"Vinyl flooring would be faster. Probably cheaper, too."

"They're maple," she said. "Maple floors are rare. Probably would be another...selling point."

"It's a thought." He examined the wide, worn-looking planks that made up the floor at the moment.

She ran her palms over the walls. "The Sheetrock does need replacing. But after sitting here unheated for so long-"

"It's to be expected."

"The sofa used to be here, by this wall. Most of the year there was a big old antique stand in front of that window, all covered in Mom's knicknacks. But once Thanksgiving pa.s.sed, we'd move the table out, and that's where the Christmas tree went."

She turned. "There was a chair there, another one here, love seat over there. And the mantle was cluttered with pictures of my mom and dad and Aunt Sheila and Noelle and me. At least, it was most of the time. During the holidays, they got moved, too, and the mantle hosted Mom's Christmas village-until the collection got too big for it. That was the year Noelle was born."

"And then what?" he asked, sounding amused.

"Then we got a second dining room table. A giant one." She led him into the dining room as she spoke. It was just a big empty room now. Same plank floors, and worn-looking walls. "The one we used for actual dining was on this side of the room. And the one on the other side was Christmastown, USA. Mom would cover the table in that white, sparkly fabric that looks like fluffy fake snow. All her little buildings would be set up, just so. The church, the general store, the houses and shops, the ice-skating rink, the little miniature carolers that really sang. And there was a train that wound and twisted through the whole thing, with Santa in an engineer's hat, and a whistle that really blew."

"Wow."

It wasn't, she thought, an impressed wow. It was more of an "I-had-no-idea-people-were-so-sappy" sort of an exclamation.

She looked at him, awaiting a comment. He shifted as if slightly uncomfortable, then said, "I think the woodwork around the windows can be salvaged. That's a plus."

"Oh joy. Oh rapture." She said it in a deliberate monotone. "Kitchen next, I need more cocoa."

"Yeah, me, too," he said. "Make mine a double."

SHE SIPPED HER COCOA AS SHE LED HIM THROUGH THE REST of the house, filling every room with stories about her happy, idyllic childhood, and it began to seem as if every major event in her life was linked, somehow, to the holidays. Every Christmas memory ended with, "And that was the year Daddy got his raise." Or "And that was the year I learned to ride a bike." And so on.

She was a cheerful little thing, he had to give her that. Cheerful people, in his considered opinion, were only so because they didn't understand hardship. If you knew what life was really about, you couldn't go dancing through it with a b.u.t.terfly net in one hand and an ice cream sundae in the other. Life sucked. It made you hard, once you saw that. This little thing, though pretty-okay, freaking gorgeous-and friendly, hadn't seen anything yet. Give it time. See how long her positive att.i.tude bull lasted once she'd tasted the grit of real life.

She'd finished the tour. They were on the second floor, where she'd just given him a painstaking description of how she'd decorated her baby sister's room for the holiday with a miniature tree she'd picked out and decorated all by herself. It seems the young Noelle hated to go to sleep at night because she loved looking at the big tree downstairs and its twinkling lights so much. So little Holly had used her allowance money to purchase a small tree and a string of lights, which she had then erected in little Noelle's bedroom.

It was all so d.a.m.n special, he thought with an inner grimace.

And then she added, "That was the Christmas they died."

They'd been standing there in that final room, which had been a toddler's bedroom, when she said it, and Matthew thought the bottom fell right out of his stomach.

He stared at her, and tried to speak, and thought he must have heard her wrong. "They...who?"

"Mom. Dad. Noelle. All of them." She gazed around the room again, her eyes damp in the glow of the single dim bulb. "Car accident. Icy roads, it was no one's fault. I almost went with them, but Mom sent me back."

"In the car?" he asked, thinking she'd narrowly escaped death because her mother hadn't let her go along on that fateful drive.

"No. I was in the car. I meant, I almost went with them to...well, you know. The other side."

"But your mom sent you back," he muttered.

