The day after Sammy’s funeral, Mary was exhausted. She couldn’t dim the image of Jolene and her five solemn children huddled together near the grave as the coffin was lowered slowly into cold darkness. A damp morning fog had changed to a chill drizzle, the group of mourners shivering as the first shovel of dirt struck the mahogany. It wasn’t going to be much of a Christmas for any of them. Weeks before, Mary had planned to return to Vermont for the holidays, but now she didn’t have the heart for the trip. Her mother had begged her to come home anyway; it had been too long between visits. However, Mary had still reluctantly told her she simply couldn’t this year. Christmas at home was emotional enough under normal circumstances.
The second day after the funeral, Mary showed up for work at the usual hour. Jay had livecelled her the evening before and said, “Do you want to go back to work tomorrow?” She was very relieved by his decision; a farm girl believed in working through sadness and depression. She wondered what had made Jay change his mind, but she didn’t ask. For most of the morning she fielded phone calls from inside the company and attended to writing a press release about LiveCell resuming production. In the afternoon she brought it to Jay to be reviewed. A silence caved in on them—they could barely look at each other—but at least it was a start. Mercifully, Jay decided they should quit around three.
As she headed home from the Harcourt Building she drove too fast, was frustrated by slower cars, used the shrill cry of her horn twice and got the finger once. She realized she deserved it and slowed down. No sense in someone else dying. Tears edged into her eyes. She turned into her long driveway and pulled up in front of her place but didn’t get out right away. Ever since her house had been searched, she was alert on coming home, always slightly nervous. But today she merely stared dully at the rain-stained windshield, too done in to move.
When she unlocked the door and entered the hall, she immediately knew something was wrong. It was the smell. No sooner the thought than a man walked out from her kitchen. She didn’t scream, she froze, terrified.
“Miss MacKensie?” he said.
He wore a pale gray suit with the jacket open, a coral tie and matching shirt. He was straightening the jacket as if he’d just put it on. She’d never seen a man of his modest height with a thicker chest. Was he the one who’d shot Sammy?
“Are you going to kill me?” she said, her mind churning, but strangely calm now that it was actually happening. Could she make the door before he caught her, or pulled his gun? She saw the dark edge of what must be a holster. Would it hurt terribly? Could she reach her car before he shot her? She doubted it. He looked extremely capable, and her body felt like lead, her legs immobile. “Are you?”
“What’re you talking about?” He smiled. With the smile she couldn’t help but notice that he had a surprisingly handsome boyish face, probably wasn’t much older than she was. His black hair was freshly combed straight back, not a strand out of place, his accent probably Massachusetts Italian. She didn’t know if it would matter to notice these details; her mind recorded them involuntarily.
“Come in here, I want you to taste something,” he said.
What was he talking about?
“Come in the kitchen. I want ya to try somethin’. Tell me what you think.”
She continued to stare at him.
“Miss MacKensie, please. Just a taste. I been cooking all afternoon.”
“Who are you?”
“Me? Frankie Demanno. Who do ya think?”
“Do I know you?”
“We never met.” He glanced away for an instant. “Nick didn’t tell ya?”
“Tell me what?”
Now he looked embarrassed, and this reassured her just a little.
“Miss MacKensie, hey, I’m sorry. I’m Frankie Demanno, from Boston. I work for Nick’s brother, Anthony Brignolia. I’m here to keep an eye on you. Now, please, come in here. You gotta try this,” and he turned and walked into her kitchen.
She stood rigidly, her legs still weak at the knees, but then she did, not even sure why—she followed him into the kitchen. He waited there holding something out. A brand-new wooden spoon—not one of hers—his other huge hand cradled underneath to catch any drips. He guided the spoon slowly to her lips, and she, not knowing what else to do, tasted his sauce.
Her eyes lit up. “My God, that is good.”
“You like it?”
“It’s fantastic.”
He reddened a little, reached for an almost empty bottle of wine. He poured a glass, offered it to her. Then he quickly cut some bread from a crusty loaf and held out the board with the slices on it. “Here, dip the bread in the sauce if you want. I’ll have dinner ready in a couple minutes. I’m gonna fry some sole to go with the linguini. That be okay?”
She took a piece of bread and dipped, washed it down with the wine, which was dry and delicious.
“Where did you get all this stuff?”
“Nick and I did some shopping before he dropped me off. We know a grocery out here. I’m sorry I surprised you. Nick was supposed to call you and explain things.”
“This sauce is unbelievable. Really.”
“My own recipe.”
“You shave the garlic with a razor?”
