by Janice

I heard the bells on Christmas Day, Honey sang under her breath, as she prepared her breakfast, Their old familiar carols play. She set two places at the table, smiling in satisfaction as she stepped back to check that everything was perfect. Brian entered the room as she sang of peace on Earth and goodwill to men.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said, giving her a kiss. “That smells wonderful.”

“Your mother’s recipe,” she told him, setting a steaming plate of blueberry pancakes in front of him. “I thought you deserved a treat, seeing as we’ve barely seen each other in a week.”

He smiled his appreciation as their meal began. While there was still food on the table, Honey let the conversation drift, covering the days that their conflicting work schedules had kept them apart. As soon as both had eaten their fill, she retrieved a sheaf of papers and told her husband of six months, “Before you go, we need to settle a few things.”

Brian looked at the paperwork in alarm. “What do you mean?”

Honey giggled. “Our schedule for December,” she explained. “Here are the invitations we’ve received that still need a response. This,” she tapped the calendar, “is what we already have planned. We need to figure out what we can fit in and what we need to decline.”

The top invitation in the pile bore the likeness of an angel, which set Honey to humming Hark, The Herald Angels Sing. She paused between lines to say, “Do you have any other commitments, or will I just pencil all of these in, if they don’t clash with what we have already?”

“I don’t have anything else,” he replied. He frowned as Honey jotted down the numerous engagements. He noted, with a sinking heart, that every weekend had at least two events; one included two dinner parties, a brunch and an afternoon reception. The pile of acceptances for her to write loomed over the pile of declines.

“Joyful all ye nations rise,” Honey sang, picking up another invitation – she knew only one verse of the carol and had to repeat it when she reached the end – “Join the triumph . . .” Her voice trailed off as she read. “Oh, I didn’t notice this one when we received it. A cocktail party at the Carringtons’. I really don’t like cocktail parties, and I know you don’t either, but they’ve been so kind to us and Daddy was so good to introduce you in the first place . . .”

Brian suppressed the grimace that threatened to break across his face. In deference to his wife’s feelings, he did not voice the fervent wish that there be a previous and unbreakable commitment on the night of that particular party. The thought made him feel rather guilty. His new father-in-law had gone to particular trouble to make sure that his business associate Michael Carrington made their acquaintance. It seemed ungrateful to dislike the man as much as he did.

“I guess we’ll have to go,” she continued, not seeming to notice that he had said nothing. “It’s such a good opportunity for you. If you want to get into research, you’ll need to have those sorts of contacts and, seeing as you haven’t really decided yet, it’s better to be safe than sorry. So many of Mr. Carrington’s associates are in medical or pharmaceutical circles that it’s the sort of opportunity that you can’t afford to miss.”

She murmured to herself as she tried to rearrange the schedule. One of the invitations from the accept pile moved over to the decline. “I wish I didn’t have to do that,” she sighed. “I was looking forward to the party at the Lynch’s. Of all these, it was probably the only one I really wanted to attend.”

Brian looked from the calendar, which was now covered in his wife’s elegant script, to her face. “We don’t have to go to the Carringtons,” he said, trying to keep his tone of voice neutral. “There will be other opportunities. It’s not as if I’m actively pursuing a career in research right now.”

“I can’t stand in the way of your career for one little party,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “What sort of wife would I be, if I put my desire to have fun and see some old friends and just relax a little ahead of your long-term goals and future career? Hardly any of these other parties will give you chances to meet people who might help you in the future. I couldn’t stand between you and that chance.”

“Honey,” he soothed, pulling her onto his lap, “it doesn’t matter. I agree that it’s a great opportunity – but I don’t need it right now. Let’s go to the Lynch party. We’ll enjoy that. You said yourself that we wouldn’t enjoy the Carrington party.”

She drew an elegantly manicured fingertip around the outline of the angel, which now sat on top of the decline pile. “I wish that things were simpler,” she whispered. “I wish that we didn’t have to rush from one place to another.” She sighed deeply. “I wish that we could have a Christmas like the ones that Trixie talked about, when we first met.”

Brian took in the wistful look on her face and the crowded schedule. In that instant, he made a decision. He took the Lynch invitation from the decline pile with one hand, the entire accept pile with the other, and reversed their positions.

“Oh, Brian!” Honey cried. “I just sorted all of those. How will I know, now, which ones to accept or decline? I’ve written all of them on the calendar, too.”

“So, cross them out,” he replied. “You just said that you didn’t want to go. You just wished for a simpler Christmas. Decline all of them and you’ll have it.”

Suddenly, she smiled. “Maybe I was exaggerating just a teensy bit.” She quickly resorted the piles, crossing off at least half of the engagements. Her pencil point rested against a date which had already been claimed before the exercise began. “Do you think, though, that maybe we should do something about what I’m talking about at this one?” Seeing Brian’s furrowed brow at that tangled sentence, she rephrased it. “I mean, I’d like to set the Bob-Whites a challenge for our pre-Christmas get-together. Do you think we could invite everyone over tonight to talk it through?”

He nodded. “You could try. It’s about time we got the group together again.”

“In that case, I will,” she declared. “Just remember that you’ll have to participate, too.”

His response was to pull her closer and murmur, “I like that idea.” As he playfully nibbled her neck, she sighed in contentment. Perhaps her Christmas season would be even happier than the ones that Trixie had described.

By some miracle, Honey had chosen the one night that every one of the Bob-Whites was available. Mid-evening saw them all gathered in Honey and Brian’s tiny apartment, laughing and chattering, while Jim and Trixie’s children played. Honey waited for a lull in the conversation to introduce her idea. The opportunity came as she served hot drinks.

“I was thinking, this morning, that we should do something special for Christmas this year.” She set down a drink in easy reach of Diana, and another in front of Jim. “I’ve got an idea that I’d like you all to consider.”

“Just so long as it’s not like Trixie’s idea that we dress up as cute, furry animals and collect money for the animal shelter,” quipped Mart.

“That was Halloween, not Christmas,” his sister objected. “And, anyway, that was not my idea; it was Di’s.”

“I still think you’d look cute dressed as a puppy,” Di crooned, snuggling up against him. “Maybe we could do that next Halloween.”

“I’m more interested in what we’re doing this Christmas,” Trixie interrupted. “Honey? Brian? Are you going to fill us in?”

Brian shook his head. “Not me. I don’t know what Honey wants us to do.” He turned to his wife, as the rest fell into an expectant silence.

“I guess it’s about simplifying things,” she explained. “I was feeling kind of overwhelmed, with all the things I was supposed to do, all the gifts to buy and things to plan. I wanted to just stop and enjoy the moment, rather than have to rush from one party to the next.” She paused, looking from one face to the next. “I was looking at one of the invitations this morning and it reminded me of something.” She held out the Lynch invitation, with its angel. From a nearby shelf, she retrieved an old Christmas card, whose cover was adorned with an identical angel. “I received this card the first Christmas that I lived in Sleepyside.”

