"Well ... a tree. We need a tree. Our family always just trekked out and cut one. I've no idea what you do here in the city."

"Don't think the neighbor will take too kindly to us cutting down one of his," joked the big man. "What else?"

"Well ... decorations. We always made our own, but I have seen some lovely ones in the stores."

"And...?"

Christine felt her cheeks flaming. It was sounding like she really wouldn't be doing the boss and his son a favor by imposing her idea of Christmas on them.

"Look-we don't need to do this if ..."

"No, no." With a wave of his hand he motioned her to continue. "Boyd is excited about it. He doesn't even remember a Christmas. I never bothered with one-except the gift thing. I always gave him a gift." He looked at her expectantly.

"Well, there's the meal ... but I'll-"

"No, you won't. I happen to know what you earn. You can't afford to go buying turkey and trimmings. Tell you what. You make out a list, and I'll take you shopping. How's that?"

Christine smiled.

"We'll get the doodads for that tree at the same time. How's Saturday afternoon?"

"Saturday is fine. Just fine."

"Good. I'll pick you up-no, you catch the streetcar. I'll meet you at the Hudson's Bay Company store. Two o'clock. Agreed?"

"Fine."

"I'll see you at two. At the west entrance."

Christine nodded.

Mr. Kingsley was more than generous. He purchased so many fancy decorations for the tree that Christine wondered if they could find one with enough branches to hold them all. All the while he kept making remarks like, "I think Boyd would like that," or "Boyd's favorite color," or "Do you think Boyd would think this pretty?" Christine got over her nervousness and threw herself into the shopping, adding garlands and wreaths to the fast-growing stack. After all, it was not for her-it was for Boyd. Mr. Kingsley was used to spending money to keep his boy happy.

At the grocer's, Christine's list was soon completed, and more items kept appearing on the counter. "Wouldn't this taste good with turkey?" Mr. Kingsley would ask and stack something else on the pile. We'll never get all this home on the streetcar, Christine cautioned silently, but when it came time to settle the bill, the man simply said, "Deliver it to this address," and they left the store.

Christine debated whether to have everything done to greet Boyd when he arrived or to wait and let him get in on the fun of decorating. She decided to wait. She was sure he'd love to be involved. She carefully stacked all the bags and boxes of ornaments and longingly eyed the large tree that Mr. Kingsley had brought in. It would be hard to wait. But then-it was hard to wait for Boyd to arrive home anyway.

He arrived late Thursday night. Christine did not see him until after work on Friday. He'd slept all day, he admitted with a chuckle. He was absolutely tired out.

"When are you moving over?" he soon asked.

"Moving over? What do you mean?"

"Well-you can't do everything from here."

Christine had not even thought of changing her residence. "Oh, I'm sure I can. All I need to do is decorate and cook."

"That doesn't sound like a real Christmas," he grouched. "A cook coming in for a couple of hours."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd see it that way."

He was going to sulk again.

"I thought we were going to be ... like family."

She took his hand. "We will. I'll spend most of Christmas Day with you. I won't only be cooking."

He still didn't cheer up. Christine had learned that it was no use trying to talk him out of one of his moods. "Look," she finally said, "you likely need some more sleep. We have all Christmas vacation to catch up. And we have that tree to decorate tomorrow."

He shrugged.

"I'll see you then. It'll be fun." She stood on tiptoe and placed a kiss on his cheek.

And by the next morning, all was sunshine and warmth again. They did have fun. Boyd, going from serious and artsy to playful and ridiculous, hung decorations all over the front hall and living room. "We need more for the dining room," he exclaimed. "The store's still open. Let's run uptown and get some."

Christine laughed. "We nearly bought out the store on our first trip."

But they went for more. Christine had to admit that the house did look wonderful. Boyd had rearranged a few pieces he had hung to get a laugh and now put them in more appropriate places. Christine was pleasantly surprised to learn that he had an artistic bent. Their tree looked glorious, to Christine's thinking, because of Boyd. He tucked this in here, adjusted that ornament there, and put ribbons and streamers in all the right places.

