"No, no," Solomon said. "It was all well before her arrival, though it's clear she's done a fine job with the place."

"Yeah, she's great." Joby smiled, gathering up his packages again. "And I'd better get back there with all this, or she'll think I jumped ship. Thanks again for your help, and, uh, welcome back to Taubolt, I guess."

"Same to you, Joby," Solomon said amiably. "Merry Christmas."

"Hey, yeah! You too," Joby said, resuming his progress toward the inn. He looked back a moment later, intending to invite the man over for a visit, but Solomon had vanished, back around the corner, he presumed.

Mrs. Lindsay's breakfast was magnificent: fresh-squeezed orange juice and champagne; chanterelle omelets with Edam cheese; home-canned peaches; fried potatoes with rosemary; and a pastry wreath dripping in a brown sugar cinnamon glaze with walnuts and cherries baked into the crusty top of every fluffy bite.

Despite their rough night, her guests were surprisingly jovial.

"That was something!" said a grinning young man at the table's far end. He turned to his pretty wife and joked, "Just think! We nearly missed it, honey!"

His wife smiled ruefully at everyone. "We had reservations at some motel down the coast. But we stopped here for gas, and it was just so charming, we figured, why drive all that way for some other place we'd never seen?" She shook her head. "I can't believe you put all this food together without any power or water, Mrs. Lindsay! I'd have just huddled in my sleeping bag 'til the National Guard came."

"We're used to making do here in the country," Mrs. Lindsay said modestly.

"You know," remarked a fashionable-looking woman at the other end of the table, "I'm here by accident as well. Isn't that strange? Three days ago, I drove up the coast intending nothing but a day at the beach somewhere. When I found this place, I had to buy everything from toiletries to extra clothing here in town." She smiled at Mrs. Lindsay. "Can't say I'm sorry though. Been the best three days I've had since my husband died, and I'll certainly have better holiday stories now than any of my friends."

The older couple seated next to Mrs. Lindsay exchanged a look and laughed. "We were going to spend the holidays visiting friends up in Ferndale," the man said gleefully, "but they both came down with the flu."

"It was disappointing," his wife added, "but they'd made us reservations at a B&B up there, and it seemed a little late to invite ourselves for Christmas with our daughter so we drove up anyway."

"Took the scenic route," her husband said, "and just stopped here for lunch."

"But like they all said, it's just so charming!" his wife laughed. "So here we are, someplace we never heard of, for the storm of the century."

"Well, I, for one," said the young husband who'd begun the conversation, "would be happy to help out with repairs this morning, Mrs. Lindsay."

"Me too," said the widowed woman. "I'm pretty good with a rake."

They all jumped on the bandwagon, and Mrs. Lindsay happily offered a free night's lodging to everyone on what she called her "chain gang." After breakfast, Joby marveled to watch these well-heeled vacationers cheerfully attack the ruined yard and house with rakes, saws, and hammers. With so many hands, they'd gotten breakfast cleaned up, all the broken windows covered in plastic, the ruined fence and shed mostly cleared away, and the fallen tree limbs half sawed up by eleven thirty, when Mrs. Lindsay announced that everyone should take a break while she and Joby went to church.

They were nearly late to Mass and had to stand in back with a crowd that overflowed onto the steps outside by the time everyone stood up to sing "Away in a Manger," as Father Crombie made his slow way toward the altar, nodding cheerfully to people along the aisle.

After Lindwald's death, attending church had seemed too hypocritical to face. Later, simple despair had displaced painful concepts like hope or trust-in himself or God. Now, all at once, here he was. After more than a decade away from church, Joby didn't remember enough to do much more than follow along until the scripture readings were finished and Father Crombie stood to deliver his sermon.

"I am told," Father Crombie began, "that Tom and Margie Faulkand found themselves lying in the manger quite literally this morning." He turned to grin at a stout, balding man and a plump, rosy woman near the front of the church, who blushed and smiled at those around them. A ripple of quiet laughter spread as those who knew the story started passing it to those who didn't. "Seems the roof of Joe Lima's barn, a good deal of hay, and a chicken, if I've been correctly informed, blew across the road and right through Tom and Margie's bedroom wall," Crombie continued.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Lindsay gasped, craning her neck to inspect the couple more carefully. "Was anyone hurt?" she asked the man next to her, as if expecting he'd know.

"Not a scratch on either one is what I heard," smiled the man, "though I did hear somethin' 'bout a chicken dinner at the Faulkands' tonight, so I can't vouch for the bird."