“From me,” Di agreed, with a nod. “I designed it myself and Mummy had them printed. She liked it so much that she used it again for her party invitations this year.”

“I was happy to receive it, both times,” Honey told her, warmly. “Anyway, my point is that the first Christmas after we moved to Sleepyside was the happiest one I’d ever had. When I got this invitation from your parents, Di, it reminded me of that time.” She took a deep breath. “What I want all of you to do, is to find something that reminds you of a happy Christmas memory and to bring it to our gathering on Christmas Eve, and to tell us a little bit about it.”

The tension she hadn’t really even been unaware of before this moment was released as Honey saw the approval in her friends’ faces and heard their enthusiastic response to her idea. She smiled as Trixie and Mart began a debate on how they could each stop the other from stealing their ideas. Honey felt a thrill of anticipation. From her earlier discontent, something magical had begun.

The preserve glistened in its winter coat of snow white and evergreen as Dan trudged towards Mr. Maypenny’s cottage. In the years since he had left, little had changed here. The old man still lived alone, hunting and cooking for himself. He still preferred his home to be filled with peace and quiet, which suited Dan’s current purpose right down to the ground. He wanted a place to think, to reflect on the different stages of his life and come up with an answer to Honey’s request.

He entered the clearing and knew, without having to check, that his friend was not at home. With the ease of long association, Dan let himself inside and lit the fire which was already laid in the hearth. A glance told him that there was plenty of wood in the pile and that he would not need to bring in any more for some hours. He settled into Mr. Maypenny’s own chair and let his mind wander over the stages of his life.

Casting his mind back to his earliest memories, he recalled the sensation of anticipation; the excitement he had once felt seemed alien now. Try as he might, he could not recall any specific gift he had received, or anything he had particularly enjoyed. He remembered being happy, but little else. Think, Mangan! he told himself. What was it about our Christmasses, when I was a kid that made them so good?

A memory appeared, as clear as day. He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen and his mother was checking the food in the oven. There was a terrible smell, which increased as she opened the oven door. The puff of smoke which came forth only confirmed Dan’s suspicion that his mother had, once again, ruined their Christmas dinner.

“Oh, Maggie,” his father laughed. “I think this is your best effort, yet!”

The image faded. Whatever his mother had said, Dan could not remember. A pang went through him, as he tried to remember her voice and her face. She seemed so far away. He took a deep breath and stopped trying. The stubborn memory remained out of reach.

“Great,” he muttered, aloud. “All I remember of Christmas with my parents is that Mom was a lousy cook.” But that was not right. Now that he had stopped chasing them, the memories crowded for attention. His mind filled with a jumble of images, sounds and smells. A gentle smile settled on his face at the thought of the candles his mother used to light, the battered decorations he helped her hang each year and the terrible jokes his father used to tell.

There were happy memories, after all. Despite the shadow of the dark times which followed, he could remember being happy with his parents. Dan deliberately skipped over the next few years. The next time that he tried to focus on began with the second Christmas he had spent in Sleepyside, after he had gotten to know his uncle and Mr. Maypenny, and ended when he had established a home of his own.

Those years were easier to remember. They had been simple celebrations, reflecting the personalities of the three who had arranged them. Even now, Dan marvelled at the kindness of others in those years. Their table had always been heavy with all manner of home-made baked goods, courtesy of Mrs. Belden, Mrs. Vanderpoel and others in the area who knew and cared for them. Viewed from the perspective of years later, the stand-out feature was the caring of others in the community which had adopted him.

The yearly gatherings had not stopped when he moved away, but something about them had changed. The physical distance between them had only made him closer to both his uncle and Mr. Maypenny. He remembered well the gladness in his old friend’s face and the warmth of the half-hug that Uncle Bill had bestowed.

When Dan’s relationship with his current girlfriend, Belinda, had gotten serious, he had started to bring her along, as well. To his delight, she had fitted in perfectly. Their simple gatherings were developing into something more substantial. He had travelled a difficult road to reach this point, but every sacrifice had its reward.

Footsteps approached from outside. The door opened and Mr. Maypenny entered. “I thought it must be you. You need somewhere quiet?”

“I did,” Dan agreed. “I’ve sorted it out now.”

“Good to hear it,” said Mr. Maypenny, and he sat down to have a chat.

“Trixie?” asked Jim, a worried frown on his face. “Can I ask you something?”

His wife barely paused in her preparations for getting their two eldest children off to school. She continued loading two backpacks, a sky-blue one for oldest son, Anthony, and a pink one for their inexplicably girly daughter, Sarah. Her expression clearly said, “‘What a silly question!’” but her response was simply, “Of course.”

Despite the assurance, Jim hesitated. “Would you mind very much if I went away by myself for a day or two and didn’t tell you exactly where I was going?”

She stopped in her tracks, staring at him in surprise. “Why don’t you want to tell me where you’re going?” she wondered aloud. “Why couldn’t I come, too? Is something the matter? Are you in trouble? Are you going to be in trouble when I find out what you’re up to?”

“I sure hope not,” he responded, with a laugh. “I’ve just been thinking about what Honey wants us to do this Christmas and I think I need a little time alone to figure out which happy memory to choose.” He ran a loving finger across her cheek. “And I’m not being mysterious on purpose, so you can get that idea out of your head. I can’t tell you where I’m going because I don’t really know.”

Curbing her ample curiosity with an effort, Trixie nodded her assent. “Just don’t be too long.”

The next morning was a Saturday. Jim set out alone, long before dawn. In the week since Honey had unveiled her idea, he had spent a lot of time considering what he should choose. In all the years since he had first met Trixie, there were too many happy memories to count. He was satisfied with his life as it was, but something in his adoptive sister’s idea had prompted him to spend a little time exploring his past. His plan, if it could be dignified with that name, was to drive towards his childhood home outside Rochester and see what happened.

He turned into the country road where he used to live around noon. In the ten years since he last passed this way, a few more houses had been built and some of the familiar landmarks had disappeared, but there was still enough to tell him he was almost home. He stopped by the side of the road, opposite his old mailbox, and looked out through the gently falling snow.

The house was just as he remembered it, with few exceptions. It was still painted a crisp white, although the blue trim had been replaced by a cheery red. His gaze took in the gardens, now shrouded in white. The tree which had once held his swing had gone, but another tree had been planted in its place. Behind the house and to one side, he could see the vague outline of the barn. Smoke curling from the chimney and the neatly shovelled paths, barely dusted with fresh snow, told him that there was someone at home.

A vehicle pulled up on the opposite side of the road, blocking his view. Almost immediately, a stout woman got out and, to Jim’s surprise, strode across the road and tapped on his window. He could hear her telling him off, even before he opened the window.

“How many times do I have to tell you, it’s not for sale!” she began. “I don’t care how much money – Oh! Jimmy, it’s you! I’m sorry. I thought you were that good-for-nothing estate agent that keeps coming around here and bothering the poor Bradleys – they’re the ones who own your old house – so often that I’m driven near distraction. I don’t care if he does have a client who wants to buy the place; it’s still not for sale. But I’m rambling on, again, Jimmy. You should have told me to stop.”