"Yeah." She shrugged. "Aunt Sheila came and took me home from the hospital, to her place in Binghamton. This is my first time back here since." She sighed, and turned to look up at him.

He was shocked to see a fine sheen in her eyes, and yet, a wobbly little smile on her face. "You know, Ms. Sullivan said there was probably still some of our old furniture up in the attic. And I'm getting sick of having nothing to sit on besides that stone hearth." She turned and marched into the hallway as if she hadn't just revealed her deepest pain. "Come on, Matthew, you might as well see the attic."

The hat tumbled to the snowy ground when the wind let up, and moments later, a laughing child grabbed it and scooped it up.

"Look! I found the hat!"

"Aw, man, where did you get that?"

"It just came rolling up out of nowhere. Just like on Frosty!" The little girl's eyes grew very big then. "Hey, do you think it's a magic hat?"

"Yeah, Gracie. The snowman's gonna come to life and say 'happy birthday' the minute we put it on his head." Her older brother shook his head at her. "There's no such thing as a magic hat."

"I don't believe you!" she huffed. Then she marched over to the snowman they had built together, and tried to put the hat on his head. She couldn't quite reach, though. She was hopping, and swinging the hat uselessly. Then her brother lifted her up high, and she plopped the hat on the snowman.

And then she waited.

Her brother was waiting, too, she thought. Even though he said he didn't believe, he must wonder. They stood there, quiet for a long moment, but nothing happened.

"I guess you were right," the little girl said. "No such thing as magic."

"Hey, you never know," her brother said. "There could be. I mean, it's almost Christmas, right? Anything could happen."

He took her little hand in his, and led her home for dinner.

Six.

HOLLY LED MATTHEW ALONG THE HALLWAY, CARRYING A flashlight she'd dug out of her backpack, which she'd left in one of the bedrooms, until she stood underneath the square in the ceiling that marked the entryway to the attic. It had always seemed a mysterious portal to her as a child. The attic was a whole other world; darker than the rest of the house, cooler in the summer months, hotter in the winter, when the heat gathered there and hung around. It was dusty, not as neat, filled with clutter and cobwebs and dust. It even smelled differently than the rest of the house.

And getting there was impossible without help. As a little thing, she'd been unable to reach the cord that hung down. Now, though...She stretched out her arm, stood up on tiptoe, and closed her hand around the plastic grip at the end of the cord.

"Wow," she said. "If that doesn't drive home how long it's been, nothing will." She glanced over her shoulder with a smile, but Matthew was only frowning at her. "I could never reach this before," she explained.

"Oh."

He seemed a little tense, was looking at her with a new intensity. Well, she guessed some people didn't deal well with it when you talked about death or loss. They were facts of life, just like the good stuff. There was no point in walling them off in some kind of soundproof room within your head. They were real.

Shrugging, she said, "Stand aside," and when she felt him move, she tugged the cord. The trapdoor came downward, and the attached ladder extended itself and slid to the floor all on its own. Holly flipped the latches on either side that would keep it that way, then stepped on up, aiming her flashlight beam ahead of her.

Cobwebs met her halfway, but she'd never been afraid of them, or of spiders for that matter, so she just brushed them aside and kept ascending, until she stood on the attic floor. She stepped to one side to make room for her guest, and shone her light this way and that, looking around the place with wide eyes.

He came up and stood beside her. "Man, there's a lot of stuff up here."

"Yeah." No need to elaborate. He'd stated the obvious. "Aunt Sheila and I sold everything that was worth much, just to help us get on our feet. She came back here while I was in the hospital and got most of my things out for me, so I wouldn't have to. And she told me she'd stored everything she couldn't sell in the attic and the shed outside. I just..."

For some reason her breath caught there, and her throat went real tight.

"You had no way of knowing what stuff was stored and what stuff was sold?" he asked.

She swallowed, nodded. "I never asked." Her voice was raspy, the muscles in her throat still clutching hard at her windpipe.