"Happily, however," Father Crombie said when the laughter had died down, "despite the real losses many are coping with this morning, I've not heard of a single person seriously injured or, God forbid, killed last night. Has anyone heard otherwise?"

There was a silence filled with shaking heads and pensive smiles.

"Then I trust it will not seem too out of touch," he smiled, "to say, Merry Christmas, my friends!"

"Merry Christmas, Father!" the congregation roared back.

"Our Savior must have experienced dismay very like the Faulkands'," Crombie smiled, "when He woke on that first Christmas to find Himself, not in Heaven where He'd gone to bed, but in the feeding trough of a drafty barn, with a long hard haul ahead of Him. On this Christmas morning, we are blessed with an opportunity to have compassion for that little child, as He had compassion for us." He swept the congregation with a gentle smile. "True compassion does not just reach down to help the suffering, but joins them in whatever they endure-and in whatever they celebrate. This, my wonderful neighbors, is what you have taught me in the years since God brought me to this marvelous town. You who do suffer trials this morning know you will not suffer them alone. We will join with you. And what I most wish to say to you all this Christmas morning is simply thank you, . . . each of you, for being who and what you are, every day. You are all God's greatest gifts to me. As you celebrate today, may God bless you all, and, through you, everyone you meet. Amen."

He returned slowly to his chair beside the altar and sat in quite contemplation before continuing the Mass.

It was, without a doubt, the shortest sermon Joby had ever heard; also the most genuine, and, to Joby's dismay, the most distressing. The obvious affection between Crombie and his parish spoke straight to the heart of everything Joby had once believed in and aspired to, which left him feeling now as if all his deepest wounds had been torn open, every desire he'd ever put painfully to sleep awakened against its will. The temptation to hope that all those lost dreams might be redeemed at last here in Taubolt was as painful as it seemed suddenly impossible to suppress. Afraid he might be going to cry, Joby held himself very still and shoved down hard on everything he felt, praying only for control. In the still moment of reflective silence that Crombie allowed to linger, Joby's prayer was answered. The turmoil within him solidified into a hard, aching lump somewhere between his Adam's apple and his heart; painful, but blessedly contained.

This respite was short-lived, however. Mere moments later, as Father Crombie raised the ceramic Eucharistic chalice, Joby's attention was drawn by a chance trick of light on its plain exterior. There were sudden rainbows in the glaze; subtle but astonishingly beautiful colors. As Joby stared, something in the sheen itself returned him entirely to an instant in his boyhood. He could feel the sunlight on his back, see his old storybook open on the ground before him, smell the pages and the scent of cut grass, hear the clack of grasshoppers in the field beyond his parents' fence, the trill of a mockingbird. . . . My king, I would serve you with my life, only name the- Joby covered his eyes, and bowed his head, as if in prayer, to hide a sudden surge of inexplicable grief and the tears streaming down his face, indifferent to his efforts to prevent them. Stop this! he demanded silently, whether of himself or some ethereal persecutor he wasn't sure.

He spent the entire Eucharistic prayer hidden behind his hands. When he finally dared look up again, the cup was just a cup once more, but he no longer quite trusted it, or himself. When communion was distributed, the profound reverence on Mrs. Lindsay's face as she started forward made Joby feel like an unworthy pretender, and he could not follow her. As the communion line dwindled, he caught Father Crombie looking at him with an expression of unnerving sadness.

When the Mass was ended, it was all Joby could manage not to rush from the church as Mrs. Lindsay lingered to chat with virtually every person there. When they started walking home at last, Joby glanced out toward the headlands west of town, and was greeted with yet another puzzling site. At the edge of an isolated grove of gnarled old cypress trees, seven adolescent children stood with hands joined in a ring around one partially blackened trunk leaning away from its fellows, and, as Joby watched, began a careful stepping dance counterclockwise around it. That's when Joby recognized the two girls he'd startled out of hiding on the headlands only yesterday.

Hadn't they spoken of some grove? Sunday . . . And Hawk for seven. Now, here they were, it seemed. Joby wondered idly which one of them was Hawk.

Mrs. Lindsay's Christmas dinner was clearly going to be a banquet of legendary dimensions. To everyone's delight, power had been restored to Taubolt at around three, and her guests had gone upstairs to enjoy long forestalled showers now that water could be pumped again from the inn's well. Apparently, it was Mrs. Lindsay's tradition to have a few friends join her guests for Christmas dinner, and the invitation list had expanded after church to include Tom and Clara Connolly, and their daughter Rose, whose house had been so badly damaged across the street.