“Most people call me Jim, these days, Mrs. Faberman,” he replied, turning slightly pink.

“Of course; how silly of me,” she said, while trying to extract him from his car. “Come right in the house this instant. You’ll catch your death sitting out here. I have so much to talk to you about and you’ll stay to lunch, of course. I do hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

Casting one final glance in the direction of his old home, he gave Mrs. Faberman an assurance as to his lack of special diet and followed her into the house next door. In a way, it was like stepping back in time. The décor was the same here as it had been in his childhood. He remembered many an afternoon when he had sat at the kitchen table and eaten cookies and milk, oblivious to the looming crisis in his father’s health. As an adult, he understood that the reason Mrs. Faberman had looked after him so many times was that his parents were busy with medical appointments. At the time, he had given the matter little thought.

“Now, I have a few things for you, Jimmy,” she said, settling him in the living room in the most comfortable chair. “I was turning out a closet or two and found some things I thought you might like. I had been wondering how to get them to you, but since you’re here, that problem’s solved. Now, where did I put them?” She excused herself, returning a few minutes later with a shoe box. “Here you are. Just a few odds and ends, really, but I thought of you when I found them.”

Jim gently lifted the lid, unsure of what he might find. The first thing he encountered was a bag of construction bricks, which he recognised as his own. In the confusion of their departure, he must have left them behind. He lifted them out, revealing a small pile of papers and photographs. He examined the two photos first.

The one at the top of the pile was of himself, aged about four, sitting on Mr. Faberman’s lap. The old man was smiling at Jim, who looked straight at the camera. “I can’t take this, Mrs. Faberman,” Jim managed to say. Her husband, he knew, had died many years before. “You need to keep it.”

“I have another copy,” she disagreed. “Besides, if I tried hard enough, I could probably find the negative to have another printed. Have a look at the other one.”

He slid the first one aside and his breath caught in his throat. Seated at the kitchen table in this very house were both of his parents and himself. A big plate, half-filled with cookies, was just visible to one side; in front of him was half a glass of milk. He clearly remembered receiving the shirt that he was wearing in the shot for his ninth birthday. They all looked so happy that he wondered how the photo could actually exist, especially since his father looked quite frail.

“You don’t remember that day, do you, Jimmy?” Mrs. Faberman asked. She smiled in sympathy when he shook his head. “Your parents had been given good news by the doctors. They told them that your father could expect to make a full recovery. I took that photo when they came to collect you that day. You were all so happy! It made it so much worse when he got so sick only a few weeks later and they had to give up the farm.”

Putting aside the photo, and the vague memory of confusion and mixed emotions, Jim went further into the pile. He unfolded the first sheet of yellowed note paper and found a hand-written recipe headed ‘Katie’s Beef Casserole’ in unfamiliar writing. The next few sheets were also recipes. At the very bottom of the pile was a sheet of a different kind of paper. As soon as he opened it, he knew whose hand had written this sheet. With tears in his eyes, he read through his mother’s recipe for the special cookies she had made each Christmas.

Every year that they had lived in the farmhouse, his mother had followed the tradition of her family and baked those cookies on Christmas Eve. He could almost smell the mixture as it cooked, and hear her sweet voice singing as she worked. She had loved carols and had known dozens of them. When the work was done, they would sit together in the living room, the only light coming from the tree, and she would sing. Jim and his father would try to sneak as many of the cookies as possible, while his mother was occupied with her songs. She never seemed to notice.

As he sat and thought about those nights, Jim could almost hear her singing Silent Night, which, he thought, might have been the one she loved best. The simplicity of its melody suited her voice and, he remembered, when she sang it, they stopped their cookie-thieving to listen.

“They’re all your mother’s recipes,” Mrs. Faberman told him, breaking in on his reverie. “I don’t do so much cooking any more, and I never could get them to taste quite as well as hers, so you might as well have them.”

“Thank you,” he managed to say, giving the surprised woman a sudden hug. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done for me.”

“I hardly did a thing,” she chided. “It was my pleasure, all of it.”

When Jim arrived home late that night, the children were asleep in bed and his wife was frowning over her a textbook for her part-time studies. He dropped a kiss on her unruly curls and she looked up in surprise.

“You’re back! I wasn’t expecting you until at least tomorrow.”

“Don’t you want me here?” he teased. “I could leave again, if you like.”

Trixie brushed the suggestion aside, asking instead about his trip.

“I’ve been to see our old house outside Rochester,” he admitted. “I ran into the lady who used to watch me when my parents went for medical appointments.” Seeing the apprehension on her face, he smiled. “Aside from mistaking me for someone who wants to buy our old house, it went really well. She insisted I stay to lunch and she gave me a few things.”

He set the shoe box down on the table in front of her and watched as she explored it. The recipes and construction bricks she set aside with little interest, focussing her attention on the two photographs.

“Is this you? You look a lot like Sammy,” she commented, referring to their younger son. “And here’s one of your parents.”

Right after gaining custody of Jim, Matthew Wheeler had set about recovering as many family belongings of Jim’s as he could. There had not been many to obtain. Jim had a small collection of photographs and only a few other items, which Trixie had, quite naturally, seen many times. It was not until many years later that Jim discovered that his adoptive father had paid Jonesy for the mementoes.

Jim nodded. “Mrs. Faberman told me a few things that I didn’t remember. Nothing earth-shattering,” he clarified, as Trixie’s face displayed a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Just a few details that I’d forgotten.” He explained the background of that particular photograph, ending, “I guess I didn’t want to remember that time. It was just too painful.”

His wife lapsed into a thoughtful silence, absent-mindedly rubbing his leg, just above the knee. He was just about to rise, intending to unpack his unused bag, when she spoke. “There’s just one thing: you said something about someone wanting to buy the house?”

Jim laughed. You could always rely on Trixie to extract the mysterious element from the most mundane situation.

“I guess you’ve already got your Christmas memory chosen already,” Trixie grumbled to Honey, as the two relaxed over coffee at Honey’s apartment. They had decided to meet when the younger woman unexpectedly had a day off work.

“Not exactly,” she replied, offering her friend more cake. “I had kind of an idea when I suggested it, but I haven’t actually found something to represent it. I didn’t think that would be exactly fair.”

Trixie rolled her eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an idea for me, do you? All my childhood memories are shared with Brian and Mart, and all my adult ones are either shared with them, or with you and Jim, or both. There isn’t anything original left!”

“There must be something, Trixie. You just need to think a bit longer, rather than try to get me to do your thinking for you, and I’m sure you’ll think of something that’s happy that you could talk about.”

“You think?” teased her sister-in-law, with a grin. “I don’t know, Hon. I just can’t seem to get my head around this idea of yours. Of course I’m happy, and I’ve always had lots of fun with my family at Christmas, but there’s nothing that really jumps out at me. Mart’s sure to have something to do with food, and someone else will definitely have memories to do with family and friends and it’s not like I fondly remember all the gifts Aunt Alicia ever gave me! I want something different and I can’t think of anything.”

