or were you drafted? Or maybe you’re a felon like me.”

“Nobody’s a felon like you.”

“Ouch,” he said. “Okay, I can tell, you’re going to be a barrel of laughs.”

“It’s not my job to amuse you.”

“Come on, be a sport. Tell me more about yourself, Maureen.”

“Why should I? You’ve already declared me a boring person obsessed with books and cats—”

“I never said boring. I never said obsessed. The books were a no-brainer and the cats—every chick likes cats. Lucky guess. Come on. I really want to know. Are you from around here?”

He did this thing, she realized. This magnetic thing that made her want to…she wasn’t sure what. Give him little offerings from herself. It was the strangest sensation. Strange, and maybe dangerous. “I was born and raised here,” she said. “I went to college in Brockport, came back and became the town librarian.” She swallowed. “No wonder you said I was boring.”

“Hey. I did not say boring. And it sounds to me like you didn’t have to go looking for your heart’s desire.”

She actually had gone looking, but she wasn’t about to own up to that, not to him.

“And what about you?” she asked, feeling bold. “Are you looking for your heart’s desire?”

“No need. I know what my heart desires. It’s just a question of finding it.”

“Really? And what is that?”

“I just met you. I can’t be telling you that.”

During their conversation, something unexpected occurred. Against her will, she started to like him. As a person, not just as an amazing-looking guy, a guy who was so far out of her league, he might as well be on another planet.

Planet of the Fangirls, thought Maureen, as three women approached their table. They were all nudging each other and exchanging bashful smiles.

“Excuse me,” one of them said. And it was completely clear they weren’t addressing Maureen. “You’re…Eddie Haven, right?”

“The Eddie Haven?” her friend clarified.

He gave them an easy smile. “I guess that would be me.”

“We thought so. You look the same as you did in that movie.”

“Oh. Not good,” he said.

“No, you were adorable.” The three women looked jubilant. “And we saw you on Extra just last week.”

Here was something that always seemed to be true. Attractive women tended to hang out together. Each of these had the looks of a former cheerleader—brighteyed and smiling, in jeans and high-heeled boots, fitted sweaters.

“So…would you mind if we got a picture together?”

“Actually, I’m kind of in the middle of something—”

“Just a cell phone pic,” she said, whipping out an iPhone and thrusting it at Maureen. “Here, would you take it?”

Before Maureen could reply, one of the women showed her how to point and shoot. The three draped themselves around Eddie and—it had to be said—he lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Thanks. You were really cool about that.” The woman addressed Eddie as she saved the image on the phone. “And I know you must hear this all the time, but I loved you in that movie. I still love you in that movie, every time it airs.”

“Thanks,” said Eddie. “Nice of you to say so.”

She handed him a card. “Here’s my number. For, you know, if you ever feel like hanging out.”

“You bet.”

The three took off, putting their heads together and scurrying away, giggling like schoolgirls. Maureen felt a little stunned. The woman had hit on him right in front of Maureen. For all they knew, Maureen could be on a date with him. She wasn’t, but still. The thing that hurt—and she hated the fact that it hurt—was knowing the women looked at her and clearly did not consider, even for a moment, that she might be…with him. His date. His girlfriend. Instead, they had treated her as if she was his assistant or secretary.

“Sorry about that,” Eddie said. “Now, where were we?”

Maureen shook her head. “I have no idea.” She’d never witnessed anything quite like that before. It was slightly shocking, like an ambush. “That happens to you a lot, doesn’t it? People—women—just appear out of the blue and ask for an autograph or picture.”

“Not sure what you mean by a lot,” he said.

“Has it happened before?”

His face confirmed it.

“More than once constitutes a lot,” she said.

“I wish they hadn’t been so rude to you,” he said.

She was surprised he’d noticed.

“I should have spoken up,” he told her. “I should have pointed out they were being rude.”

“Thank heaven you didn’t,” Maureen said. “That would have been flat-out embarrassing.”

“And you don’t like being embarrassed,” he observed.

“Do you? Does anybody?”

“I’ve been a performer all my life, and like it or not, being embarrassed on a regular basis comes with the territory.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. Thank goodness. “But don’t be embarrassed. They called you adorable.”

“Hell, I was adorable,” he said with a curious lack of vanity.

“I know. I’ve seen The Christmas Caper.” Maureen paused. It was strange, knowing more about him than he knew about her. Generally speaking, that was the librarian’s role, to be the woman behind the desk. The woman no one wondered about or speculated about.

As for Eddie’s movie, she’d not only seen it. She watched it every year with rapt attention. She had already bought the just-released commemorative edition DVD and had played and replayed all the special features, paying particular attention to the interviews with the grown-up Eddie. She’d memorized every frame, every word of every song in the film. She loved that movie so much it was ridiculous. “Would it make you feel old if I said I saw it when I was in the second grade?”

“Nah, because I was six at the time of the theatrical release.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yeah, I peaked at age six and it’s been downhill ever since.”

There was something about his smile. Something that made Maureen understand why grown women would approach him for a picture, giggling like schoolgirls. The other thing about his smile was that when she looked at him, she could see the precious little boy who had captured the hearts of America more than two decades ago.

He had played little Jimmy Kringle in The Christmas Caper, which was universally acknowledged to be one of the most sentimental Christmas movies ever made. Yet he’d transcended the stigma, taking a character who was trite and absurd and transforming him into a little boy everyone could believe in. And did, for years to come, thanks to the wonders of digital remastering, DVD extra features and the unending routine of round-the-clock cable.

“It can’t have been easy, being made a star at such a young age,” she observed.

“Wasn’t so bad, back in the day. But nobody saw the Internet coming. Or cable TV on this scale.”

Maureen was getting much too interested in him on a personal level. “We should finish up,” she suggested.

“Can’t wait to get rid of me, eh?”

“Yes, I mean, no, but—” Flustered. She was getting flustered, talking to this guy. Which was ridiculous. She was an established professional in her field. Still, she couldn’t help getting unnerved over Eddie Haven, with his sexy attitude, his earring and his too-pretty face. He must think she was a total loser. She didn’t like being around people who thought she was a loser. She liked people who propped her up. Her family. Library patrons. Children.

“I have a lot to tell you about this production,” she said. “For starters, it’s going to be filmed for a PBS special.” It still excited her, just saying it. “A production company from the city is coming up to cover it as part of a story about small-town Christmas celebrations.”

“Cool,” he said, but he didn’t look thrilled.

“It doesn’t really change our plans, but I wanted you to be aware of it.” She handed him a printed document. “Here’s the program I’m planning. You can take a look at it tonight.” She’d spent weeks finding the perfect combination of story and song for the traditional Christmas Eve celebration at Heart of the Mountains Church. It was a wonderful program, designed to bring the magic of Christmas to life. She had envisioned the ideal pageant for a long time, ever since she was small. She conjured up images of an evening aglow with candlelight, the air infused with incense and alive with song. It would be the quintessential celebration, one that would soften even the most jaded of hearts and remind people that the joys of the season could be felt all year.

He took a cursory look at the script and song list. “Sure, whatever. But it doesn’t lead with the angels,” he said. “When Mrs. Bickham was in charge, we always led with the angels.”

Ah, the ghosts of Christmas pageants past, thought Maureen, clasping her clipboard to her chest. She was going to be haunted by them for a long time. “Not this year.”

“It’s your show,” he said. “Hell, I don’t even like Christmas.”

He was so obnoxious, she thought. But so ridiculously good-looking, in a shaggy-haired, skinny-jeans, tight-T-shirt way. A lethal combination. “Nonsense. Everyone likes Christmas.”

He laughed. “Right. Okay, I guess I didn’t explain this very well.”

“Explain what?” In spite of herself, she was intrigued, and found herself leaning toward him, hanging on his every word like the most hopeless sort of Fan-girl.

“This whole Christmas thing.”

“What about it?”

“This is probably going to throw you for a loop, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a big fan of the holiday.”

Maybe, she thought, he appealed to her because he challenged her. It had been a long time since anyone over the age of five had challenged her. “Don’t be silly. Everybody loves Christmas.”

“You slay me, Maureen. You really do. News flash—everybody does not love Christmas.” Then his gaze slipped down the list of songs. “I’m not seeing a lot of variety here. Nothing new.”

“We could always add ‘The Runaway Reindeer’ from your hit movie. Your fan club would love it. Would that make you happy?”

“That would make me gag.”

The meeting was going so badly. She wished she knew how to bring it back on track. “Here’s the sign-up sheet for auditions.”

“Ought to be interesting. Everybody wants to be a star.”

“So it seems. We’ll try to be as inclusive as possible. We should remind everyone that there are no small actors—”

“Only small parts,” he finished for her. “And everybody knows that’s bullshit.”

She winced, wondering why he felt compelled to antagonize her. Her friend Olivia would say it was because he liked her. The notion intrigued Maureen far too much. She busied herself with her printouts, hoping to disguise her nerves. “And then we’ll go right into rehearsals. Here’s a schedule.”

“Got it, boss.”

“Are you patronizing me?”

“I’m trying to, yeah.”

“It’s not working. I won’t be patronized. Let’s not lose sight of our goal. This program isn’t for us or about us. It’s for the children, and for everyone who wants to celebrate the holidays.” The more nervous she got, the more cranky she sounded.

