"Oh, how very rude of us," Stacy said. She looked at her oldest son. "Shayne, there must still be jeans and T's and flannel shirts up in your room. Can you loan something to Mr. Lange?"

"Gabe, please," their visitor insisted. "I am on your sofa."

"Of course." Shayne seemed troubled, but he shook his head. "We'll head up to my old room. You can get out of those wet clothes, take a shower and then put on something dry and warm."

"That would be great. My most sincere grat.i.tude to you all," Gabe said.

"I'll give you a hand getting up," Shayne said. "Use the banister-I'll support you on the other side."

Morwenna hovered, watching as they started up the stairs. "Great kids," Gabe told Shayne.

He didn't ask about their mother; somehow, Shayne volunteered information.

"Yes, they're great kids. They've stayed that way through the divorce," Shayne said.

"Most important thing to remember in a divorce-your children still have you both as parents, the people they love most in the world. I'm glad to hear that you and your ex are respecting one another. You should be proud."

Morwenna didn't get to hear her brother's answer; they were already up the stairs.

Her father emerged from the kitchen, a gla.s.s in his hand.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on?" he demanded.

"Honestly, Mike, it's Christmas!" Stacy said.

"Shayne is giving him something to wear that isn't soaked with snow," Morwenna said.

"I'm getting the shotgun," Mike said. "I just don't trust that guy. I'm going to have it on hand at all times."

Genevieve, unsurprisingly for her age, was not an ace at wrapping packages. In a few instances when he didn't cut the paper quickly enough, she cut pieces that were too small. Small items, stocking stuffers, were wrapped in enough paper to conceal a small elephant.

"Wow, there's a lot of stuff here!" Connor told Bobby, his eyes wide. Then they clouded. "I guess we won't get much here," he added.

"We won't get presents?" Genevieve asked.

"Of course you'll get presents," Bobby told him.

But Connor shook his head knowingly. "We did get presents, Genevieve. Remember? Daddy and Gram and all sent them before, and we opened them at home." He looked at his uncle apologetically. "We got good presents, Uncle Bobby. Gram likes to give presents, huh-is that why there are so many here?"

"Gram has always loved to make everyone a stocking," Bobby said, "including Gramps. But I wouldn't worry-you'll get presents."

"Yes!" Genevieve said. She had a little lisp. Her front tooth was loose. "Santa Claus will come here, right?"

Shayne knew that Connor didn't believe in Santa Claus, so he brought a finger to his lips and winked.

"That's right. And Santa Claus can find any house," he a.s.sured Genevieve.

Connor rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure."

Shayne poked his head in the doorway. "Hey, Bobby, thanks. Want to take over in my room for a minute?"

"Sure. Take over what?"

"Watching our-guest. The guy we picked up-Gabe-is freezing. The snow soaked through his clothing. I've got him in my room, but I need you to stand by the door while I dig in my closet for something for him to wear."

"I can find him something-" Bobby said.

"No, that's cool, I still have you by an inch or so in the shoulder and chest region, and the guy looks like he's about my size. I just don't want to leave him standing there. Connor, you can watch your sister for a minute, huh?"

"Yeah, sure, Dad," Connor said. He made a face. "Bobby still has scissors from when he was in grade school. Can you believe that Gram keeps stuff that long?" he asked with a laugh. "I'll watch her, but I don't think Genevieve can hurt herself."

"I can cut paper!" Genevieve announced proudly.

Shayne walked over to ruffle his son's hair. "Thanks," he said. "And, of course you know how to cut paper, Genevieve. You're a very bright little girl."

"Mommy taught me," she said.

"Yell if you need me," Bobby said, rising quickly to follow his brother out to the hall and to Shayne's room. Shayne's room. None of them lived there anymore; actually, they'd never lived there. Well, Mom had, and they had often spent summer months and spring and Christmas breaks there. This place evoked a lot of good memories. His parents were in Philadelphia, Shayne was in Pittsburgh and Morwenna was in New York. Not that far, as the world went. But this was where they had always gathered.

Where it seemed their mother had created a memorial to the past, when they'd actually been a family.

Bobby was suddenly ashamed of his thoughts. They were a family.

The bathroom door was ajar.

"He took a serious crack on the head," Shayne said when Bobby crooked a brow at him. "He could fall-he could need help. Look, none of us are in high school football anymore. Just hang around outside the door and be ready to rush in if you hear him slip or scream or rip out the shower curtain, huh?"

"Fine, I'll be ready," Bobby said. He leaned against the wall by the door that was an inch or so open. The water started to spray.

He heard his brother fumbling around in the closet. Shayne emerged. "I'm just going down to toss this stuff in the dryer-freshen it up. I'll be right back."

"Big bro, you're the M.D. Don't be gone long," Bobby said.

"Two minutes. Just going to toss the stuff around because it's been in a closet," Shayne said. Two minutes? h.e.l.l! What if something happened? What if the guy did fall? Shayne was right-they weren't accustomed to showering in a ma.s.s steam room of sweat anymore.

Awkward.

He could hear the shower spray, and nothing else.

He tapped lightly on the door. "You all right in there?" he asked.

"Yep, fine, thanks."

"Yell, if-"

"Thanks!"

Bobby was startled when the shower stopped. He backed into the foot of his brother's bed and sat with a plop.

Gabe Lange came out from the bathroom, one towel tied around his waist as he used a second to dry his hair.