He looked at her and smiled. He really had quite a smile. “I just chop it fine, cook it very light in lots of olive oil, a good olive oil, first press. That razor stuff is for the movies. But my secret is Parmesan rind. You cook it right in the sauce, remove it at the end. And I use canned tomatoes, they taste better than fresh to me, and to cut the acidity I cook some carrots in the sauce. Nothing fancy. Simple is better.”
“I need to sit down,” she said.
“Sure, sure, whatever you want.”
Mary moved to one of the dining room chairs and slumped down. The adrenaline that had pumped through her system while she was waiting to be shot had left her weak. Not to mention everything else. Frankie brought in his wine and sat beside her.
“I’m sorry about the death of your friend,” he said, his earnest face showing concern. He had lovely eyes too, amber-brown, long lashes.
“Mr. Dematto, let me get this—”
“Demanno, but please call me Frankie.”
“What are you doing here? How did you get into my house?”
“Mary—can I call you Mary?” She nodded. “I’m sorry I scared ya. Like I said, Nick was supposed to call and tell you. I’m here to see nothing bad happens to you. It’s that simple. Nick figured you might not go for no protection, so I thought if you met me first, you might see it’s not such a bad idea. I hoped maybe you taste my cooking, you might like to keep me around a while. I love to cook.”
“You’re going to cook for me?”
“If you’ll have me, yeah, ‘course.”
“You came all the way from Boston not knowing if this would work out?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“So Nick asked his brother for this?”
“Yeah.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Nick can’t lose nobody else. He thinks very highly of you. Tells me you’re some kinda pool wizard.” He grinned then, as if he sensed he was winning her over.
“Maybe I should call Nick?”
“Sure, you want. Maybe you wanna eat first? You look a little peaked. Here, lemme get ya another wine.”
He brought back a fresh bottle, filled their glasses with the deep-red liquid. They sat and drank, both looking out the window at the last hesitating light over the ocean. For Mary, the situation was extremely awkward, but though she didn’t like to admit it, she felt a great sense of relief. And it didn’t hurt that he was so good looking. She was too exhausted to figure it all out; she trusted Nick, and for the time being that was enough. Besides, if Frankie’s sauce was any indication . . .
That evening Frankie Demanno moved into one of Mary’s guest rooms. He cooked and did the dishes. She didn’t know a man could be so neat. Nevertheless, if the house hadn’t had two bathrooms, she wouldn’t have accepted his staying with her. He rode with her to work the next day, complementing the Porsche, asking questions about California, San Francisco, the car, borrowing it the second day to shop for groceries and sightsee while she remained at LiveCell. He nicknamed her Virgin Mary, probably wanting to make it clear to others what their relationship was so as not to embarrass her. The nickname upset her, though he couldn’t know why. When her cleaning lady came on Friday, Frankie said he’d take care of the house cleaning. Mary insisted Trisha continue, and he looked relieved. It was Frankie who suggested they should invite everyone to a big Christmas dinner. “We all need some cheering up; something good to eat never hurts,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.” And he did.
First he asked her about her traditions: how did she celebrate Christmas with her family? She explained about how her grandfather cut a balsam fir tree on the farm a few days before the Eve, soon to be decorated with dozens of live candles; about listening to Dylan Thomas reading A Child’s Christmas In Wales on the old phonograph in the parlor as the candles burned and the scent of balsam was released from the heat of the flames; about her mother baking all kinds of special cookies and fruit breads. Frankie asked her, with a worried look that made her laugh, if live candles weren’t dangerous on a Christmas tree. She told him only if the tree wasn’t freshly cut. He quizzed her about the bakeries and wanted some of the recipes. When she livecelled home, her mom said she would e-mail the recipes and asked Mary, again, to come home: “Why would you bake those things there when I’ve already made them here?” Mary reassured her that she would visit in the spring. She couldn’t seem to mention her new roommate.
To the Christmas dinner they invited Deirdre and Jimmy Hakken; Duncan, sounding disconcerted by the invitation, decided to stay home with his mother; David Artega, very busy now with the Samuel Holmes case, had family as well; Mary thought of Jolene and the kids, but knew they’d be with her parents and sister; Nick Brignolia simply asked what time and what to bring; and Jay, hesitating at first, accepted. Mary, disliking herself for the thought, knowing it wasn’t the time for it, still hoped that Jay might get a little jealous of Frankie Demanno. “But he just doesn’t think about me that way,” she admitted, and didn’t have a clue how to change it. “I don’t want to be virgin Mary much longer.”
Mary and Frankie spent the next two days shopping and preparing for their party. They found gifts for everyone, and her spirits continued to improve. It was during one of these shopping trips that an incident occurred. It altered her perception of Frankie Demanno.