“Honey, you’re taking this way too seriously.”

“Honoring Christmas should not be taken lightly.” Oh, Maureen, she thought. When did you turn into such a dork? Olivia was always telling her to relax and have fun. But Olivia was pregnant, and hormones made her completely unreliable these days.

“Got it,” Eddie said again. “Are we done here?”

“Yes,” she said. “We’re done.” She hesitated, then screwed up her courage, struggling to conquer her nerves. They’d had a rough start. Maybe, she thought, they could fix things over dinner. “Listen, Eddie, let’s try not to start off on the wrong foot together. The bakery is about to close, but I was thinking, maybe we could go somewhere else, get some dinner and talk about this some more. I’d like to hear your ideas.”

There. She’d said it. She had blurted out an invitation to the best-looking guy ever to sit across a table from her. Putting herself out there like this was so contrary to her nature that she nearly hyperventilated, waiting for his reply.

To his credit, he didn’t smirk or anything. He simply rejected her in the most straightforward manner possible: “Maureen, thanks for the invitation, but I can’t. I have to be somewhere.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I better go, or I’ll be late. Maybe some other time.”

She wanted to die. Right there, right then, she wanted to curl up and die, turn to ashes and blow away on a cold winter wind. What had she been thinking, inviting him to dinner? Of course he didn’t want to have dinner with her. He was Eddie Haven, for goodness’ sake. He didn’t have dinner with people like Maureen Davenport. Nor would she want to, even if he’d asked. He was crude and deliberately provocative, so far from being her type that it was laughable. The next several weeks were going to be excruciating.

Somehow, she kept a lame smile on her face as he practically bolted for the door. She pictured him heading home to get cleaned up, probably for a date with a woman who didn’t know a library from a lobotomy, but who knew how to fill the gaps in a conversation as well as she could fill a sweater. Maureen pictured the two of them on their dinner date, gazing across the table at each other at a candlelit restaurant, whispering “Cheers” and clinking their goblets of fine wine together.

Three

“Hi, my name is Eddie, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Eddie.” The people in the group spoke in unison, their voices warm and quiet in the small meeting room in the basement of the church. It wasn’t like they didn’t know who he was. The greeting was part of the ritual of recovery, and the unvarying repetition held a certain comfort for the participants. Whenever he was in Avalon, he came to this group, and they all knew him. Everybody in the group knew who everybody else was because they’d all been coming here regularly, some of them for many years. There were sometimes a couple of new faces, yet the core membership was fairly stable. He recognized a red-haired college kid named Logan, a high school teacher named Tony, and an older guy, Terry D., who had helped Eddie a lot through the rough years.

When Maureen Davenport had asked Eddie if he was a churchgoing man, he’d answered in the affirmative. It wasn’t a lie—the building was a church. But he knew that wasn’t what she meant. He hadn’t started going to church thanks to some divine inspiration. Following a spectacular screwup on Eddie’s part, he’d been ordered by a judge to attend 12-step meetings. He hadn’t expected to like it. He hadn’t expected to discover the deepest truths about himself in a group of strangers. But something had happened. He hadn’t found salvation the way most people did. He’d found it in the shared fellowship of people like him, renewing their commitment every day to stay sober.

On many levels, he told himself, the night of his DUI had been a blessing in disguise. For Eddie, it had been the start of a new way of living. A new way to spend Christmas, too. He still couldn’t stand the holiday, but at least he could get through it with clear-eyed sobriety instead of through an alcoholic haze.

He’d started the journey—very much against his will—one snowy Christmas Eve. He was no longer that lost, desperate man who had shown up with a chip on his shoulder and his arm in a sling. But whether he was at his place in the city or here in Avalon, he still came to meetings for the support, the friendship, the chance to serve others. And sometimes, like tonight, he came to think about things that were bugging him.

Like Maureen Davenport. He could tell she was not going to be a picnic. She had that whole prim-and-proper librarian thing going on, which only made him want to tease her, undo her hair, remove her glasses and say, “Why Ms. Davenport, you’re beautiful!”

That was the way it might happen in the movies, anyway. He doubted Maureen would play her role, though. She’d probably just tap a pencil on her clipboard and insist on getting back to work. She promised to be weeks of Christmas pageant hell.

He missed Mrs. Bickham already. Mrs. Bickham had made his community service obligation bearable, because she’d been so easygoing. Eddie had barely had to lift a finger for the pageant. However, this Maureen chick was no pushover. She might actually make him do some work. Eddie didn’t really mind doing work, but he’d never been fond of taking orders from bossy females.

The people around the room came in all sizes and shapes, all ages and all walks of life. They sipped coffee and waited for Eddie to speak.

“The topic of tonight’s meeting is perspective,” he told them. “Yeah, that’s a good one for me at the moment. I need to remind myself to keep things in perspective. I first started coming to these meetings as a result of a judge’s mandate. I thought I didn’t belong here. The fact was, I didn’t want to belong here. I didn’t want to be a member of any club where you couldn’t drink your face off every single night.”

Sympathetic murmurings circulated through the group.

“The judge knew me better than I knew myself. She knew the value of strong medicine—in my case, a lifetime membership in this fine fellowship right here.”

Sometimes when he closed his eyes and thought about that night, those moments of terror, Eddie believed he was remembering it all exactly as it happened. He could still feel the glass neck of the bottle in his hand—Dom Perignon, of course. Nothing but the best on the night he would propose to the woman he loved. It was Natalie’s favorite and nothing else would do. Natalie Sweet. She was the perfect woman—a few years older, a lot more sophisticated, a journalist. What’s more, she’d been sending out “ask me” signals for weeks, he was sure of it.

He’d planned the evening out. Avalon was the perfect location, between New York City and Albany, where Natalie’s family lived. She thought he was taking her to her folks’ for Christmas, never guessing the surprise he had in store. He wanted to get engaged on Christmas Eve. He had issues with the holiday, thanks to the way he’d spent all his Christmases growing up, his parents dragging him from town to town with their Yule-themed road show. So to overcome those issues, he would supplant the bad memories with something good. He would transform the holiday from a time filled with painful associations to something joyful—getting engaged to be married.

He knew about the town of Avalon thanks to his family. The town was the home of Camp Kioga, where his folks used to park him each summer when he was a kid, while they traveled from place to place, performing at Renaissance fairs. Through the years, the town had come to feel like home to him, as much as any place had. He’d even pictured himself and Natalie getting a weekend place here one day. That night, he’d booked the best table at the Apple Tree Inn, the one overlooking the Schuyler River. In winter, the rocks were encased in ice and the banks crusted with snow, sparkling in the light streaming down from the restaurant windows. He’d requested all their favorites for the menu and even gave the restaurant manager a list of songs to play throughout the evening.

He remembered the expression on her face when she tasted her dessert—a silky eggnog crème brûlée—because it was the same face she made in bed sometimes. In fact, her dreamy look had been his signal that the time had come.

Although they’d already polished off a bottle of wine, he ordered champagne, noting the lift of her eyebrows and taking it as a good sign.

In retrospect, maybe it was apprehension.

Pleasantly buzzed from the wine, Eddie forged ahead with his plan. Natalie was almost secondary, a bit player to his starring role. That perception in itself should have been a clue. When the moment stopped being about Natalie or even the two of them as a couple, it could only mean trouble.

The sommelier poured two glasses. Eddie offered a toast—something about their future, about a lifetime of happiness. The time had come.

He was a traditionalist at heart. Unabashed by other Christmas-Eve guests, he went down on one knee and took her hand. At that moment, the theme song of The Christmas Caper came on the stereo. Maybe he should have recognized it as a bad sign.

The song had definitely not been on Eddie’s playlist. The manager might have thought Eddie would like hearing the sweet, sentimental tune. Eddie would never know. Many people assumed that such a beloved movie must be loved by him, as well. All he knew was that the hated song intruded on the moment like a choking spell in the middle of a gourmet meal.

And to top off the moment, this was the most heinous version in existence—the one recorded by an a cappella group known as the Christmas Belles, which had become a sensation on the Internet. The rendition was so sticky-sweet, he thought he might gag, just listening to it.

But he was down on one knee. He was committed. He had to go through with this. There was no turning back now.

He had carefully scripted the words, then memorized them so they wouldn’t sound scripted: “I love you. I want to be with you forever. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

That was her cue to weep for joy, perhaps to be so overcome she couldn’t speak, could only nod vigorously: Yes, yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you. All around the restaurant, people would sigh over his performance.

Then he would lift the lid of the small velvet jewel box, and a fresh wave of emotion would wash over her.

It was perfect. It was unforgettable. It was going to turn Christmas into the happiest time of his life.

There was one problem. Natalie didn’t follow the script. There were no joyful tears. No reciprocal declaration of love. Only a stricken expression of horror on her face.

“Magic can happen, if only you belieeeeeeeeve,” sang the Christmas Belles in the background.

Natalie didn’t nod. She looked nauseous, shook her head no. “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she said, getting up from the table and making a dash for the cloakroom.

Eddie had dropped a too-big wad of cash on the table, grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck and left, despite knowing it was illegal to leave an establishment with an open container.

Not caring.

She was walking as fast as she could toward the train station.

“Can we at least talk about this?” he asked.

She kept walking. “I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I’d be open to a proposal.”