At five o'clock, just as Joby finished helping Mrs. Lindsay get the quail in the oven, a man's voice called from somewhere near the parlor, "Anybody home?"

Mrs. Lindsay straightened with a smile. "You know perfectly well where I am, Jake," she called back. "And I've got plenty of help already, so it's safe to come in."

A tall, blond, thirty-something man with remarkably blue eyes walked into Mrs. Lindsay's kitchen with one large, callused hand wrapped around the necks of two bottles of white wine, and a raffish grin on his face. He seemed instantly familiar to Joby, though he couldn't think why.

"Just didn't wanna disturb an artist at work," the fellow teased.

"You get smoother every year, Jake." Drying her hands on her apron, she walked over and stretched up to give him a hug, for which he had to stoop almost comically. "Merry Christmas, dear."

"You too." He smiled, offering her the wine.

"Oh, thank you," she said. "These are much nicer than what I've got!"

"Liar," he grinned, "but I couldn't think what else to bring, with you already serving up half of Taubolt's winter food supply."

"All I needed was your charming company, dear." She turned to Joby, and said, "This is Jake: one of Taubolt's local heroes. When he's not out cutting everybody's firewood, he's in charge of Taubolt's volunteer fire department and emergency response team, which means he probably hasn't slept since yesterday."

"Got a nap this afternoon." Jake shrugged. "I'm good to go."

She smiled skeptically, and said, "Jake, this is-"

"Joby Peterson, I'll bet," Jake said, reaching out to shake Joby's hand.

"How'd you know?" Joby asked, wondering if perhaps they had met.

"Oh, everybody's heard about you." Jake grinned. "We're all wonderin' how Mrs. Lindsay knew to hire on extra help just in time for all this storm repair."

"He's been worth his weight in gold, I have to say." Mrs. Lindsay beamed.

"I'm the lucky one." Joby smiled. "You look familiar, Jake. Have we met?"

"Don't think so. You just got into town yesterday, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Joby said, still certain that he knew this face.

"Well then," Jake said, grinning, "you're probably just mistaking me for some other good lookin' woodcutter you knew down in the city." He turned back to Mrs. Lindsay, and asked, "Maybe I could help you with the table?"

"That would be lovely, dear. You know where things are."

Joby watched him go, feeling certain he was missing something.

Half an hour later, the table was clothed in white linen and lace, bone china and sterling settings, cut-crystal tumblers, and graceful long-stemmed wineglasses. The fish was on, the fowl and venison were almost done, the salads and side dishes were on the table, and a lovely version of the Nutcracker Suite wafted from the parlor stereo.

Bridget and Drew O'Reilly were first to arrive. Mrs. Lindsay introduced Drew as a local apple farmer, and Bridget as "head teacher" at the town's high school. Thirty-five at most, Bridget had sparkling gray eyes and short, dark blond hair agleam with sunny highlights. Her smile was wide and frequent. Joby could picture her as a ski instructor, or a triathlete, but not a head teacher. Then again, her husband looked younger than he'd ever imagined any farmer looking. They had just begun to talk when another knock at the door turned out to be the Connollys.

"Hello, Clara! Hi, Tom," Bridget said brightly. She smiled warmly at their daughter. "How ya doing, Rose? A little too exciting at your house last night, huh?"

When Joby saw Rose's pale, heart-shaped face and long dark tresses, he felt a flush of embarrassment. Rose stared back at him with the same startled expression that he realized he was wearing. Their mouths snapped shut in unison.

"Joby," Mrs. Lindsay said, seeming unaware of their mutual discomfort, "these are my wonderful neighbors, Tom and Clara Connolly, and their daughter, Rose. And this," she said to the Connollys, "is my new right-hand man, Joby Peterson. He got here yesterday, just in time for the storm."

"Your daughter was pretty much the first person I met here," Joby said self-consciously, shaking Mr. Connolly's hand. "She caught me sort of eavesdropping on her while I was out walking on the headlands."

He turned awkwardly to Rose. "That's really not like me at all. I just heard voices in the trees, and turned to listen without thinking. It's, um, nice to meet you more . . . formally, I guess."

"No big deal," Rose said, recovering her smile. "It was just . . . we'd never seen you before. . . . That's all."

"Saw your house," Joby said, trying to flee the subject he had broached.

"It's a little crunched," Rose said, smiling ruefully. "Our bedrooms are all in back, though. So that was good."

"I wish my office had been in back," Tom said, trying to sound cheerful.

"One of Tom's many hats here is real-estate agent," Mrs. Lindsay explained. "He works out of his home."