“What you need is a Christmas mystery,” mused Honey, pretending to be serious. “You’ll need to get one of those huge cacti we saw in Arizona, to signify the mystery we solved at Di’s uncle’s ranch all those years ago.”

“Honey, you’re a genius!” Trixie cried, snapping her fingers. “Not about the cactus, but you’ve given me the best idea. Let’s see . . . If I leave right away, I could go straight to the dry cleaners, then pick up a few groceries and still have a little time before I pick up the kids from school.” She quickly finished her drink and cake, then scooped up baby Sammy, who had been playing on the rug, and headed for the door. “Thanks for feeding me, Honey. I’ll see you later.”

Shaking her head at her impulsive friend, Honey got herself another cup of coffee and returned to her thoughts. She had told the truth when she said that she had an idea for her happy memory, but it was so nebulous that she could not yet put it into words. Today, she had determined, she would begin to look for the object that represented it, in the hope that the words would follow.

She began her search in the closet that held her Christmas ornaments. Most of the collection dated back only a few years, to the time she had left home. Since her memory dated back further, she did not find what she was seeking there and carefully packed them away, ready for when she would decorate the apartment the following week.

As she was continuing to sort systematically through her belongings, the phone rang. Her usual greeting was interrupted by her best friend’s eager voice. “It’s me. There’s something I meant to ask you. I need to know the zoning on Jim’s parents’ old property, whether there’s anything going on in the area that could relate to what’s happening and whether there’s anything strange about the people, the Bradley family, who live there now. Can you find out for me?”

“Of course,” Honey replied, absently straightening the ornaments on a nearby shelf. Earlier, Trixie had related the whole story. “I can check the zoning first thing tomorrow. I’ll let you know the results of the archive search in a few days.”

Smiling as they finished their conversation, Honey looked up and found the answer to her earlier search right in front of her.

“How about Aunt Alicia’s Christmas cake?” Mart asked his wife, as they snuggled into bed one night. “She makes it every year, with loads of fruit, soaked until its plump, and spices, and when she lifts the lid off the container, it smells so–”

“Stop!” cried Di, covering her ears. “Mart, I swear, if you talk about food for one minute longer, I’m going to be sick!”

He ran a hand across her flat stomach and whispered, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I forgot, again.” His fingers gently caressed her and he felt her relax. “I guess I don’t understand how someone so little could make you feel so sick. So, have you decided, yet, to let me share our wonderful news?”

The sleepy sigh that she let out did not bode well for conversation, but she managed to murmur, “Christmas Eve, at the Bob-White gathering.”

Since he had asked a similar question most nights for the past few weeks, Mart was not surprised. Instead of attempting to talk to his tired wife, he let his mind wander over all of the wonderful holiday food that he had eaten over the years. He remembered fondly the different tastes and smells that were a feature of a Crabapple Farm Christmas each year, from the turkey with sage and onion stuffing, to golden roast potatoes and other accompaniments, through to the mountains of cakes, puddings and cookies that his mother, aunt and assorted other relatives would produce.

The trouble, he decided, is that there are too many foods which remind me of Christmas. I can’t exactly take along a whole feast. He turned over, putting the problem aside for another day. I’ll go and see Moms on the weekend and see if she can help me.

Mart rose early the following Saturday morning, leaving Di asleep. He pulled the door closed behind him as quietly as he could, so that she could enjoy another hour or two’s rest while he visited his parents. He timed the trip perfectly to arrive just in time for breakfast.

“Good morning, Mart,” his mother greeted, as he entered at the kitchen door. “Is it just you?” He had told her that he would be there alone, but Helen had prepared enough for Diana as well, just in case.

“She was still asleep when I left,” he confirmed, adding an excuse about late nights and needing to catch up on sleep. “Besides, she probably doesn’t want to be bored with my endless discussion of all the food I’ve ever eaten. I think she’s about ready to belt me one, as it is. She says I’m obsessed with food.”

“Still struggling with that reputation, are you?” his father teased, taking a seat at the table. “Even with your own wife?”

“Especially with my own wife,” Mart agreed, with a laugh. “You’d think she knew me better than anyone, or something.”

Both of his parents smiled as his mother set out plates of crispy fried bacon and eggs, buttered toast and glasses of fresh fruit juice. Mart ate with gusto. Over the last few weeks, he had been forced to either have a cold breakfast, or buy something away from home for Di’s sake. Her delicate sense of smell would not tolerate such fare as this in the house.

When the meal was completed, Mart helped to clear the table, then set to work reading through his mother’s collection of old family recipes. A long time ago, most likely before Brian was born, Helen had carefully transcribed everything onto three by five inch cards. Each one was headed with the name of the contributor and her name for the dish. Mart went through the box, twice. Nothing he saw really defined the season.

His mother, who was just finishing washing up, heard his sigh of exasperation. “Can’t find what you’re looking for?” she asked. “Maybe the one you’re after is up in the attic. I’ve only kept them down here if I need a reminder of the ingredients or quantities.” She added a brief description of where to find the remainder.

Mart thanked her and returned the box to its place before heading upstairs. He had just seated himself on a handy trunk and begun the second part of his search when quick footsteps sounded on the stairs. A moment later, his suspicion of their owner was confirmed when his sister appeared.

“Hi, Mart,” she called on her way past. “Looking for something?”

Without waiting for a response, she began to rummage wildly through one of the boxes. The noise she was making not only prevented Mart from speaking to her, but destroyed his concentration. He sat, frowning at the piles of disused goods and occasional articles, until her cry of ‘Aha!’ signalled the end of the search. Whatever she had found, it was quickly concealed in her pocket and Mart could not guess what it had been. The rest of the items she had disturbed were quickly bundled back into their box.

“See you later,” she called, heading for the stairs. At the threshold, she paused and turned. “Actually, since you know everything, you could help me.”

Mart grinned. “My knowledge may be encyclopaedic, but I cannot claim to know everything.”

“Whatever. I need to know about Rochester. History, natural resources, current trends in real estate; that sort of thing.”

“Let me see . . . It’s located on the Genesee River, and on the banks of Lake Ontario; it was established in the early 1800s and has long been known for its association with early photographic equipment. It’s in the midst of a major fruit-growing area, as well as being a manufacturing hub.” Mart ticked off the points on his fingers as he spoke. “If you need more than that, I would need to look it up.”

“Would you?” she asked, running over and giving him a quick hug. “That would be a really big help. With particular reference to the area Jim used to live, okay?” Without another word, she was off, leaving Mart wondering how he had gotten himself into more work.

“Okay, so this is what we’ve got, so far,” Trixie announced, while dumping large quantities of paper onto the dining table. She did not even notice her husband’s grimace at the mess. “Honey has researched your old house and found that the whole area was originally zoned for farming, but a few of the nearby properties have been subdivided.”

“I noticed that while I was there,” Jim commented, eliciting an absent nod from his wife.