“Hell, you were sending out signals like Western Union,” he said. “What was I supposed to think?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, excuse me all to hell for thinking you meant it when you said you loved me.”

“I did,” she protested. “I do. But I’m not ready to marry anybody, and neither are you.”

“Don’t tell me I’m not ready.”

“Fine, I won’t. But here’s what I think. I think you don’t want to be married so much as you don’t want to be alone.”

“Hey, it’s one thing to turn me down. Don’t psychoanalyze me on top of everything else.”

From there, the argument devolved into a rehashing of each other’s faults, and after she boarded the Albanybound train alone, he was ready to concede that yes, he had probably been hasty in proposing marriage.

By the time he returned to the restaurant parking lot for his van, he’d already made the transition from feeling hurt to feeling pissed. At her but even more at himself. Why had he made some big public production out of it? Why had he set himself up for failure like that?

As he drove through the streets of Avalon, the small town looked deserted, a ghost town. Most people had headed home early to be with their families on Christmas Eve. Others were at church, filling the night with song and worship.

Eddie planned to spend the rest of the evening with a man of the cloth. Specifically, a monk named Dom Perignon. Since the bottle had already been opened at the restaurant, he started drinking as he drove. Hell, it was Christmas Eve and there wasn’t a soul in sight. He’d just been dumped and he was desperate to numb the hurt and blunt the anger. And he was driving slowly, anyway. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. His parents had invited him home to their place on Long Island as they did every year, but Natalie had given him the perfect excuse to decline the invitation. Now he was out of excuses.

The snowstorm began in a lively flurry, feathering across the windshield. Within minutes, driven by a lake effect, the flurries blossomed into thick, relentless flakes that were strangely mesmerizing as they hurled themselves toward him. He decided to swing by the Hilltop Tavern, see if anybody was still around. He had a few old friends in Avalon who went way back to his days at summer camp. The small town never changed. He passed cozy-looking houses with their windows aglow, businesses that were closed up tight, the country club that crowned the top of a hill. The most impressive light display belonged to the Heart of the Mountains Church at a bend in the lakeshore road.

The oblong building twinkled with lights along the roofline. An elaborate, life-size nativity scene occupied the broad, snow-covered grounds. He rolled down the driver’s side window to feel the icy air. Big snowflakes whipped into the van through the gap.

The faint, distant tolling of bells drifted in through the window, and it was the loneliest sound he’d ever heard. He chased away the mournful noise by turning up the radio, which was playing Black Sabbath’s “Never Say Die.”

For Eddie, music was more than just sound. It was a place he went, familiar and safe. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty of his childhood, music had been his retreat and solace. Over the years, his affinity had only deepened. When he was a teenager, it became a way to sort out the confusion, almost as calming as drinking a stolen six-pack from his parents’ fridge. Later, when he was a student at Juilliard, it was a form of expression that finally made sense to him, the perfect accompaniment to the wine he loved to drink before, during and after performances.

He heard music in his head, all the time. It surprised him to realize this was not the case for other people. Maybe it was a form of insanity.

Years later, when he reviewed the events of that night, he could never separate the sounds and images in his mind from those that had actually existed. He recalled a curious rhythmic beating noise, like the rotors of a helicopter, and a deepening of the already-dark sky. And then something—an animal? A tree limb?—crossing his path.

Operating on pure reflex, he swerved to avoid it.

Mission accomplished.

But in the next moment, everything was ripped from his control. The van hit a patch of black ice and careened off the road, exploding through a snowbank and jolting down a steep slope. The brakes and steering were useless as he cut a swath through the churchyard. Everything in the van—sound equipment, CDs, gear, the empty champagne bottle—was swept up in a tempest.

As the speeding vehicle smashed through the nativity scene and barreled toward the church, only one coherent thought slipped out. Please, God, don’t let me hurt anybody.

“That night changed everything for me,” he told the people in the room. “And for that, I’m grateful. I’ll remind myself of this in the weeks to come. Because something tells me I’m going to face some challenges. I always do, this time of year.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” the chorus murmured, and they went on to the next speaker.

His life had really begun the night it had almost ended. That was when he finally had to admit that drinking wasn’t working for him. He’d had to transform himself entirely. Music was still his life, but now he worked behind the scenes, a composer and producer, and he also volunteered for an after-school music program for at-risk kids in Lower Manhattan. Life was good enough for him, under the radar like that.

His ancient but still-in-effect contract with the production company had limited his earnings from the movie to a pittance. To this day, he had no idea why his parents had allowed it. That same contract called for him to participate materially in promotion of the movie—which meant he had to appear in DVD extras. Creating those segments earlier in the year had reminded him of the things he disliked about fame—knowing he wasn’t the person everyone saw and loved on screen. Having to hide who he really was.

Being a composer kept him involved in music, though by choice, he was mostly anonymous, creating soundtracks and jingles to order. It freaked him out that people recognized him, and that interest was renewed thanks to the DVD. He only hoped it would blow over soon.

The part of him that still loved to perform found satisfaction, as well. He visited Avalon frequently to play with a group of his friends in a band called Inner Child, and they had the occasional gig at local festivals or a neighborhood club. This year, he agreed to be the guest host for a local radio show, “Catskills Morning,” consisting of news, talk and music of his choice, five days a week. The regular host was on maternity leave.

His life was a far cry from the orgy of fame and fortune he’d once pictured for himself. But it was a much better fit.

The meeting ended as it always did, with the serenity prayer and a quick cleanup of the coffee service; then Eddie prepared to head home for the evening. He stopped at Wegmans and treated himself to his favorite take-out dinner—a pimento cheese sandwich, a big fat dill pickle, a bag of chips and a root beer soda. On the way out of the store, he encountered one of the earliest signs of the season—a Salvation Army bell ringer.

The insistent clanging of the bell was both annoying and impossible to ignore. Scrounging a crumpled bill out from his pocket, he stuffed it into the painted red bucket.

“Thanks,” said the bell ringer. He was young, just a boy, really. Something about him was familiar in a vague, distant way. The teenager reminded Eddie of some of his students, back in the city—hungry but proud. Maybe the kid had been in previous Christmas pageants. But no. Eddie was pretty sure he would remember that long, dark hair and soulful eyes, the slightly bemused smile.

“I’m Eddie Haven,” Eddie said.

He gave a nod. “Jabez Cantor.”

“New around here?” Eddie asked.

“Kind of. I’ve been away for a while. Just got back to town.”

“Hey, same here.”

Another kid came out of the store, staring down at a handheld game as he walked, oblivious to everything. By the time Eddie realized where he was headed, it was too late. Both he and Jabez said, “Watch out,” at the same time, but the kid had already crashed into the tripod holding up the collection bucket, knocking it to the ground with a clatter.

“Sorry,” he said, stuffing the handheld into his pocket and dropping down on his knees to retrieve the spilled coins. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“It happens,” said Jabez, stooping down to help.

Eddie pitched in, too, scooping coins from the pavement. He couldn’t help noticing the scars on Jabez’s hands. They had the taut shine of very old burns, imperfectly healed.

An older guy with iron-gray hair and a long overcoat came toward them. “Cecil,” he said in a voice grating with disapproval, “what’s going on here?”

“I knocked this thing over,” the boy named Cecil said. “Sorry, Grandpa.”

The older guy looked exasperated. Cecil worked faster, trying to round up the spilled coins while Jabez reassembled the tripod. A couple of minutes later, everything was back in place. The grandfather strode away toward a sleek Maybach. The kid started after him, hesitated and dug a dollar bill from his pocket, stuffing it into the collection bucket. Jabez thanked him, but he probably didn’t hear as he rushed to catch up with his grandfather.

Eddie studied the boy named Jabez, who was staring thoughtfully after them. Actually, a lot of people were staring at the Maybach, since you didn’t see a car like that every day, but Jabez seemed more focused on the older guy.

“He looks familiar,” Jabez said.

“Everything all right?” asked Eddie.

“Sure,” said the boy.

“You hungry?” Eddie held out the sack.

“No, I’m good. Really. But thanks.”

Eddie had learned not to push for too much information. That often resulted in a kid running off and disappearing for good. “You like doing volunteer work?”

The kid indicated the Salvation Army bucket. “Guess so.”

“Good. A group of us are going to be putting up a nativity scene Friday night—you know what that is?”

The kid chuckled. “Yeah, I know what a nativity scene is.”

“Just asking. Anyway, they could use more volunteers.” He scribbled the time and a place on his white deli bag, tore it off and handed it to Jabez. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Jabez took the slip of paper and put it into his breast pocket. “Maybe you will.”

Four

After her meeting with Eddie Haven, Maureen was convinced of at least two things. First, Eddie was going to be a big problem in the weeks to come. And second, he was not the worst thing she could expect to happen this week.

She felt an ominous sense of apprehension as she stayed late at the library the next day. An important board meeting would convene at closing time. Although not a member of the library board, she was a key participant in their meetings. While waiting for the small group to arrive, she went through the usual ritual of securing the building. When she reached the main entrance, she stepped outside, breathing deeply of the crisp, empty air.

A light snowfall would be nice, she thought, surveying the parklike surroundings. In a side garden with an ancient yew rumored to have been brought from the yard of Cadbury Castle in England, there was a smallish, lonely-looking block of granite with a commemorative plaque. It was an unassuming monument to the unknown boy who had died in the library fire a hundred years before.