"Really out of my home now!" Tom laughed. "For a while, at least."

"Well, you know Bridget and I will be by to help tomorrow," Drew assured him.

"Thanks," Tom said. "We've gotten offers all day, and I can't tell you how much it means to us. I just hope the weather cooperates long enough to get it done quickly."

"So, what brought you to Taubolt, Joby?" Mrs. Connolly asked.

"Father Crombie and I are friends," Joby replied, having figured out by now that this was the simplest answer to that question. "He set me up here with Mrs. Lindsay."

Joby had just started to tell them about St. Albee's when Father Crombie himself arrived bearing two small but handsomely wrapped packages.

"Hello, everyone!" he said cheerfully. "Hope I haven't kept you all waiting,"

"You're right on time," said Mrs. Lindsay. "Joby was just talking about you."

"Well, I hope he hasn't spilled too many of my secrets." He gave Joby a conspiratorial wink, then handed one of his packages to Mrs. Lindsay. "Merry Christmas, Gladys." To Joby's surprise, he handed the other package to him. "And this is for you."

"Thank you," Joby said as Father Crombie shrugged out of his coat. "I . . . didn't expect this. . . . I-"

"Should open it and refrain from silly protests." Father Crombie grinned, handing his coat to Mrs. Lindsay who smiled and took it up the stairs with her present. "It's a sneak attack, Joby. You're only responsibility is to be surprised and delighted."

Joby removed the wrapping to find a richly bound anthology of American poetry.

"You mentioned a degree in English at dinner last night." Father Crombie smiled. "I hoped you might enjoy that. I own a well-read copy myself."

"Well, thank you so much," Joby said again, then surprised himself by leaning forward to hug the old priest, who returned the gesture warmly.

Mrs. Lindsay reappeared and ushered everyone toward the dining room, where the large, elegant table waited, alight with candles.

Even having helped to prepare it, Joby was astonished at how good the meal was. The candlelight made everyone look youthful and merry. Mrs. Lindsay's paying guests chastised her for spoiling them so badly, insisting they'd never be able to enjoy normal food again, while Rose began to quiz Joby about his tastes in music and what city girls were wearing these days. Soon they were talking and laughing as if there'd never been an awkward moment between them.

"Father said you have a degree in English, Joby?" Bridget asked as soon as Rose gave her an opening.

"Just a B.A.," he replied. Hoping to avoid talk about his past, he turned quickly back to Rose, and asked, "Wasn't that you down on the headlands this morning, around that tree with a bunch of other kids?"

Suddenly uncomfortable again, Rose gave Joby a weighing look, then said, "We were praying for the tree that got hit by lightning last night."

"Praying for a tree?" Joby said. That seemed . . . a little weird.

"That particular grove of trees is pretty special to us all," Mrs. Lindsay said. "We have weddings down there, and memorial services, and all kinds of things. I can't begin to guess how many marriage proposals have been made under those branches."

Joby saw Tom and Clara Connolly smile knowingly without looking up from their meals, and suspected their initials might be down there somewhere.

"We pray a lot around here," Jake said to Joby with an oddly pointed grin. "We're too far from everywhere to get help any other way."

When everyone had gone, and Joby had finished helping Mrs. Lindsay with the cleanup, she had surprised him with another wrapped box pulled from far under her Christmas tree. It had contained an old-fashioned writing kit: stationery, quill pen, inkwell, even sealing wax and a stamp engraved to emboss the letter "J" in the blob of wax. "For writing home," she'd told him, saying that the kit had been her son's before he went away. When she saw Joby glance again at the monogram stamp, she said, "His name is Justin."

Now, up in his room, Joby sat flipping through the poetry anthology Father Crombie had given him, thinking about how generous everyone had been to him, and how strange it felt after . . . so much time.

He still hadn't called his parents. The memory of their frightened messages on his machine back in Berkeley stung his conscience. He should have called, especially on Christmas, but he still couldn't face . . . what? Their fear? Their anger? . . . Their shame? . . . His own perhaps? Still, he couldn't just leave them wondering if he was even alive. If they hadn't learned of his sudden disappearance yet, they would soon. He was sure their names and address were on the rental papers somewhere. His landlord would probably be after them to get rid of all the stuff he'd left behind. He'd left a lot of details untended in his flight from Berkeley.

Amidst these thoughts, he noticed a page corner that someone, Crombie, he supposed, had bent down. It marked a poem by Longfellow, and one stanza caught Joby's attention immediately: I remember the gleams and glooms that dart

Across the school boy's brain;

The song and the silence in the heart,