“The land is worth plenty, and it’s one of the bigger properties left, so we might just be dealing with a developer. There doesn’t seem to be anything special about the house, itself. She couldn’t find any famous people who used to live there, or anything like that. Other than that, there’s nothing special going on in the area and she didn’t really get anything much on the Bradleys.” She shuffled through the papers for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Mart says that the area where you used to live is not known for any kind of mineral deposits; the main values of land are for agriculture, housing and industry. He told me a whole heap of reasons why that area wouldn’t be attractive to industry, so I think we can probably cross that off the list, too.”

“You could’ve just asked me,” Jim reminded her. “I did live there, you know.”

“It seemed like a more complete way to do things,” she replied. “I wanted an unbiased perspective. Anyway, it narrows things down a little, which is what we need at the moment. I also considered whether it might be to get something that’s hidden there, but that doesn’t really seem likely. The current owners would take anything valuable of theirs with them if they left, and it’s not like your parents would have left something behind. It might have been someone who lived there before you, though, or someone from outside that you never knew anything about, so we can’t eliminate that just yet.”

“Are you sure you’re not making too much of this, Trixie? That it’s not just someone who doesn’t want to take ‘no’ for an answer?”

“But it’s not just one person,” she revealed, her eyes shining. “I called Mrs. Faberman and asked her to get descriptions and licence plates for the car that’s been there.” She paused to get the most out of her information. “She gave me three different ones and I’ve tracked two to local real estate agents.”

Jim immediately looked suspicious. “How did you do that, Trix, or don’t I want to know?” Her upward glance told him all he needed to know. “Okay; I won’t ask. So, what are you saying? There’s some kind of a bidding war going on?”

“It sure looks like it. The question is: why?” She began shuffling through her papers, tapping certain ones as she spoke. “I can’t really find anything to show why that property and not any of the others around it. The only other thing I can think of is that it has something to do with the people who owned the place before your parents did. Maybe one of them wants it back, for sentimental reasons, or something. Or, they might want to stop anyone else from having it. Only, I keep wondering whether there’s some kind of malicious intent somewhere. If we can find out something about them, we might be able to figure it out.”

“So, what’s your next move?” Jim asked, sounding resigned to his fate.

“I think I need to spend a few days there,” she replied in a rush. “I’d take Sammy with me and Moms says she’s willing to get the other kids to and from school, and look after them until you get home from work, so it’s just meals and bath time and bedtime you’d need to handle. Oh, and getting them ready for school.”

He smiled. “You let me go, so I guess I’d better do the same.”

Two days later, Trixie drove down the same country road that Jim had travelled a few weeks before. She had arranged to see both Mrs. Faberman and one of the current owners of the house, Mrs. Bradley. She parked the car and was still extracting her little boy from his car seat when the older lady came rushing to meet her.

“You must be Trixie,” she said, not giving time for a reply. “I’m Eugenia Faberman. And who is this little darling? A boy or a girl? He’s wearing a shirt with a little truck on it; must be a boy. Oh, don’t you look just like Jimmy did at the same age, little man? Come right inside, both of you.”

Once inside, Mrs. Faberman introduced Alice Bradley and the three women sat down to warm drinks and home-baked goodies. After a few minutes, the conversation turned to the reason for Trixie’s presence.

“I guess what I’m looking for is some information on the previous owners of the house,” Trixie explained, “and anything else either of you can tell me about what’s happening now.”

“I can tell you about as many owners as you like,” Mrs. Faberman replied. “The Bradleys bought the place from the Fraynes, who bought it from the Abernethys, who’d had the place over a hundred years. I seem to remember that they’d had the place built, originally. There was quite a feud when the older generation died out and it was decided that it would be sold.”

Trixie sat up in interest. “What happened? Did somebody not want it sold? Did some of the others force the sale through?”

“Well, not exactly. There were some who thought it should stay somewhere in the family, but none of them could afford to buy the rest out, and even if they could, none of them wanted to actually live there. Besides, I think it was more to do with an old argument than really wanting to keep the family home. Those boys never did get along, even as children.” She shook her head at the memory. “Every Christmas, the old folks would invite everyone home and every year from the time they were about seven or eight Billy and Johnny would fight. It all started when Billy accused his cousin Johnny of losing his toy car and the argument continued whenever they both visited their grandparents at the same time. I don’t think he’s forgiven him to this day.”

“And they were still fighting when it came time to sell the house?”

“Oh, yes. It got much worse then. I doubt those two have spoken to each other since and it’s been a good thirty-five years, now,” Mrs. Faberman confided. “I see Johnny every now and then. He’s a nice boy. He brings his family up here on vacation sometimes and always stops to say hello.”

“But, if it’s something to do with the Abernethy family,” Trixie wondered, aloud, “why didn’t they try to buy the place back when Jim’s parents sold it? Why wait until now?”

“Maybe they didn’t have the money back then,” Mrs. Bradley suggested. “Property may have been cheaper in those days, but it still cost a lot of money. My husband and I only afforded it because we’d received an inheritance. Or, on the other hand, they may not have known about the sale. We heard through a friend of a friend that your husband’s parents needed to sell. We came and talked to them, looked over the property and made an offer in person. They never had to advertise, because we could pay what they wanted to get for the place.”

Trixie nodded. “Do you know which real estate agents are behind this?”

“Not really,” she replied. “All of them, it seems. I haven’t kept any of the letters they’ve sent, or made a note of the phone calls, but I doubt there’s an agent within twenty miles that hasn’t approached us at least once in the last year or two. I don’t open the door to them any more. Not since the one a few weeks ago, anyway.”

“What did he do?” Trixie asked, agog.

“Nothing, really,” the other woman assured. “Just gave me a fright; made me feel nervous. He was such a scruffy-looking guy, tall and gangly, and kind of average-looking, but with a really poor excuse for a moustache. He seemed to think he was doing me a good turn by bothering me! I think the idea was that he would negotiate with the other two parties at a bargain rate and play them off against each other to get the best price. In the end, I threatened to call the cops to make him leave. He gave me the creeps.”

“And just as well, too,” Mrs. Faberman said with a decisive nod. “The nerve of these people, coming around here and bothering you all the time. They should be ashamed of themselves. Have I told you, Trixie dear, how glad I am that you’re helping us with this? If there’s anything else we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”

From there, the conversation turned to other matters. Trixie let the other two women take the lead, instead mulling over the things she had heard. With regret, and full of hot chocolate and cookies, she packed her belongings and let her new friend have one last cuddle of the baby.

As she was leaving Mrs. Faberman’s house, Trixie noticed a car driving away. A quick glance at the licence plate confirmed that it was one of the vehicles which had been haunting the area, and the only one that she had not been able to identify. She strapped Sammy into his seat as fast as she could, explaining her haste to the old lady as she went. With a distracted wave, she pulled out onto the road, hoping against hope that she would be able to catch up with the other vehicle.