The trees had long since dropped their colorful mantles of leaves. The grass had gone dormant and lay dry and beaten down, as if it would never grow again. An air of bleakness hovered everywhere, giving the place a sense of waiting. A good, clean snowfall would change everything. Situated on the east side of Willow Lake, the town of Avalon usually received early and copious snow. But the weather came in its own time, and a simple wish would not hurry it along.

Enough moping around, she told herself. It would take a lot more than Eddie Haven or even a fiasco at work to ruin her Christmas.

Time to go inside and get ready for the meeting. As she passed beneath the library building’s arched portico of figured concrete, she could still feel an echo of reverence. The entry to the library was designed to inspire it. Chiseled into the concrete were the words Make thy books thy companions. Let thy cases and shelves be thy pleasure grounds and gardens.—Judah ibn-Tibbon (12th century). Which was a diplomatic way of saying, Maureen supposed, that it was all right to have no life.

She wasn’t being fair to herself. She did have a life, a life in books and in the embrace of a large, supportive family. This was more than many people had, and she was grateful.

She grabbed a yogurt from the tiny fridge in the break room and called it dinner, which she consumed while reading a publisher’s advance copy of an upcoming self-help book called Passionate Living for Shy People. It was filled with advice no one in their right mind would ever take, like signing up for salsa dancing lessons or participating in touch therapy. Reading about such things was so much safer than actually doing them. Losing herself in a book usually brought the world back into balance, but it didn’t always work. By the time she finished her yogurt, she was feeling decidedly unsettled. The topic of today’s meeting was the budget, and she knew the news would not be good.

The library’s executive board members arrived, heading into the meeting room with their laptops and briefcases. The four of them stood up when Maureen joined them, waiting in a line on the far side of the table, as solemn and intent as a firing squad.

She draped her coat over the back of a chair. “It’s not good, is it?”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Mr. Shannon, the president of the board, folded his hands on top of an official-looking document. “Worse than not good. Unless we can pull a rabbit out of a hat, we’re done. The facility is closing at the end of the year.”

“Please, Miss Davenport, have a seat,” said another board member.

She sank down onto one of the molded plastic stacking chairs, folded her hands in her lap. She knew the facility had been operating in the red for a long time. It was no one’s fault, simply the fallout from a disastrous systemwide finance crisis, exacerbated by rising costs and hard times for the entire area. When revenues shrank, hard choices had to be made. Priority funding went to life-or-death agencies—police, fire, EMS. Maureen might consider the library vital to the life of the community, but to many people, already feeling overburdened, it was expendable.

Mr. Shannon summarized the dilemma so the secretary could include the discussion in the minutes. After the original building burned down, the library had been rebuilt by Mr. Jeremiah Byrne. Although the building and grounds remained in the family, Byrne had extended a 99-year lease to the institution. Now it fell to a Mr. Warren Byrne to extend the lease.

And he had, but there were conditions attached. The lease would not be renewed until the library could fund itself, and that meant coming up with an entire annual operating budget before the end of the year. The library board secured a grant from the city, coupling this with donations and public monies, and for a time, the crisis seemed to be averted. The grant money for the next fiscal year had not come through, and the shrunken tax base had caused a budget cut. The library had been cut off like a bleeding artery.

Maureen tried to focus on what the head of the library board was saying. She was trying, actually, to hear anything but what he was saying.

“We’re out of money” could only be interpreted in one way.

Her heart sank. The library? Closed? It was impossible to imagine Avalon without its library. The public library was one of the most revered and recognizable institutions in any town. Avalon’s had always seemed special. Following the fire that had taken the boy’s life, the devastated community had pulled together, raising the new building as a monument to the spirit of resilience. For the next ninety-nine years, the place had endured, seemingly as permanent as the granite rock formations around Willow Lake. It was an illusion, though. Soon all of Avalon would know they were celebrating the library’s centennial by announcing its closure.

“I knew there was a budget crisis,” she said, trying to keep panic at bay. “I didn’t realize it was so dire.” Yes, dire. It wasn’t a word she used every day. Unfortunately, it was the right word for the current situation. Fixing a determinedly pleasant smile on her face, she said, “We can send out an emergency appeal. Do another fund-raiser. A whole series of them. What about an urgent letter, a capital campaign? An auction or event—” Her smile sagged as she surveyed their bleak faces. “I know. We’ve done all that.”

“And frankly, we don’t even have the money for postage,” said the treasurer.

“What about emergency funds from the county? Or the state—”

“Despite what we all think, Ms. Davenport, this is not considered an emergency like a wildfire or flood. The sad fact is, our expenses greatly outstrip our resources, and they have for quite some time.” He indicated the large, intimidating figure printed boldly in bright hollyred. “We’re not going to make it.”

“There has to be something more we can do,” she insisted. “What about asking Mr. Byrne to renegotiate the terms of the lease? Or ask for an extension until we can come up with more funds.”

“Warren Byrne? He’s the stingiest man in town.”

“And the richest,” she pointed out.

“He got that way by being stingy. He’s never given the library a penny.” Mr. Shannon shook his head. “We’ve asked, and he’s refused. The sum we need is out of our reach, pure and simple. Our major donors have been more than generous, but there’s a limit to what can be done with private funding. Without the grant, we’re out of options,” he said with a weary sigh. “Times being what they are, even our biggest donors are overcommitted—or tapped out. Perhaps if the recent bond issue had passed, we wouldn’t be in this position, but the voters declined to approve it.”

Maureen gritted her teeth. A small but vocal group of tax protesters had convinced people that the library was not worth saving if it meant a small added sales tax. She had campaigned hard for the bond, but it had failed.

“Our state assemblywoman requested a budget variance on our behalf, and so has the city council,” Mr. Shannon was saying. “But the money is not there, not for this. There are other matters ahead of us in the queue.”

The treasurer passed out her latest report. “Under the circumstances, we can’t come close to meeting our operating budget for the next year. We have until year’s end to close our doors and transfer all assets to the main library branch in the county.”

Maureen saw her own despair reflected in their faces. “What’s going to happen to this place?”

“Most of the collection and assets will be distributed among other library branches. The property is likely to be sold to a developer. Thanks to a building preservation ordinance, the space will be used rather than torn down.”

“Used for what?” Maureen asked. She pictured the venerable old place, converted to a craft shop or B & B. Not that she had anything against craft shops or B & Bs, but this was a library.

“You’re giving up, then,” she said. “Just like that.”

“Not just like that,” Mr. Shannon said, his voice thin with weariness. “We’ve left no stone unturned. You know we’ve been working nonstop.”

“I do know, I’m sorry. But…it’s the library,” she said in her broken whisper. She gestured around the room, its walls hung with old photographs depicting the library’s history. The arched doorway framed a view of the main room. In the half light slanting through the windows, the neat stacks and polished oak tables gleamed.

“And that’s the problem,” Mr. Shannon said, donning his overcoat and flat driving cap. “It doesn’t matter to enough people. Most people I’ve talked to don’t see letting one library go as a total disaster. It just means a few more people will have to drive an extra twenty miles to get books, or wait for the Bookmobile to show up. Hardly the greatest of catastrophes in times like these.”

Maureen felt a chill, knowing he was right. “Yes, this is just one library, but our situation is being replicated everywhere. They just barely managed to save the library in Salinas—John Steinbeck’s hometown. Philadelphia lost eleven branches last year. An entire county in Oregon shut down their system. It’s all part of a slow erosion. When will it stop?”

“The city council had to fund public safety,” Mr. Shannon pointed out. “Do they monitor misdemeanor sex offenders or pay the library’s light bill? There’s really no choice.”

“I understand,” she said. “I’m…trying to, anyway.”

“Thanks for meeting with us,” he said. “I wanted to tell you in person as soon as we heard the bad news.”

She stood up, walked with him to the door. “I appreciate it.” Everyone else followed, silent and somber. Maureen felt shell-shocked, like an accident victim. She’d always pictured herself spending her entire career here, serving the institution she loved. Now, she realized, in a few weeks she’d be out of a job.

Mrs. Goodnow, the board secretary, said, “We’re planning a potluck for the closing ceremony at the end of the year.”

Maureen tried not to sway on her feet. “Yes, all right,” she managed to say. She shut the double doors to the meeting room behind her.

Mr. Shannon paused at the exit, draping a muffler around his shoulders. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be a few minutes more. I need to check my e-mail and rearrange a few things on my schedule.”

“Take care, Ms. Davenport.”

“You, too, Mr. Shannon.”

He hesitated a moment longer. “You don’t look well.”

She felt a nauseating wave of grief. “This library is part of the fabric of the town. We can’t just close.” She thought about the children who came for story hour. The seniors who came for book clubs and computer classes. The adult literacy program. Then she pictured its doors being closed and locked forever. And something inside her curled up and died.

“Can I get you something before I go?” Mr. Shannon offered. “A glass of water or—”

“A miracle,” she said, forcing a smile. “A miracle would be good right about now.”

In the empty quiet of the library, Maureen didn’t check her mail. She didn’t even go near her desk. Instead, she went to the stacks, walking slowly between the tall oaken shelves, running her hands across the spines of the books. She’d always considered the library a sacred place, a place of ideas and art, a safe place to let dreams take flight.