They’d been walking back together across an unlit gravel lot to where they’d parked, Frankie carrying a bag of smoked salmon, fresh clams and mussels. As they approached her Porsche he slowed, set the bag quietly on the ground. He motioned for her to stay put, his face set in an alertness she’d never seen. He unbuttoned his jacket and walked toward her car. Then Mary saw the two men.
“What’re you doin’?” said Frankie, his voice cold. It was still calm, yet without any trace of humor or softness. The inflection was new to her.
“What’s it to you, chief?” one of the men said.
Frankie moved in close to the guy who’d spoken, standing only a few feet away.
“You got a problem, chief?” the man said.
“Yeah. You.”
The man’s hand snapped toward his pocket. Before it got there, Frankie reacted. Mary had never seen a person of his bulk move so fast. His right shoe stamped on the guy’s foot, the hard edge of the sole scraping down the length of shin. At the same time his open hand chopped the guy in the Adam’s apple. In seconds, the guy was on the gravel choking, grabbing his shin. Later, Mary would remember it as rather comical.
Frankie turned to the other one. “You too?”
That guy grabbed his partner and dragged him across the lot.
Frankie returned to Mary, picking up the bag of seafood. “Sorry you had to see that,” he said, looking embarrassed.
He definitely had two sides. “What were they doing?” she said.
“I think they liked your car, maybe too much.”
She could tell he was protecting her from the truth. She knew then that the Aldens, or whoever, were still after LiveCell. Anger flooded her. It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected it, but something about Christmas had made her less wary. Had they sent these two men so she’d tell Jay? So that she’d be scared? Were they testing Frankie Demanno? She questioned him again about the incident, but all he said was, “You don’t need to worry, Mary, that’s why I’m here.”
Frankie liked to read different newspaper articles to Mary as they breakfasted. She was reminded of an angelic, aging choirboy as he sat there in his reading glasses and perfectly ironed sports shirts. He was actually in his early thirties, his birthday four years and a few days from hers, but sometimes he could look so young. The coverage of LiveCell in the smaller alternative papers fascinated him. “The only papers not owned by the corporate political dynasty,” she told him.
A grass roots movement supporting LiveCell had emerged in ever-widening circles since the FDA had attempted to undermine the company with the allegations that the phones caused headaches and disturbed sleep. Many people had responded in defense of LiveCell, yet the mainstream media had ignored their rebuttals, which only intensified their certainty that something was wrong. As people used LiveCell phones, many developed an intuitive awareness and became progressively more difficult to dupe. They felt that with the nation’s economy ruined, with the leaders of big business having looted half of America’s corporate wealth, with civil rights being removed in the false name of Homeland Security, that LiveCell phones were one of the only good things they had left. The shooting of Samuel Holmes had further fueled the movement and intensified people’s anger. Many were demanding that his killer be found, and conspiracy theories were voiced. Many sensed that Jay was the actual target of the Holmes hit, and they wanted to know who’d ordered his death.
Frankie read to her: “One columnist writes in here, ‘A senator and his family were murdered to gain control of the house, why not Jay Chevalier?’” The primary media ignored all the real stories, yet the discrepancy in reporting was becoming embarrassingly noticeable. “This Jay Chevalier guy,” Frankie said, “is becoming a people’s hero, same as that Cuban guy, Che Guevara.”
On Christmas morning Mary was as excited as a child. She’d bought something special for Jay. It was quite a find, and she believed Jay would be thrilled, though how could anyone ever tell with him? Mary got up early and took a leisurely bath. She dressed with care, the smell of coffee and bacon from the kitchen mingling with her bath oil and lotions. Having Frankie Demanno around was like having a gentleman’s gentleman. And it was all free, courtesy of Mr. Anthony Brignolia. But is anything ever really free? she wondered. Anthony Brignolia must want something. As she combed out the tangles in her wet hair, she glanced at one of the Christmas cards leaning against the bureau’s mirror: a Santa Claus on a reindeer roping a steer. It seemed ages ago that she’d ridden in Garland’s pickup truck, and she wondered if he was maintaining his indomitable spirit. There was also a recent letter from Kelly Harris; she reread a few sentences.
With all these LiveCell phones not many people are writing letters anymore. Strange to think of myself as old-fashioned. I have to admit something about those phones: I find them almost too intimate, too intense. I look forward to seeing you for Christmas—
She thought about Kelly for a minute and was startled that her perception of him had changed. She still loved him dearly and missed him, yet he was no longer quite the hero, or mentor, that he’d once been. It was because he had never accomplished anything, she realized, he hadn’t used his abilities—he had hidden from them. But she was sure he’d done the best he could. And he’d always had plenty of heart; that was why she loved him.