Up ahead, the road ended in a T-intersection and she noticed the car turning to the left. She took the corner as fast as she could safely manage, barely keeping the other car in sight. The other driver slowed for another turn and Trixie breathed a little easier. From there, the pursuit was simple. She easily followed the man all the way into the nearest town, where he pulled into the lot of a real estate agent and parked in a square marked ‘Reserved for Anthony Jones, of George Jones Real Estate’. Feeling exhilarated from the chase, she pulled over to watch.

“Got you,” Trixie murmured, scribbling the name next to the description. She looked at what she had written and let out a gasp. “Jones? I wonder if he’s connected to Jonesy?” She shook her head. “Jones is a common name. It’s probably not, but I’d better keep an eye on this one.”

Across the street, the man she had been following entered the agency. A few moments later, a man and a woman walked out. The man got into the car next to Anthony Jones’ and drove away; the woman walked away down the street.

Trixie got out of the car, unstrapped the baby and strolled towards the office. Glancing at the pictures of properties on display, and peeking through the gaps to the office beyond, she judged this to be a small, but successful, business.

She pushed open the door and took a better look around. The room contained three desks with chairs, a bench along one wall which held files, books and trays, and a large potted plant. The closest desk had two additional chairs on the near side. It was clean and tidy, holding only a jar of pens and what she assumed to be a family portrait, showing several generations. A display, showing duplicates of the pictures in the window, stood against one wall.

A man – the same one she had seen arriving – was sitting at one of the desks. He rose as soon as she arrived and strode forward. “I’m Anthony Jones,” he told her, handing over a business card. “How can I help?”

Trixie looked at him carefully. He certainly bore no resemblance to Jim’s stepfather. This tall, clean-shaven man in his mid-forties looked her straight in the eye. Further to that, there were no stoop-shouldered, evil-looking men with tobacco-stained teeth in the photo, but that didn’t prove anything.

“Oh, hello. I was just wondering about a property I was looking at,” she said, her eyes wandering to the house pictures on display. “I’m new to the area, though, and I don’t really know where I saw it, but it looked kind of like that one.” She pointed vaguely in the direction of the pictures, causing the man to move away from the desk to see.

“This one?” he asked, tapping a picture.

“Yes, except it was blue. Do you have any blue houses for sale, with cherry trees in the yard? Oh, and it needs to have at least four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a big kitchen and room for three cars.” She pretended not to notice the weary look which crossed the agent’s face. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an in-tray marked with his name and filled with mail.

“I’m not sure that we have anything listed at the moment that meets those requirements,” he said. He reached across and pulled a form from a nearby pigeonhole. “If you’d like to leave your details with me, I could check around for you.”

“Thank you, so much,” she murmured, hitching Sammy higher on her hip and taking the proffered form. The little boy wriggled and grabbed at the pen as she tried to write. Automatically, she reached into the voluminous handbag that she always carried these days and pulled out a sippy cup to distract him. As she did so, a plan formed in her mind. She gave the lid a little twist as she handed it over. A moment later, accompanied by Sammy’s delighted giggles, water poured out all over the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” Trixie gushed, as the man looked around for something to mop up the spill. She stood by, feigning helplessness, while he dabbed at the spot with a handkerchief. All the while, her eyes searched the office for clues.

“Let me get something to clean this up,” he said, heading for a door at the rear.

Trixie seized the opportunity and began rifling through the in-tray. She was rewarded for her efforts with a pre-printed telephone message sheet headed: ‘While you were out . . .’, which indicated that Bill Abernethy had called to ‘check on progress in acquiring the Bradley property.’ She tucked the slip back into the tray and moved into her previous position just in time. While the agent finished cleaning up the mess she had made, Trixie noted her name as ‘Helen Johnson’ and left off as many details as she felt she could get away with. Murmuring another round of apologies, she left the sheet on the desk and slipped out of the office into the street.

“Where to, now?” she wondered, aloud. From her earlier conversation with Mrs. Bradley, she had decided to try to find which agent was trying to undercut the others. Both of the other two agents had offices nearby, so she thought that a little reconnaissance might be in order. A few minutes’ work was all it took. The office of the first agent was clean and neat; furthermore, the agent in question was a woman. She did have a few men in her employ, but none matched the description she had been given.

Just down the street, the second agent’s office told a different story. The position was less visible and the building had not had nearly enough maintenance in recent years. The window displayed far fewer properties than either of the other agents she had visited. Peeking through the grimy window, Trixie could see a lot of clutter. Crumpled papers littered the dusty floor and boxes were stacked against one wall. Battered, old furniture was arranged crookedly, giving the room an uncared-for appearance. In the midst was a tall, thin man with a disreputable-looking moustache. He was slouched in his chair, with his feet resting on the desk.

Sizing up the situation at a glance, Trixie swung the door open and went inside. The man looked startled to see her. His feet dropped from the desk with a thump and he stood up in one awkward motion.

“How can I help you?” he asked, stammering slightly.

“You can tell me everything you know about this property,” she replied, dropping a photograph of the house in question in front of him.

The man barely spared the picture a glance; it was clear that he knew where she meant. “I don’t believe it’s for sale,” he said, slowly, as she returned the photo to her bag. He gave her an appraising look. “If you’re interested, I could . . .”

She shook her head. “I’m not interested in buying. I just want to know what you know.” Seeing the guarded expression form on his face, she added: “I know about the Abernethy connection.”

A different light showed in his face. “Go on,” he encouraged.

Trixie shook her head. “First, I want to know where you fit into the scheme of things.”

The man shrugged. “I see things happening. You have to be proactive to get ahead in this business. There’s an opportunity and I give it a shot. Simple as that.” As Trixie continued to stare at him, he added. “Nothing wrong with that.”

After a long pause, she asked, “So, you have no connection at all to anyone in the Abernethy family?”

“Not yet,” he said, with a rather nasty grin. “I fully intend to have dealings with both of ‘em before this is through.”

Trixie nodded, and turned to leave.

“Hey, wait!” he called, as she pushed the door open. “I told what I know. Now, it’s your turn.”

“You didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already guessed,” she objected. “I don’t think I owe you anything.”

“What is it that you want to know? And what information do I get in return?”

“If you confirm for me the full names of the players, I’ll tell you what started the whole thing. One of them is Bill Abernethy. Who’s the other?”

“John,” the man replied, after a pause. “John Abernethy. Now, tell me what it’s all about.”

“A toy car,” she told him with a smile. “It all started when John lost Bill’s toy car.”

“Moms? Are you home?” Brian called, peering in through the back door of Crabapple Farm. He soon heard her quick footsteps and went inside to greet her. “I don’t have much time,” he told her, after they had said their hellos. “I’d like to borrow a photograph, but I’m not sure which one. Could I take a look in some old albums, please?”

“Of course,” she replied, putting some water on to boil. “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee in a minute.”

He thanked her and went into the living room, taking down two or three of the oldest albums from the shelf and settling with them on the sofa. By the time his mother returned, he was thoroughly engrossed.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Helen asked, as she set down the cup on the coffee table.

“Someone,” he corrected, turning the page. “Or, rather, a few someones. I think this shot will do nicely.”