A library—this library in particular—had always filled her with reverence. It was a cathedral for the most diverse elements of mankind, where all of humanity could find its place. She’d practically grown up here in this historic Greek revival building, with its marble halls and leaded windows, the polished mahogany railings and casements. In the center of the building was a sky-lit atrium, featuring a winding staircase leading to the children’s room. When she was very small, climbing the staircase had felt like a special rite of passage, like ascending to heaven.

It was fitting that Maureen would one day become a steward of the institution. Oh, there had been a couple of years in college when she’d been bitten by the theater arts bug, dreaming instead of a future on stage, as if such a thing could actually happen to a girl like her.

A disastrous adventure abroad had cured her of that notion. Even now, years later, the memory of her semester in Paris made her shudder. The life lesson had been slammed home with the force of a tidal wave. She’d learned quickly that she was made for a quieter, more mindful life. Working at the library offered her exactly that. She could be here doing work that mattered, that made her feel vital and alive…and safe.

Yet soon, this place would cease to exist. The county system might assign her to the bookmobile, she thought with a shudder. The one time she’d served in the bookmobile, as an intern, she’d gotten carsick. She could probably find a position in another town, or at the college in New Paltz, but working in this particular place was so much more than a job to her. And it was about to be taken away.

She couldn’t imagine her life without this library. What would she do every day? Where would she go? Who would she be? She refused to imagine it. But that was just denial, wasn’t it? It was time to face the cold, hard facts. By year’s end, the library would be closed. She had to quit hoping for a miracle.

As she put on her things and prepared to leave, her gaze slipped once again over the dimly lit stacks. The wisdom of the ages lived there, philosophers and scientists, poets and playwrights and novelists, the best minds of humanity. Shouldn’t the answers lie in one of these books?

Wandering between the rows of shelves, she went through a ritual she’d been enacting since she was a girl. Whenever she had a problem or question turning over and over in her mind, she would close her eyes and select a random book from the shelf. With eyes still closed, she would let it fall open, and without peeking put her finger on a passage. Then she’d open her eyes and read the book’s advice. It was just a game, yet it was uncanny how much she’d learned simply by opening her mind and opening a book.

She couldn’t imagine what advice might possibly save her from her current troubles, but force of habit ran strong. She shut her eyes and skimmed her fingertip along the spines of the books, stopping between heartbeats. She quickly extracted a volume from the shelf. She heard another fall to the floor, a corner of the book hitting her foot.

“Ow!” she said, her eyes flying open.

Now she had a dilemma. Which was more random, the book in her hands or the one at her feet?

She let the book in her hands fall open and, without looking, ran her index finger partway down the page. Then she looked down to see what would be revealed to her.

There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.

“Thank you, Douglas Adams,” she murmured to the late author, flipping the book over to check out his photo. “You’re no help at all.” She reshelved the book, carefully lining up its spine on the old oak shelf. Then she picked up the book that had fallen to the floor: Words to Live By: A Compendium.

Well, that didn’t even belong here in adult fiction. It had been misshelved.

This was a common occurrence in any library, but there had always been rumors afoot that the place was haunted. In a building like this one, filled with whispering marble halls and papery echoes, such fanciful talk couldn’t be avoided.

As she hastened to the aisle where the book properly belonged, she glanced down at the page that had fallen open, read the line indicated by her thumb in the margin.

If you never did, you should. These things are fun, and fun is good. The statement was attributed to Theodore Seuss Geisel—better known as Dr. Seuss.

Fun is good. A tiny chill touched the back of her neck. Maybe her thumb was really pointing to the next entry: Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.—Anais Nin.

Snapping the volume shut, she put the book away and left the library through the staff-only back door, locking it behind her.

As she headed into the dark night, her mobile phone sounded with her sister Janet’s ring tone—“Shattered” by the Rolling Stones. She pulled her glove off with her teeth, fished out the phone and flipped it open. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. I was just wondering if you’d had dinner yet.”

Maureen’s stomach was in knots. She couldn’t imagine eating anything. Ever again. “I’ve already eaten.”

“Oh. I just wondered if you wanted to drive over and grab something. Karl is going to be late tonight, and I’m all by my lonesome.”

That was Janet for you. Her younger sister was the baby of the family. Though she was as loyal and loving as a person could be, she was never happy in her own company. She’d gone from her college sorority house to marriage, and was already expecting her first child.

“It’d take me an hour to get there, Jan,” Maureen said. Janet and Karl had moved closer to the city to make his commute shorter.

“There’s no snow in the forecast.”

It always bothered Maureen that she was the default sister. When anyone in her family needed someone to be instantly available, Maureen was the one they called.

They didn’t call Meredith, the oldest. Meredith was a doctor in Albany. She was always on duty or on call and at any given time, she was considered too busy to bother. Renée, the next oldest, had three kids, which meant three thousand reasons Renée could never be the go-to girl. Their brother, Guy, was, well, a guy, reason enough to leave him be. That left Maureen, the middle sibling. She was the one they called when they suddenly needed something—companionship, an errand runner, someone to chat with on the phone, a babysitter.

Here was what drove her crazy—not that she was the one they called, but that they assumed she never had anything better to do.

“We could get takeout and watch goofy old holiday movies,” Janet wheedled. “Come on, it’ll be fun. You remember fun, right? Fun is good.”

“What?”

“I said—”

“Never mind. I’ve got something I’m doing tonight,” she told Janet.

“Really? What’s going on? Do you have a date? Oh, my God, you have a date,” Janet exclaimed without giving Maureen a chance to respond. “Who is it? Walter Grunion? Oh, I know. Ned Farkis. He ran into Karl on the train and asked about you. Oh, my God, you’re going out with Ned Farkis.”

Maureen laughed aloud. “I’m glad you have my evening all figured out for me. Ned Farkis. Give me a break.” Ned was a pharmacist’s assistant at the local Rexall. He’d asked her out several times, and she’d never said a clear no, but she never said yes, either. Then she felt guilty about her scorn, because she knew there were guys out there—many, many guys—who had exactly that kind of opinion of her—Maureen Davenport? Give me a break.

“Seriously,” she said to Janet, “I’m meeting Olivia. We’re going to the church to help construct the nativity scene.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were on that committee, too.”

“I’m not. Not officially, anyway. But since I’m working on the pageant—”

“I get it. Today the pageant, tomorrow the world.”

“Very funny. You could join us,” she suggested.

“Us?”

“The volunteers at church.”

“It’s kind of a long drive for me,” Janet said.

Yet she’d been perfectly willing for Maureen to drive it. Maureen tried not to feel exasperated. “Have a nice night, Janet,” she said.

“Sure will. Love you!”

Maureen was blessed to belong to a family where everybody loved each other. Her parents had been college sweethearts who made their home in Avalon because it was a place of natural beauty, a place where they wanted to have lots of kids and raise them surrounded by small-town safety and the richness of nature. All five of their children still lived in or near Avalon.

This was not to say life for the Davenports had been easy. Far from it. Her mother had died of a virus that went straight to her heart. Stan Davenport, a high school principal, had been left with a houseful of kids. Maureen was just five years old when it had happened. She remembered the livid pain of loss, a memory as stark as an old photograph. Meredith had cried so hard, she’d made herself throw up, and Guy had turned their mother’s name into an endless string of tragic sobs: “Mama. Mama. Mama.” Their father had sat at the dining room table with his head propped in his hands, his shoulders shaking, Janet and Renée clinging to him, too young to grasp anything but the fact that in a single instant, their world had exploded. Maureen understood everything, young as she was. Dad had looked like a stranger to her. A complete stranger who had wandered into the wrong house, the wrong family.

In time, they had all learned to smile again, to find the joys in life. And eventually, her father had married Hannah, who adored the children and mothered them as fiercely and devotedly as if she’d given birth to them. One of the reasons Maureen loved Christmas so much was that Hannah always set aside time at the holiday for each child to spend remembering their mother. This meant there were tears, sometimes even anger, but ultimately, it meant their mother lived in their hearts no matter how long she’d been gone.

Only now, as an adult, could Maureen truly appreciate Hannah’s great generosity of spirit. They were a close family, and this time of year was the perfect time to remember the many ways she was blessed. Even in the face of the biggest professional disaster of her career, she could still feel blessed.

Maureen loved everything about Christmas—the cold nip in the air and the crunch of snow underfoot. The aroma of baking cookies and the twinkle of lights in shop windows and along roof lines. The old songs drifting from the radio, sentimental movies on TV, stacks of Christmas books on library tables, the children’s artwork on display. The cheery clink of coins in the Salvation Army collection bucket and the fellowship of people working together on holiday projects.

All of this made her feel a part of something. All of this made her feel safe. Yes, she loved Christmas.

Five

Eddie Haven couldn’t stand Christmas. It was his own private hell. His aversion had started at a young age, and had only grown stronger with the passage of years. Which did not explain why he was on his way to help build a nativity scene in front of the Heart of the Mountains Church.

At least he didn’t have to go alone. His passengers were three brothers who had been categorized at the local high school as at-risk teens. Eddie had never been fond of the label, “at-risk.” As far as he could tell, just being a teenager was risky. Tonight, three of them were his unlikely allies, and at the moment they were arguing over nothing, as brothers seemed to do. Tonight was all about keeping the boys occupied. One of the main reasons they were at risk was that they had too much time on their hands. He figured by putting their hands on hammers and hay bales, they’d spend a productive evening and stay out of trouble.