"I can't tell you how good it feels to be warm," Gabe said.

"Ah, great. Yeah. I can imagine."

"Are you from here? Winter can be pretty brutal, huh?"

"My mom is actually from here. I was born in Philadelphia. We were all born in Philadelphia. I mean, Shayne, Morwenna and I," Bobby said. "What about you?"

"Down in the city," Gabe said. "Richmond."

"Nice. So-how did you come to be out here in the mountains?" Bobby asked.

"State police-we go wherever. Within the state, of course. So, are you a college student?" Gabe asked him.

Bobby couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Yes, and no. I've just applied again. I've been to Columbia and Northwestern."

"Those are good schools. Where are you trying to go now?"

The question was entirely innocent, and a natural get-to-know-you question. Bobby looked at the door; he didn't want Shayne to hear him.

"They don't know it-none of them know it-I applied to Juilliard."

"Ah. For-"

"I'm a guitarist, and I want to write my own music," Bobby said, warmth entering his voice; he was speaking quickly. "My family-they're all superachievers. My dad could write his ticket anywhere, though he's stayed with the D.A.'s office. Maybe he'll run for something someday, who knows? My brother is, as you know, an M.D., and my sister, bless her heart, is an executive with one of Manhattan's finest ad agencies. All respectable moneymakers."

"And are they happy?" Gabe asked him.

"Well, yeah, I think. Shayne loves medicine. I know-through the years-that my folks have talked about his work every time he got an offer to go into private practice. And Morwenna..."

"Yeah?"

"She was an artist once. A really good artist."

"Doesn't she get to use that talent at the ad agency?"

"I think that was the idea. But I think it got lost in one of the executive meetings," Bobby said wryly. "I loved it when I was a kid. She was always drawing fantasy creatures for me. Being snowed in up here isn't really anything all that new. It's happened before. G.o.d forbid they sell this place and head south!"

"Would you want them to?" Gabe asked him.

Bobby thought about that for a minute. "Palm Springs, Daytona Beach...s...o...b..und mountains!" He laughed. "No, I don't suppose I would want them to sell. The house is historic-really historic. You can tell by the horrible plumbing and the really bad electricity. But the place really means something to my mom. And, in all honesty, I guess it means something to me, too."

"That's nice to hear. But, what's the story with your music?" Gabe asked.

"According to my father, music is a hobby. Not a career. You go to school for a career." Bobby looked at the door again. "I'm an adult. If I really want it, I can just stop taking parental financial aid and go it on my own. It will be much harder, but I'm willing to give it go. The thing is..." Bobby trailed off.

"Yeah?" Gabe pressed.

He laughed suddenly. "I guess it's a good thing. We fight like cats and dogs, and it's hard to plan a family dinner with a pack of overachievers...but, still, my parents always loved us. It's the way that they look at me that kills me. It's the disappointment." Bobby shut up, wondering why the h.e.l.l he had just kind of spilled out so much to a stranger. Maybe, he thought, because he'd needed to tell someone, but he didn't want to tell them until he knew what might happen. He knew the odds were against him; getting into Juilliard was a numbers game, and there could only be so many people who got into the school. There were other music schools-if he didn't make it, he'd try again.

But he didn't want to tell anyone in the house that he'd auditioned. He didn't want them to see his hope, or, his disappointment if he didn't make it. Even though it meant they were sure to lecture him through the holiday, he was sticking with the story that he'd gotten a job working in New York City for the coming semester, until he figured out just what he did want. It wasn't a lie; he did have a job offer working with a group of musical waiters at a place called Napoli. They waited on tables, stopped, picked up their instruments and did quick numbers in between.

Even if he made it into Juilliard, Mario, the head of the group and a great vocalist, had a.s.sured him they'd be happy to work with his schedule.

It was all okay, really. But he could just hear his father's voice: "A singing waiter? What kind of life is that, Bobby? What if you want a family, kids? There's no advancement, Bobby. Nowhere to go."

"Sounds to me like you know how to get where you want to go-just have to hang in and take those first steps. So," he said loudly, "Christmas here every year, huh?"

Bobby realized that Shayne was coming back with clothing for their guest.

He'd told a stranger, and not his brother, what he was hoping to do with his life.

"Yep, every year," he said.

As Shayne walked in, Bobby walked out. "Patient seems to be fine," he said.

Back in his own room, he found Genevieve and Connor sitting in the midst of a ma.s.sive pile of wrapping-paper sc.r.a.ps. Rudolph was dancing here and there, and little blue snowflakes lay in strips across the floor.

"Nice job," he said cheerfully. He looked around at the mess. "I think I hear Gram calling you from the kitchen!"

He led them back past his brother's door, and could hear the drone of Shayne's voice. No surprise. Shayne was willing to talk about the difficulty of the divorce at the drop of a hat.

Except that Shayne didn't seem to be doing all the talking. He stopped speaking now and then, and Bobby could hear the stranger's voice.

That he was speaking wasn't odd at all.

That Shayne apparently stopped speaking to actually listen was odd indeed.

Chapter 3.

"Dinner's ready!" Morwenna called up the stairs.

Her father had been in his study and he emerged, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "So, kid, what happened? I thought we were going to get to meet Mr. Perfect this year."

"He couldn't come, Dad, and he isn't Mr. Perfect."

"But he's a major presence in your life, right?" her father asked her.

"Dad, we've been seeing each other about six months. He still has his apartment, I still have mine. I-"