A gentle smile crossed her face as she saw what he had chosen. She took the album from his hands and eased the photograph free, before handing it to him. “I know that I don’t have to tell you to take good care of it,” she said, with a smile, “but I’ll remind you, just the same.”

“Of course, Moms,” he replied. “I’ll bring it back on Christmas Day.”

He arrived home to find Honey engaged in cutting shapes from some sort of filmy white material. They lay in neat piles across the dining table and, as he watched, she added to them. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, as she began to mark out the next shape.

Brian held up an envelope, in which his mother had inserted the photograph, and nodded. “What are these going to be?” he asked, looking over her work with curiosity.

“You’ll see,” she replied. Her scissors moved through the fabric. With quick fingers, she counted the pieces she had already cut and decided that there were enough. “I’ll finish them some other time – when you’re not watching,” she added, with a demure smile.

“Hey, Di. What are you doing?” Trixie asked, as she bounced into Di and Mart’s house in Sleepyside. Spread on the table in front of her was some kind of a sketch on which her sister-in-law was working. To Trixie’s untrained eye, it looked vaguely heart-shaped, in a squashed kind of way.

Di moved a plain sheet of paper over her work. “Nothing,” she said, quickly. “You’ll have to wait until it’s finished.” Instantly regretting the slight harshness of her tone – which had gone completely unnoticed by her friend – Di added, “Would you like some hot chocolate?”

“No, thanks,” her friend replied. “I just need you to find something out for me. Your father knows a lot about property. I need to know whether there’s a property developer by the name of Abernethy, who operates near Rochester.”

“I don’t need to find that out,” Di answered. “I’ve met one, so I know there is. His name is Bill Abernethy. He has projects all around the state, but he’s based in New York City.”

“Really? Thanks, Di. You’re a lifesaver. See you at the party!” In a moment, Trixie was away.

When her friend had gone, Di turned back to her drawing. Some of the lines were still not quite right, and there were a few details that she could not quite remember, but the whole was progressing to her satisfaction. A faint smile settled on her face. They did say that a picture was worth a thousand words; at least those words were guaranteed not to get muddled.

Later that afternoon, Trixie walked into the offices of Abernethy Quality Developments alone. She was just giving her name to the perky receptionist when the inner door opened and a heavily built man emerged. His well-fitting suit spoke of success, while the slight thinning of his otherwise perfectly styled hair and the laugh lines around his eyes showed that the years were advancing. He stopped short when he saw her.

“Mrs. Frayne? Please step this way.”

Trixie smiled. Either he had just checked his appointments, or he had an exceptional memory for names. She followed him into his office and took the seat to which he directed her.

“How can I help?”

“My husband and I are looking for a particular kind of investment,” she hinted. “He spent part of his childhood upstate, he still has contacts there, and he heard that you might be looking to develop somewhere in the Rochester area. We’re looking to get in on the ground floor.”

“Well, I think I might have the opportunity for you,” he declared, leaning back in his chair and spreading his hands. “I’m looking at a beautiful property in the area, for exclusive villas with unsurpassed facilities–”

The office door swung open with a bang, cutting him off mid-sentence. A very angry man, whom Trixie knew to be John Abernethy, stood on the threshold, the frightened receptionist right behind him.

“I knew it!” he yelled. “I just knew it!”

“John!” the other man reprimanded. “Get out of here. Can’t you see I have a client?”

“Your client,” he spat, “just came to see me, to try to talk me out of opposing your bid for the old place.”

Bill’s glance went from his relative to the young woman in front of him. “Smart lady. Now, she’s trying to convince me to let her in on the deal.” He turned back to John. “You’ve said your piece. Now, get out.”

“I’m not finished here,” he disagreed. “You always try to take away the things that are important to me. This time, you’re not going to win.”

“I’m not taking anything from you,” Bill said, in a calm voice. “You don’t own the old place. Remember? We sold it years ago.”

“You sold it,” the other man yelled. “I wanted it to stay in the family, where it belonged. You wanted to get rid of every bit of our heritage that you could get your hands on.”

“And now I’m going to wipe it from the face of the Earth,” he replied. “By the time I’m finished, there won’t be anything left to make me remember the place.”

John slammed his hand against the door. “Why do you want to do this? Isn’t it enough that it’s out of the family? Why can’t you just leave it alone?”

“Everyone always takes your side,” Bill yelled, with the first sign of real emotion he had displayed since Trixie entered the room.

“What?”

“They take your side. They always have. Just because I was older.” He stood up and started to pace. “Well, this time, you have to deal with me getting my way. This time, I’m getting back at you. After all, you started it.”

“What?” cried John. “I started it? How, exactly, did I start it? You were the one who convinced everyone it was best to sell.”

“I’m not talking about the house,” Bill ground between clenched teeth. “Think a little further back.”

The other man threw up his hands. “If you’re still upset about that car, the answer is still the same: I did not lose it. You just didn’t look hard enough to find it. In fact, it’s probably still there.”

“What do you mean, it’s still there?” Trixie asked. From the guilty start that each man gave, both had forgotten her presence.

“Nothing,” mumbled John, taking a step backwards. “It’s nothing, really.”

Trixie heaved a sigh. “Look, I know that Bill accused you of losing his toy car,” she explained. “I know that the two of you have been fighting ever since and that you took opposite views of the sale of the house. Now, will you please explain that last remark?”

The two men exchanged sheepish looks, before John muttered, “We were playing with our toy cars in the barn. After a while, the game changed to a kind of hide and seek, where we’d hide each other’s cars and then have to find them. We got called for supper before Bill found his. The next morning, Bill’s parents made him go home before he had a chance to find the car. By the next time that we went, I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d put it.”

“Do you have any idea where it was?” she asked, gently.

“Up in the loft,” he said, with a shrug. “Maybe up in the rafters. Does it matter, after all these years?”

“If I call the Bradleys and ask them to look for it, do you think the two of you could call a truce?”

Once again, the two men exchanged a glance. Bill was the first to speak. “Don’t bother the people who live there now. John’s right. After all these years, it doesn’t really matter. John, I’m sorry – for everything. I think I’ve made enough of a fool of myself already, without continuing this any longer. Truce?”

“Truce,” John agreed, striding forward to shake his cousin’s hand.

A few days later, the seven former members of the club Bob-Whites of the Glen gathered in Sleepyside for their annual Christmas Eve party. Joining them, this time, was Dan’s girlfriend, Belinda. Their venue was the beautifully decorated living room of the Manor House, generously supplied for the occasion by the Wheelers.

Comfortable chairs were gathered in a rough circle around a low table, on which were clustered a group of exquisite handmade angel ornaments. Cheerful chatter all but drowned out the soft music that played in the background. Honey, as hostess, allowed the group some time to mingle before she drew them together to share their memories. When she judged that the time was right, she asked Mart to call them all to sit down.

“How did you all go?” she asked, suddenly feeling nervous. “Does everyone have a happy memory to share?” She was greeted with a general murmur of approval. “I’ve made each of you an angel to keep, but first you have to share your items. Brian, would you like to go first?”