“Hey, Mr. Haven,” said Omar Veltry, his youngest charge. “I bet you five dollars I can tell you where you got them boots you’re wearing.”

“What makes you think I even have five dollars?” Eddie asked.

“Then bet me,” Omar piped up. “Maybe I’ll lose and you’ll get five dollars off me. Five dollars says I can tell you where you got those boots.”

“Hell, I don’t even know where I got them. So go for it.”

“Ha. You got those boots on your feet, man.” Omar nearly bounced himself off the seat. He high-fived each brother in turn and they all giggled like maniacs.

Christ. At a stoplight, Eddie dug in his pocket, found a five. “Man. You are way too smart for me. All three of you are real wiseguys.”

“Ain’t we, though?”

“I bet you’re smart enough to put that fiver in the church collection box,” Eddie added.

“Oh, man.” Omar collapsed against the seat.

Heart of the Mountains Church was situated on a hillside overlooking Willow Lake, its slender steeple rising above the trees. The downhill-sloping road bowed out to the left near the main yard of the church, and a failure to negotiate the curve could mean a swift ride to disaster. Eddie slowed the van. No matter how many times he rounded this curve in the road, he always felt the same shudder of memory. This was where the two halves of his life had collided—the past and the future—one snowy night, ten years ago.

Tonight, the road was bare and dry. The iconic church was the picture of placid serenity, its windows aglow in the twilight, the landscape stark but beautiful, waiting for the snow. This, Eddie figured, was the sort of setting people imagined for weddings and holiday worship, community events—and of course, AA meetings.

He pulled into the church parking lot. “I’m officially broke now. Thanks a lot.”

“I heard you used to be a movie star,” Randy, the older brother, pointed out. “Everybody knows movie stars are rich.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Eddie said. “Rich.”

“Betcha you’re rich from that movie,” the middle brother, Moby, pointed out. “I saw it on TV just the other night. ‘There’s magic in Christmas, if only you believe,’” he quoted. It was a famous line in The Christmas Caper, uttered by a wide-eyed and irresistible little Eddie. The damn thing aired endlessly like a digital virus every holiday season.

“Now you’re officially on my nerves,” said Eddie. “And FYI, I’m not rich from the movie. Not even close.”

“Huh,” Moby said with a snort of disbelief. Moby was his nickname, based not on his size, but on the fact that his given name was Richard. “Your movie’s huge. It’s on TV every Christmas.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t do me a bit of good.”

“You don’t, like, get a cut or anything?”

“Geez, don’t look at me like that. I was a kid, okay? And my parents didn’t do so hot, being in charge of finances.” The Havens had been incredibly naive, in fact. Against all odds and conventional wisdom, they’d managed to fail to make money off one of the most successful films of the year.

Maybe that was why he avoided his folks like poison ivy around the holidays. Oh, please let it not be so, Eddie thought. He didn’t want to be so shallow. But neither did he want to try figuring out the real reason he steered clear of family matters at Christmas.

“Did they, like, take your money and spend it on cars and stuff?” Randy asked. “Or make stupid investments?”

“It’s complicated,” Eddie said. “To make a long story short, they signed some contracts without quite knowing what they were agreeing to, and none of us saw any earnings. It was a long time ago,” he added. “Water under the bridge.”

“Didn’t you, like, grow up in some kind of compound?” Moby asked. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

Eddie laughed. “Commune, not compound. There’s a difference.” His parents had caught the tail end of the radical sixties, and for a time, they’d dropped out of society. They’d spent the seventies on a commune in a remote, rural area of the Catskills, convinced that simple living and self-sufficiency would lead the way to Nirvana. Eddie had been born in a hand-built cabin without electricity or running water, his mother attended by a midwife and surrounded by chanting doulas. He wondered what the Veltry brothers would say if they knew the actual name on his birth certificate. It was a far cry from Eddie. “A commune is based on the idea that the community raises the kids, not just the parents,” he explained to them. “I was homeschooled, too. The group kind of fell apart after a while, but by then, my folks had created a traveling show. We were on the road a lot.”

“Musta sucked for you,” Randy said.

Eddie had thought so, but working with kids like the Veltrys had shown him everything was relative. Compared to the three brothers, Eddie’s problems had been nothing. At least both of his parents had been present. According to Eddie’s friend Ray Tolley, who was with the local PD, the Veltry boys were in foster care more than they were out. Eddie didn’t know the precise reason and he didn’t want to bug them by asking. They’d never known their father, and they had a mother who couldn’t manage to stay out of jail.

When Eddie was their age, his biggest worry had been how to survive his parents and the legacy of the Haven family. He came from a long line of entertainers dating back generations, to Edvard Haszczak, a circus acrobat who stowed away on a freighter from the Baltic Sea. Upon arrival in America, Edvard had changed his unspellable last name and founded a family of performers. Eddie’s great-grandparents had been vaudeville singers; his grandparents were borscht-belt crooners and Eddie’s parents were a semifamous couple who had starred in a cheesy variety show in the 1960s called Meet the Havens when they were just teenagers themselves.

During their counterculture years, they’d dropped out of everything, but trying to bring up a child woke them up to the reality that they couldn’t always depend on the commune for everything. They couldn’t raise money for doctor visits and clothes for a growing child in the communal garden. So at a young age, too young to be consulted about it, the youngest Haven carried on the family tradition of show business. After appearing in a couple of commercials, including one featuring him as a bare-bottomed baby, he scored a box office hit which had become the Christmas movie that would not die. His delivery of an unforgettable line, and his performance of an iconic song—“The Runaway Reindeer”—ensured his fame for decades to follow.

Although he landed a couple more movie roles—a horror flick, a stupid musical, voicing a cartoon—Eddie never cared that much for acting and the projects flopped or never made it to release. Yet no matter how many hats he subsequently tried on—serious music student, edgy grunge rocker, soulful singer/songwriter—the child-star persona stuck to him like melted candy. He grew up in the shadow of a little kid who had no idea what he was saying when he mouthed the lines that defined him for a generation of viewers.

His parents continued to perform, featuring Eddie in an act designed to cash in on his popularity. “Meet the Havens,” as the trio became known, spent every Christmas season on the road. This left Eddie with little more than a blur of unpleasant memories of the holiday season. His parents insisted Christmas was the ideal time of year for a traveling ensemble. People tended to get nostalgic, and in the grip of the holiday spirit, they opened their pockets. From the time he was very small, he’d been obliged to head out with his parents the day after Thanksgiving, playing a different small venue every night, right up to New Year’s Day. They stayed in nondescript motels and ate their meals on the fly, often skipping dinner because it was too close to showtime.

Eddie had hated it, yet every single night when he stepped out in front of an audience, he did so with a smile on his face and a song on his lips. But it left a bad taste in his mouth about Christmas.

He didn’t let on to the three Veltry boys, though. He honestly wanted them to regard Christmas with the benign good spirits that seemed to emanate from those who, this evening, had left their warm homes to help build the church’s nativity scene—an elaborate, detailed and life-size frieze that attracted fans from all over the upper part of the state. This was one of the most popular sights in Avalon this time of year, and the church, in cooperation with the Chamber of Commerce, went all out.

A number of volunteers were there already, organizing the components of the display—structures and figures, heavy-duty cables and lights, lumber and power tools. The boys approached their task with a cocky swagger that was lost on the church people. What was not lost was the boys’ sagging jeans and oversize hoodies with tribal-looking symbols.

Ray Tolley came over to greet them. “Not your usual suspects,” he murmured to Eddie. Ray was one of Eddie’s closest friends, though they couldn’t be more different. Ray came from a solid, stable background. He’d been born and raised right here in Avalon. He was a good keyboard player, mediocre at pool and big on practical jokes.

He was also Eddie’s parole officer.

They’d met as boys at summer camp. They’d met again as adults, the night of the accident. Ray, a rookie back then, had been in charge of taking a statement from Eddie.

In his hospital bed, his injuries relatively minor after the fiery wreck, Eddie had not been able to offer much in the way of explanation. Ray hadn’t wanted to hear about Eddie’s romantic troubles that night or about Eddie’s issues with the Christmas holiday. Looking back on that time, it was surprising that they’d become friends at all, let alone bandmates.

Eddie introduced the Veltry boys to Noah Shepherd, a friend of his who played in the band. Noah was also a veterinarian who had access to large amounts of hay. Noah was with his stepson, Max Bellamy. The kid was growing like a weed, pushing his way awkwardly into adolescence. “These guys will help you with the truckload of hay bales,” Eddie said, introducing Omar, Randy and Moby.

“Great,” Noah replied. “Grab some work gloves out of the cab.”

A dark, polished Maybach glided to a stop in the parking lot, and out stepped the pudgy kid Eddie had encountered the other night. The moment the elegant ride slipped away, some of the other teenagers present circled him like a school of sharks, taunting him, one of them tugging at his hoodie.

“That’s Cecil Byrne,” said Omar, who’d noticed Eddie’s interest. “He just moved here and he’s, like, the richest kid in town. Everybody hates him.”

“Because he’s new? Or rich?”

Omar shrugged. “He’s pretty much of a geek. People can’t stand that.”