"You're good at this," Christine complimented.

"Had you any doubt, madame?" was his response as he cocked his head to one side and swept out an arm.

From his favorite chair by the crackling fire, Mr. Kingsley chuckled between sips of the hot cocoa Christine had prepared. They had spent Sunday afternoon and evening together, and she knew Boyd's father was more than pleased to have his son home.

"Oh my." Christine's smile quickly disappeared as she noticed the clock. "I have to get home. Mrs. Green will be locking the door."

The joy of the evening evaporated in an instant. She could read it in Boyd's face. Could sense it in the stirring of the big man in the chair. "This is so stupid," Boyd grumbled and threw the last bit of garland he was holding into a corner.

He turned to her, his expression stiff and cold. "You don't have to let Mrs.-Whoever run your life."

Please, thought Christine, begging him silently. Not now. Not here in front of your father.

She turned and went for the coat she had left in the closet off the kitchen. If he was not prepared to drive her, she'd take the streetcar. But she knew that would make her late. The streetcar, with its many stops, was much slower than Boyd's auto.

It was Mr. Kingsley who followed her out. It was Mr. Kingsley who drove her home. He made no comment about the situation, for which Christine was thankful. She was not ready either to accuse or excuse Boyd for his behavior.

The next morning a beautiful poinsettia was on her desk. The card read simply, Merry Christmas. Love, Boyd. Christine knew from experience this was his way of saying he was willing to forget all about the little incident. She guessed she was too. After all, wasn't one supposed to forgive and forget? She could not expect Boyd to be perfect.

The office stayed open until noon on the twenty-fourth. Christine's head was buzzing with things that needed to be done in preparation for Christmas Day. She hurried home, changed her office dress, and caught the streetcar to the big house. She had been busily working for almost an hour when Boyd made an appearance. "I see the cook has arrived," he said with a yawn. With his hair mussed and face unshaven, he looked as if he had just crawled out of bed.

"Do you have any juice-or anything?"

Christine nodded, wiped her hands on her apron, and found him some orange juice.

He took the glass and sat on a stool at the counter. Reaching up to run a hand through his hair, he swore under his breath. Christine realized he used such language, but rarely did he speak those kinds of words in front of her. She felt shock and deep disappointment.

He drained the juice in one long gulp. "So what's for dinner ? I'm starved," he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Dinner is tomorrow." Christine gave the piecrust she was working a firm thump.

"So what do we eat today?"

Christine shrugged. Then she chided herself. She was acting every bit as immature as he was. She forced a smile, willing herself to change the mood in the room. "I'm the cook for tomorrow," she said lightly. "I guess you and your father will need to figure out today. You'll manage just fine. You've had lots of practice."

He growled, "He won't even be home until who knows when. All he ever does is work."

When she didn't respond, he stood. "Well-if food's up to me, I guess I'd better go shave. Even the Greasy Spoon won't let me in looking like this."

Christine was relieved to hear a lighter note in his voice.

"By the way," he asked as he exited the room, "did the flowers arrive okay?"

"The poinsettia plant-yes. Thank you. It's beautiful."

He nodded, then was gone.

Later he returned, clean-shaven and immaculate-one would never know he could look as tousled as he had earlier, Christine noted as she lifted a golden mincemeat pie from the oven.

"Umm. You really expect that to still be here tomorrow?" His voice was teasing.

She set the pie on the cooling rack and turned to him. "It'd better be," she warned, teasing him back.

He laughed and crossed to her, removing the potholders from her fingers and lifting her hands up around his neck.

"I've been thinking. One thing we sure missed is the mistletoe." He lifted her chin and looked into her face. "But then ..." he continued, "who needs mistletoe?" He pulled her closer and kissed her.