Her husband handed an old photograph to Jim, who sat to his left, and asked him to pass it on. “This was taken at Crabapple Farm, the Christmas that I was three years old. The older couple you’ll see are my father’s parents. Also in the photo are my father, myself, Mart and Trixie; both of my uncles from that side of the family and Uncle Harold’s wife and two eldest children. By the following Christmas, both grandparents had passed away. The memories I have of that year are my earliest Christmas memories.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Honey murmured, handing him one of the angels. “Jim, will you go next, please?”

“I would,” he replied, “but I think you’ve eaten them all.”

“What?” asked Honey, taken aback. “Me?”

“You don’t have something to share with us, do you?” teased Trixie. “You wouldn’t be eating for two, would you? Already?”

“No! I mean, no; not yet,” Honey stammered.

“I didn’t mean Honey, personally,” Jim clarified. “I meant all of us together. I’m sorry, Honey. That came out wrongly.”

His wife, meanwhile, was training her look of interrogation on her middle brother and his wife, who had gone silent during the exchange. “I think someone else might have something to share.”

The couple in question shared a look, then Mart shrugged. “We were planning on telling you tonight,” he admitted. “You’re right, Trixie. We’re expecting a baby.”

At once, there was a confusion of delighted exclamations and warm hugs, which continued for some time. As the initial excitement mellowed, Jim took the opportunity to return to the previous subject. “Well, that sure beats anything I had to say,” he commented.

“Please, tell us, Jim,” Di asked, at once. “I’d like to hear your story.”

“It’s not a story, really,” he said, with a smile. “Just a few things that remind me of my birth parents. My Mom used to make cookies every Christmas. I think you all know that when I visited a while back, Mrs. Faberman from next door gave me a copy of the recipe. I asked Honey to make them for me, and I think they must be pretty good, because they’re almost all gone.” He smiled at his sister. “You did a good job, Honey. They taste just like I remember. I only wish I’d remembered to be there when you made them, so I could steal some of the raw dough, like Dad and I used to do.”

“I’ll make you some more,” she promised, “and you can eat as much as you like.”

“My turn!” cried Trixie, as her husband received his angel. “I brought this.” From her pocket, she pulled a miniature magnifying glass, which the other Bob-Whites had bought her for Christmas when they were in Arizona as teenagers. “Honey said I should think of a Christmas mystery, and this is what reminds me of them.”

“You didn’t want to change it for something to do with the Christmas mystery you just solved?” Di asked.

Trixie looked thoughtful. “I did think about it,” she admitted. “I just thought that the magnifying glass was better, because I got to spend that Christmas with my best friends.” She turned an expectant gaze on Mart, who sat to her left.

“I know you all expected me to bring something gastronomical,” he began, “but I couldn’t find anything which was, to me, the epitome of Christmas food. How, after all, could I choose between all the things I love: the turkey, with Moms’ special stuffing; roast potatoes, cooked until they’re crisp and golden underneath– ”

“Sweetie,” pleaded Di.

“Sorry.” He gave her a sheepish look. “Anyway, you get the idea. There were too many things to choose from. So, I tried thinking about it another way and this is what I came up with.” He produced a sprig of mistletoe and held it above his wife’s head. She, obligingly, gave him a kiss on the lips. “Our first real kiss was under the mistletoe. Since I don’t have a picture of it, you’ll have to make do with a re-enactment.”

Laughing as the others gave a round of applause, Di produced the drawing on which she had been working. She handed it to Belinda, who sat to her left. “This is a sketch,” she explained, “of the apartment where we lived when I was a little girl.” For the other woman’s benefit, she added, “We didn’t have a lot of money back then, and my brothers and sisters are a lot younger than me, so they weren’t born, yet.” She shot a nervous look around the room. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that no matter what our circumstances were, there was always plenty of love in my family and that’s the thing I like to think about.”

“It’s beautiful, Di,” Honey told her, as she handed over an angel. “It must have taken hours. There’s so much detail – even the stitching of the patch on your teddy bear.” She turned to Belinda. “You don’t need to share anything if you don’t feel comfortable. If you’d prefer, you can just have your angel.”

“I don’t mind,” the other woman replied, smoothing back her long, dark hair. “I won’t bore you with my history, but I can tell you a little about the first Christmas I spent with Dan.” She shared an amused glance with her boyfriend. “I come from a huge extended family, so it was a bit of a shock to spend the day with three quiet, reserved men out in the middle of the preserve. Let’s just say that it took me a little while to get used to their way of doing things, but Dan’s won me over.”

“He is the strong, silent type,” Di commented, eliciting giggles from the other women. “Or, don’t you agree, Dan?”

All eyes turned to Dan, who pretended not to hear Di’s question. “I guess I’m next,” he said, pulling out a blank sheet of paper. “This isn’t really a Christmas memory. It’s something that I try to remember, though, which is kind of the same thing. Every year at this time, I have a choice. I can dwell on the past and the things I’ve lost, or I can look to the future. I choose to look forward. I guess that’s all I have to say.”

With a gentle smile, Honey placed the second-last angel in his hand. She let the silence extend for a few extra moments before starting on her own memory.

“This is my reminder,” she said, placing a tiny photo frame on the table, next to the last angel. A bright enamel rainbow arched across the top, above the picture. “At first, I wanted something to do with the first Christmas after we formed the Bob-Whites – the one we spent in Arizona. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this, but that was the first time that I can remember actually being happy at Christmas. I felt so fortunate to have found such wonderful friends and I was so happy to be part of a club, just like I’d always wanted. But, like Mart, I couldn’t quite find the right thing.”

She handed the little photo to Brian, for him to pass it around. “It’s not a very good picture,” she explained, “but it was the first one I had with all seven of us in it. You make my life so full of good things. I don’t know how to thank you for that.”

“You don’t need to thank us, Honey,” Di cried, rushing over to give her friend a hug. “The feeling is mutual.”

Later that night, Honey and Brian retired to one of the guest suites upstairs. The rest of the party had been a wonderful success, leaving the group tired, but happy. Honey sat at the window, watching the snow collect on her windowsill and basking in the afterglow.

“Come to bed,” Brian suggested, as he snuggled under the covers.

Honey slipped in beside him, drawing in close to share his body heat. His arm draped across her waist and she let out a contented sigh.

“You did well this evening,” he told her. “It was a wonderful idea.”

“Thank you,” she replied. A glance at the clock told her it was well after midnight. “Merry Christmas, Brian.”

He returned the sentiment, and soon both were asleep.

Elsewhere, similar scenes were playing out. Down in the hollow, Jim and Trixie looked in on their three sleeping angels before retiring to the guest room. Deep in the preserve, Dan and Belinda entered Mr. Maypenny’s quiet home. At the Lynch Estate, Mart carried his sleeping wife upstairs. As the snow drifted down outside, he gently tucked her into bed. His lips brushed her hair and he whispered, “Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

The End