“Do me a favor,” Eddie said to Randy, the eldest of the Veltrys. “Go see if he can help with some transformers.”

Randy nodded, clearly grasping his task. He waded through the shark tank. The other kids gave way without hesitation, some of them greeting him and confirming Eddie’s instinct that the Veltry boys were considered cool. Randy, with his Jay-Z-style good looks and attitude, simply said, “Yo, Cecil, we could use some help with some electrical transformers over here.”

Cecil nodded and followed Randy with unconcealed relief. He still had that outcast look, the look of a kid who wasn’t comfortable in his own skin. High school was a bumpy ride for kids like that.

Guys were setting up power tools, plugging them into long orange extension cords. One of the volunteers, a local business owner who’d never liked Eddie for reasons Eddie didn’t quite understand, leaned over to his friend and said, “Look who’s back in town. Mr. Runaway Reindeer.”

Eddie made a kissing sound with his mouth. “Always a pleasure to see you again, Lyall.”

The guy jerked a thumb at the Veltry boys. “Check out the baby outlaws,” he told his buddies. “Better keep track of your tools.”

“Come on, Lyall,” Eddie said, grinning through his temper. “Don’t be an ass.” The two of them went back way too far, all the way back to their summer camp days, when Eddie had stolen a girl from Lyall.

“Then quit bringing your trashy kids around and we won’t have a problem,” Lyall said.

Eddie stared down at the ground. Counted to ten. Silently recited the serenity prayer. Forced his fists to unfurl. “Let’s not do this, Lyall.”

“Fine. We won’t do this. Just keep an eye on those kids.”

Damn, thought Eddie, counting again. Why do I do this to myself? I could be back in the city, playing my guitar, or—

A car door slammed. “Hello,” sang a female voice. “We brought hot chocolate.”

He looked over to see Maureen Davenport with a hugely pregnant woman. They started pouring drinks from a thermos and handing them out. The blond, pregnant woman was pretty enough, but it was Maureen who held his attention. Dour little Maureen, wrapped up like a cannoli in a muffler, peering out at the world from behind her thick glasses.

He sidled over to her. “Didn’t know I’d see you here. I guess you can’t get enough of me.”

She pulled the muffler down and offered a tight little smile. “Right. You are so irresistible. What are you doing here, Mr. I-Can’t-Stand-Christmas?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to the other woman. “This is my friend, Olivia Davis.”

“Hey, Lolly.” A big guy in a parka showed up, bending to give her a peck on the cheek. “Connor Davis,” he said. “This is my brother, Julian Gastineaux. He’s a Cornell student, just visiting for the weekend.”

They didn’t look like brothers; Connor resembled a lumberjack while Julian was clearly of mixed race, longlimbed and slender as a marathon runner. He wore a fleece-lined bomber cap but despite the dorky headgear, nearly every teenage girl present seemed to be swooning over him.

“I’m Eddie Haven.” Eddie turned to the blond woman again. “Lolly. Have we met?”

“Lolly Bellamy,” she said. “We both went to Camp Kioga, a hundred years ago.”

“I didn’t know you went to Camp Kioga,” said Maureen.

“Five summers,” Eddie said. “Best summers of my life.”

“Olivia and Connor turned it into a year-round resort,” Maureen said.

“Good to know,” Julian said, aiming a teasing grin at Olivia. “I’m ordering room service breakfast in the morning.”

“Huh,” she said, “that’s for paying guests only.” She held out an insulated paper cup to Eddie. “Hot chocolate?”

He thanked her, and she went off with her husband and brother-in-law. Eddie turned to Maureen. “I’m here for the drinks. What about you?”

“I wanted to help out.”

“Let’s both be honest and say we didn’t want to be alone tonight, and neither of us had a better offer.”

She frowned as though unsure whether she believed him or not. “Who says I didn’t have a better offer?”

“Yeah? What did you turn down in order to build a manger?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’re trying to psych me out,” he accused.

“Sure. Of course that’s what I’m doing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go uncrate a sheep.”

The air came alive with the sound of hammering. Eddie worked on the lighting and sound for the display, because these were things he knew. And in spite of himself, he kept an eye on the Veltry brothers—not because he thought they might steal something, but because they had wandering attention spans. He commandeered Max and Omar to aim the floodlights at the display from all angles, with the most powerful beam installed above, streaming down into the middle of the manger. There were also yards of light strings that would outline the structure and the church, as well.

Maureen was hovering nearby. “It’s not coming together,” she said, her head tipped back as she critically surveyed the display.

“People are freezing their asses off,” he pointed out. “Hard to do your best work when you’re freezing your ass off.”

“That’s because it’s twenty degrees out. Let’s try putting on some Christmas music,” she said.

“Oh, please.”

“Not everyone feels the way you do about Christmas,” she said.

“And not everyone feels the way you do about Christmas,” he replied.

“Music,” she said.

“Whatever you say.” He stalked over to his van and fired up the sound system, selecting a mix tape that was sure to annoy her. A moment later, Rick James singing “Superfreak (U Can’t Touch This)” blasted from the speakers.

It was worth the trouble just to witness outrage on Maureen’s face. She didn’t say anything, though, because everyone else had a different reaction. The suggestive thump of rhythm and ridiculous lyrics immediately took hold, as he’d known it would. One thing he was good at was music selection—matching songs to occasions.

“Superfreak” was one of those pieces no one could resist. Even the Veltry brothers, whose taste ran to hip-hop, stepped up their pace.

As she tilted back her head and regarded the night sky, Maureen looked skeptical.

“Now what?” he asked her.

She indicated a guy on a ladder. “Something’s missing,” she said. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.” Her face changed—softened—as she tilted her gaze at the roof of the main structure. “That’s Jabez,” she said. “Have you met him yet?”

“Briefly,” he said. Something about the kid kept niggling at him. Maybe it was just Jabez himself. He exuded a kind of subtle magnetism. The other high-school kids were drawn to him, handing over light spools and cords as he climbed the ladder. Perched on the roof of the flimsy structure, he appeared to be in a precarious position. Yet he seemed all but weightless as he hoisted the Star of Bethlehem, which was easily as tall as he was, and hung it in place at the peak of the roof.

“Ready for the lights,” someone called.

Eddie hit a master switch and the scene came to life. A few moments later, the music changed to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Bathed in the glow of the lights, Jabez looked even more striking. Maureen’s face changed. Softened, as though overcome by some kind of magic. He’d never known anyone quite like her. There was something about her that moved him; not just her earnest devotion to Christmas, but her air of…he wasn’t quite sure. Optimism, maybe. And earnestness. There was a deep appeal in Maureen that made no sense to Eddie, yet he couldn’t deny it. When he was a kid, he used to dream about a kind of Christmas that simply didn’t exist. Maybe that was the thing about Maureen. She reminded him of the kind of girl who didn’t really exist—not for him, anyway.

Then the lights flickered out. She shaded her eyes and looked around. Volunteers were putting away the tools and crates. “Where’d Jabez go?”

“Don’t know. Do you need him for something?”

“I was going to give him a flyer about auditions. Maybe he’d like to join in.”

“Hate to break it to you, but being in the Christmas pageant is not exactly a hot ticket for kids his age.”

“That’s why I made the flyer.” She handed him a few. “Feel free to give these out.”

He glanced at the sheet, angling it toward the false starlight. “‘Featuring an original composition by Eddie Haven’?” he read aloud. “Since when?”

“Since you said the music I picked was stale, I thought a piece by you would freshen things up.”

“And it never occurred to you to ask?”

“I’m asking. Will you?”

“I mean before you advertise my services.”

“If you turn me down now, you’ll feel like a heel.”

“Christ, and here I was, starting to like you,” he said. “Turning you down is not going to make me feel like a heel.”

“I know. It’s the kids and everyone counting on an amazing pageant this year,” she said. “They’re the ones who will make you feel like a heel.” She went around collecting empty cups, moving through the crowd with brisk efficiency.

“I just got screwed,” Eddie said to Ray. “But I don’t remember getting kissed.”

“By Maureen? Don’t be sore. She does that to everybody.”

“Does what?”

“Gets her way. I’ve known her for years, and that’s just the way she operates. No biggie.” Ray headed toward his truck.

“She’s into you,” Randy Veltry remarked as they reeled in the stereo speakers.

“What?”

“That woman. The one you were talking to. Totally into you.”

“Right.” Eddie gave a derisive laugh. He tried to dismiss the notion. Into him? Maureen Davenport? No way. She made it clear she couldn’t stand him. Her being into him—that was the last thing he wanted or needed.

And yet…he liked her, bossy attitude, librarian bun and all. It was crazy.

“You ought to ask her out,” Moby suggested.

“Nope. No way. We have to work together on this Christmas production so I can’t be getting personal with her.”

“Chicken.” Omar flapped his wings.

“I’m not. It’s just…I don’t have such good luck with women around this time of year. You know what I call Christmas? Ex-mas. With an E-X. I’ve been dumped three times at the holidays.” It was true; he hadn’t learned his lesson with Natalie. He’d never tried proposing again, but his next two girlfriends both dropped him at Christmastime, too.

“Oh, let me get out my tiny finger-violin.” Randy pantomimed the action.

“I’m just saying.”

“You’re looking for excuses.”

Eddie regarded the three brothers. Thinking about their background and current troubles, he was amazed they even spared a thought for his love life. “Yeah, you’re a bunch of wiseguys,” he said. “That’s what you are.”