He cleared his throat. "I owe you an apology, Holly. I uh...misjudged you."

"People tend to think I'm either an airhead or that I've been living in a charmed little bubble. I promise, neither one is true."

"I got that. So how do you manage to love the holidays so much?"

"Not just the holidays. I love life." She shrugged. "h.e.l.l, I figure Mom didn't send me back here to be miserable. Mostly I think she sent me back to take care of Aunt Sheila."

"Your aunt's not well?"

"MS," Holly said. Then she met his eyes. "Don't look like that. You'd never know, aside from the wheelchair. h.e.l.l, I'm pretty sure she's having a fling with the new cook at our diner."

He tipped his head to one side.

"She loves life, too. Runs in the family, I guess."

He just looked at her, as if he didn't quite know what to make of her. She glanced at the TV-a big console model with a k.n.o.b to turn the channel, and no remote control. "Noelle and I used to lie on the rug watching cartoons on Sat.u.r.day mornings."

"I used to do the same thing with my kid sister, Cindy."

She nodded. "That TV was outdated, even then." Then she shook off the wave of sadness the memory brought. "What was your favorite?"

"My favorite what?" he asked.

"Cartoon. Mine was s...o...b.. Doo."

"Oh. I don't know. I liked the Turtles a lot."

"The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, you mean." She smiled. "I liked them, too."

He sighed, turned, and pointed. "There's a sofa. Should we take it downstairs?"

"You offering to help?"

He made a face at her in the glow of the flashlight. "No. I'm gonna leave and let a woman who just fell off her own roof try to manhandle a two-hundred-pound sofa down two flights, single-handedly."

"Don't even think I couldn't do it," she said.

He smiled, and it was the first relaxed, genuine smile she thought she had seen cross his face. "You know what? I don't doubt it for a minute."

"Shall we?" she asked.

He nodded. Holly stuck the flashlight into a back pocket, and they each got on one end of the sofa, picked it up, and began the awkward task of maneuvering it through the opening and down the ladder to the hall below, and then farther, down to the living room.

They lowered it to the floor, then positioned it just the way Holly wanted it, facing the fireplace, with a view to the windows.

"Perfect," she said with a satisfied nod.

"Anything else before I leave?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is."

"Okay. Shoot."

She sat down, and patted the sofa until he sat beside her. Then she said, "Tell me why you hate Christmas."

Matthew lifted his brows and stared at her. "Now what makes you think I hate Christmas?"

"Are you saying you don't?"

"No. I'm asking how you knew."

She nodded, grateful for the honesty. She'd half expected him to deny it. "Your reaction to the decorations, your comments about the season in general, all that kind of stuff. It's pretty obvious."

"Well, obvious or not, it's not important."

She met his eyes, held them. "I think it is."

"h.e.l.l, Holly, don't be ridiculous. In less than a minute, I'm gonna walk out that door, get into my car, and drive back to my hotel, and you'll probably never see me again. So how in the world could my childhood traumas matter in the least to you?"

"They do." She drew a breath and then blew it out. "I think you're here for a reason. We both are. And I hate to let you leave before I figure out what it is. So it's something from your childhood, then. A trauma?"

Matthew got to his feet, looked down at her, and extended a hand. "It was nice to meet you, Holly. You're..." He shook his head. "One of a kind, I think. But I really need to get going."

She took his hand, but instead of shaking it, used it to pull herself to her feet. Then she went to the fireplace to get his boots and coat for him.

He sat on the sofa putting them on, and the silence was taut. She needed to break it. "So, are you going to put an offer in on the place?"

"Depends," he said. Both boots were on and he was bending over to tie them. Without looking her in the eye, he said, "Did you want to buy it back yourself?"

She looked around, felt herself getting misty. "I hadn't even thought about it. It's really not an option right now."

"I see."

"Why did you ask?"

"No reason."

"Liar."

He looked up from tying his boots, and met her eyes.