"What's happening tonight?" he asked against her hair.

"Go to service."

"Service?" He pushed back and looked at her. "On Christmas Eve?"

"Yes, the Christmas Eve service." She was sure she had misunderstood something. At his "What's that?" she found it hard to believe he was serious. Had he truly never been to a Christmas Eve service before? No wonder he had not been touched by the Christian faith.

She eased herself back from his arms. "It's wonderful. You'll see. It gives life-meaning-to Christmas."

He frowned.

"It starts at nine and-"

"Nine? What about Mrs. What's-her-name?"

"She gives us all a special privilege tonight."

His frown deepened. "Well, bully for her," he muttered.

She chose to ignore his last comment. "It will be a candlelight event. With lots of music. It's always beautiful."

"Like a ... a concert?"

"More than that."

"Do they preach at you?"

She stared at him. "Preach at you? No. No, they tell the Christmas story."

"The Christmas story?"

"About Jesus' birth." Was he actually this ignorant concerning Christmas?

"Oh, that," he said with a shrug.

So he did know something about it.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out car keys, jingling them in his hand. "Boy," he said-and Christine was not sure he was even speaking to her-"I need a new car. This old thing ... maybe the old man ..." He stopped and looked at her. "Whoops-maybe my father will spring for one. As my Christmas present. Yeah." And then he was heading toward the back door.

Just before he opened it, he turned once more. "Just to keep things straight," he said, "I haven't agreed to go to that service of yours. I didn't even know it was part of the deal."

The door banged shut, and he was gone.

As it turned out, they did go to the service. Boyd and Mr. Kingsley picked Christine up, and they drove over to the church together. As soon as she stepped inside she felt contentment wash all over her. It was so beautiful. So peaceful. So Christmas.

But the feeling gradually seeped away during the service. Mr. Kingsley and Boyd were both shifting uncomfortably on the wooden pew. Neither of them seemed to know the familiar carols and stood silently, shuffling their feet, while the congregation sang. When Joseph and Mary-costumed children from the Sunday school-knocked on the door of the inn, Boyd rolled his eyes in mockery. It robbed the evening of its beauty, its poignancy. Christine found herself anxious for the meeting to end.

"Well, that was nice," said Mr. Kingsley as they left the church.

"I could do with a coffee," said Boyd.

"I need to get back," Christine reminded him.

Boyd sighed in exaggerated fashion, but he made no further comment.

With Boyd's eyes on the street ahead, he said, "So, Dad-where do you want to go for coffee?"

"The Savoy Hotel," he answered without hesitation. "They always serve mincemeat pie at Christmas."

We're having mincemeat tomorrow, Christine almost said, but she bit her tongue.

"Great mincemeat," continued Mr. Kingsley.

It was snowing softly, appropriately, as Christine stepped from the car in front of the boardinghouse. "See you tomorrow," both men said. Christine concluded that their thoughts were more on the mincemeat pie than on her or the beautiful evening and Christmas celebration. She stood and watched the car spin away. The snow silently caressed her cheeks and lashes. The streetlamp's glow highlighted the drifting flakes. "Silent night, holy night," whispered Christine. But for some reason she had not yet worked through, she did not feel that it really was.

Christine was the first to trek through the newly fallen snow to the streetcar stop the next morning. She found that childishly exciting, dragging her feet so that she made swooping arcs, wishing for snowshoes so she could make more interesting patterns. She turned once and looked back, pleased with what she had just created. If she hadn't been concerned about someone possibly watching, she would have loved to make a snow angel.

The big house was silent as she let herself in at the back door. She supposed they both were still sleeping. No one in this family was inclined to bound out of, bed early to discover what was under the tree.

Christine had already placed her wrapped gifts there and had noticed a few other small packages had joined hers. She didn't suppose her gifts would seem like much to a father and son who could buy anything they wanted. But she knew she had to get them something-if it was really going to be Christmas.