“Hear that?” Omar said. “We’re wiseguys, all three of us.”

“Which reminds me, you’re going to try out for the pageant.”

“Ha. That’s a good one.”

“You think I’m kidding? I wouldn’t kid about something that’s going to get you released from school an hour early, three times a week.”

That clinched the deal for them. The Veltry boys caught a ride home with Noah and Max, leaving Eddie to finish up with the other volunteers. People trickled away, heading home, nagging their kids about weekend chores, checking their e-mail and seeing what was on TV. Eddie didn’t have to worry about any of those things, so he lingered to finish up with the lighting. After a while, he realized only he and Maureen Davenport remained.

“Pretty cold tonight,” he said, just to fill the silence.

“I hope the snow comes soon,” she said. “It’s always so lovely to have snow at Christmas. It never officially feels like the season has started until it snows.”

“Not a fan. But don’t worry. You’ll get your snow any minute now.”

“No, the weather report earlier said there’s no snow in the forecast.”

“Maybe not, but it’s still going to snow. Tonight,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’ve been checking the weather report regularly. There’s not a hint of snow.”

“Have a little faith, Miss Davenport.”

“I have plenty of faith,” she retorted.

“Right.”

She studied him for a few minutes, her gaze both probing and compassionate. “What is it with you and Christmas? Did it start that night?”

Eddie studied her keen-eyed expression. So she’d heard the story. Maybe she’d been at the church when his van had gone flying into the nativity scene. He wondered how much she knew. “Wasn’t my best night.”

“People said it was a miracle you survived the wreck,” she said.

“That’s me. A Christmas miracle. Yeah, people can believe whatever they want,” said Eddie.

He was found lying in a snowbank some twenty feet from the van. Panicked worshipers exiting the church found him that way—dazed, reeking of alcohol.

“Maybe it wasn’t a miracle, but incredibly good luck,” she suggested. “I heard you weren’t wearing a seat belt, and that was what saved you.”

“That’s what you heard, eh?”

“Am I wrong?”

The accident report had been exhaustive because there was an entire congregation to draw from. Witnesses reported seeing the van careen around the bend in the road and, “at a high rate of speed,” it left the icy pavement, plowed down a slope, mowed over the nativity scene and burst into flames, all in a matter of seconds.

There could be no disputing these facts. Too many unrelated witnesses reported seeing the same thing. What no one had witnessed—what no one could explain—was how Eddie had survived. Without serious injuries.

Investigators theorized that the impact of the vehicle hitting the building had caused him to be thrown clear of the van and that the deep snow had cushioned his fall. Experts on such things said that this was one of those rare occasions when the victim had benefited from not wearing a seat belt.

The report went on for pages, recounting the statements of witnesses, police and investigators. It was very thorough in presenting the facts.

One key fact had been neglected, however.

Eddie had been wearing his seat belt that night. A lap belt with a shoulder harness.

He had explained as much to the investigators, and they instantly dismissed that part of his statement. For some crazy reason, he decided to test his theory out on Maureen. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re wrong. I had my seat belt on.”

A soft gasp escaped her, and she pressed a mitten-clad hand to her mouth. “The paper said the only reason you survived was that you were flung from the vehicle before it exploded.”

“I know what I know,” he insisted. “And don’t look at me like that—I read what the reports said. And I know I was in shock from a dislocated shoulder. I also read what the paper said about my blood alcohol level. It’s not so unique for someone on Christmas Eve. Haven’t you ever knocked back a few on Christmas Eve?”

“No,” she said bluntly.

“Well, you might, if you’d had the kind of evening I’d had. My memory is not impaired. I wish it was, because there are things about that night I’d like to forget.”

“What kind of things?”

“It’d take all night to explain. I don’t want us to turn into a couple of Popsicles. Doesn’t matter, because I do remember, and one thing I remember was clipping on my seat belt.”

“Why would you remember that so specifically?”

“Because just like everybody else, it’s a habit ingrained in me from a young age. I spent half my childhood being schlepped around in cars. The reason I remember the situation that night specifically is that I sat in the car for a few minutes, and I considered not fastening it. This was something I deliberated.”

“Why would you deliberate?” she asked.

“Long story short, a girl broke up with me that night. I was still young enough to think it was the end of the world. I felt like shit and I kind of did want to die, but if I did, I’d miss out on the rest of my life, you know?”

Her lips twitched a little at the corners. “Funny how that works.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of a career decision. One you can’t take back. So I buckled up.” He could still feel the cold metal of the buckle in his hand. He could still feel and hear the decisive click as he latched it home. There was no way, no possible way he was mistaken.

Except the accident report contradicted him entirely.

“Have you ever felt that way?” he asked Maureen. “Have you ever been that hurt by another person, so hurt you didn’t care if you lived or died?” That was how he’d felt that night, with Natalie. Later, with the clarity of hindsight, he realized the act of proposing had been more important than the woman herself.

He expected Maureen to say something utterly practical, like what nonsense it was to give a person that much power over you. Instead, she surprised him. She nodded slowly and said, “I have.”

“You have.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“When?”

“It’s private.” She looked away, busied herself picking up a stray spool of speaker wire. “No wonder you’re jaded on love,” she commented in a clear attempt to deflect his next obvious question.

“Who says I’m jaded on love?” he asked.

“You nearly lost your life. That must have been the last time you trusted your heart to anyone.”

“Maybe I’m a slow learner. Getting dumped at Christmas kind of became a thing with me.”

“You know what I think?” she asked, then went on without waiting for his answer. “I think you keep trying to sabotage Christmas for yourself.”

“Hey—”

“And guess what? This year, you’re not going to get away with it. This year, you’re going to have a great Christmas.”

“Because I get to spend it with you?” Oops, he thought, watching her face go stiff with humiliation. Wrong thing to say. “I’m teasing,” he said.

“No, you’re being mean. There’s a difference.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

The frames of her glasses were probably made of titanium; they looked tough as armor. “All right,” she said.

He wasn’t sure what she meant by all right. “Listen, I promise—”

“What?” she asked, every pore of her body exuding skepticism.

Good question, he thought. It had been so long since he’d promised anything to anyone. “That it’ll snow,” he said, noticing the barely detectable early flurries. “Now, there’s something I can promise.”

“The weather report said—”

“Forget the weather report. Look up, Maureen. Look at the sky.”

Maureen was about to march off to her car, eager to escape him, when she felt a shimmer of magic in the air. No, not magic. Snow. Contrary to the weather reports, the first snow of the year arrived when Eddie Haven said it would. It started with tiny, sparse crystals that thickened fast. Soon the night was filled with flakes as big as flower petals.

“Glad the snow held off until we finished,” said Eddie.

“No ‘I told you so’?” she asked him.

“Nah, you’re already annoyed at me.”

She scowled at him. “I’m not annoyed.”

“Right. Hand me that package of zip ties, will you?” He was still tweaking the light display. For someone who couldn’t stand Christmas, he sure had worked hard on the display. She wondered if he considered it a kind of redemption.

She gave him a hand, in no hurry to get home. Franklin and Eloise, her cats, had each other for company. She wondered if Eddie had any pets. Or a roommate, back in New York. She also wondered if he’d really gone dashing off for a date the other night, or if that was just her overactive imagination. She warned herself that she was far too inquisitive about this man, but couldn’t manage to stop herself from speculating about him.

As the minutes passed, the snowstorm kicked into higher gear. Thick flakes bombarded them. It was a classic lake effect storm, a sudden unleashing of pent-up pre-cipitation. The church parking lot, empty now except for their cars, was soon completely covered. The landscape became a sculpture of soft ridges, sparkling in the amber glow of the parking lot lights.

They walked toward their cars, sounds now muffled by the snow. She slowed her steps, then stopped. “I love the first snow of the year,” she said. “Everything is so quiet and clean.” Taking off her glasses, she tilted back her head to feel the weightless flakes on her face. Snow always reminded her of fun and exhilaration, safety and laughter. When she and her brother and sisters were little, their father used to be very quick to urge the school district to declare a snow day when the first big snow of the season came. The whole family would go to Oak Hill Cemetery, where they would make snow angels, engage in snowball fights or go sledding if there was enough of a base on the ground. No one ever remarked that celebrating the first snow in a graveyard might not be appropriate. It was Stan Davenport’s way of bringing his five kids closer to their late mother. People tended not to argue with him.

Having lost her mother at age five, Maureen was considered too young to remember, but she did. Sometimes, like when the snow was coming down in a thick and silent fury, a perfect moment would come over her. In a flash of clarity, she could remember everything—the warmth of her mother’s hands, and the way they smelled of flowery soap, the sound of her laughter, the way she liked to collapse like a rag doll in the middle of the bed Maureen shared with Renée, where she would lie with them reading Horton Hatches the Egg and The Poky Little Puppy and Each Peach Pear Plum, always letting them beg for one more story before snuggling them under the covers and kissing them softly.

Maureen shook off the memory to find Eddie staring at her. And although it was entirely possible that she was mistaken, she sensed a new interest in the way he was looking at her, through half-lidded eyes, with what appeared to be desire. It was the way a man regarded a woman just before he kissed her. Which either meant she was a wildly poor reader of facial expressions, or he had unexpected taste in women.

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