Had she changed that much in a year and a half? Something passed through her, an energy that shot up her spine, and it forced her to sit on the bed. Then, in a moment of pure calm, she could feel the entire planet surrounding her with all its complexity and all its contrast, all its desire and all its need, all its anger and all its love. As if she could almost touch everyone she cared about, and she felt Sammy somehow with her as well. Was this what Jay meant by the continuum?
After a while she breathed deeply, stood, checked herself in the mirror one more time, and went to wish Frankie Demanno a Merry Christmas.
A few minutes after they finished breakfast, a courier knocked on the door with a long cylindrical burlap-wrapped package addressed to Mary MacKensie. Frankie carried it inside for her. “Fresh cut,” he said. It was a balsam fir tree. From his bedroom he hauled a bright-green metal tree stand, Christmas tree candles, and shiny tin holders that clipped onto the branches and pivoted to allow the candles to point vertically.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. They set up the tree in the corner of the living room facing the ocean. He brought out multicolored lights and an overly generous assortment of ornaments.
“I made a few phone calls,” he said. “They shipped everything. I hid the boxes under my bed. I thought that tree guy was never gonna get here. ‘Course he’d be dead if he didn’t.” He winked at her, but she wasn’t absolutely certain he was kidding.
Around noon, Frankie, wearing an apron with an embroidered elf over his big chest, started preparing crostini in olive oil to be served with fresh ricotta, anchovy slivers, and a cannellini puree with herbs. When the guests arrived, these would be flanked by a slab of Parmesan and shaved Percino, crisply fried whole baby artichokes, clams casino, and grilled marinated plump Mediterranean sardines. A chestnut and mushroom stuffed goose to honor Mary’s New England roots was ready for the oven. Yesterday he’d prepared a spicy tomato sauce for the spaghetti; today he’d add chopped lobster claws.
Soon it was early afternoon, the kitchen exhaling a variety of wonderful vapors. They opened a bottle of champagne, toasting the day, sitting out on the deck in the Adirondack chairs facing the sun. Frankie, though he enjoyed his red wine while cooking, wasn’t really much of a drinker. Their first night had been an exception, and with a tiny smile she realized even he might get nervous on occasion. There is something in life to frighten everyone.
Nick Brignolia was the first to arrive, dressed in a black suit, starched white shirt, and cardinal-red tie with a modest diamond tiepin. He carried an enormous bouquet of roses. While Mary went into the kitchen to arrange them in a vase, Frankie offered Nick a glass of wine. The old man shook his head: “Later, later I will have one. I talk to Anthony this morning. My brother wish everyone a Merry Christmas.”—calling this to Mary as she walked out of the kitchen. “Frankie, he thinks he make a crazy mistake to send his best guy out here. He miss your cooking.”
“He may miss it a long time. I like it out here.” He glanced at Mary, or where she’d been a moment ago setting the flowers on the table. She was fiddling with something on the tree. His eyes followed her, as if he were hoping for a reaction.
“He might be coming to visit,” Nick said to him.
“When?”—a flicker of concern.
“In a few weeks.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, maybe for your cooking.”
“Maybe to see you?”
“Maybe.”
Deirdre and Jimmy Hakken arrived together in her station wagon. Hakken was his usual black-clad tattooed self with the addition of a pendulous candy-cane-striped stocking hat and a cloth bag full of presents. He made a very ominous Santa. Deirdre wore a new pants suit and a fresh stylish hairdo. After Mary hugged her, she looked her up and down still holding her hands.
“Deirdre,” she said, “you look fantastic. What a beautiful suit.”
“I just bought it,” she said, blushing.
“What a great color on you.”
“I hoped you might like it; I mean, the suit. They called the color like antique plum or something. Silly name.”
“Fantastic color though.”
Mary introduced everyone, and Frankie greeted the new guests with a wide smile. Deirdre shrieked on seeing the table of food, and he explained his appetizers to her. Jimmy Hakken was mute as usual, first setting his big bag near the tree, then observing Frankie carefully, probably having heard something about him, maybe noting how relaxed and easygoing he seemed. Regardless, Hakken remained withdrawn and serious. Mary offered champagne, which everyone but Hakken accepted. He had a beer. Always the outsider, she thought.
“That tree is so beautiful,” said Deirdre. “And all the red candles look really nice. Oh, my, God, they’re real.”
“We’re going to light them,” said Mary.
“No way!”
“Frankie had the tree cut in the wild. That way it has the right spaces between the branches for candles. With pruned Christmas trees the branches are too close together, and you never know when they’ve been cut.”
“That is way cool. I didn’t know anyone still did it. I mean, have real burning candles.” A pause. “Is Jay coming?”
“He said he was. He’s a bit late, isn’t he? I’ll livecell him.” She set down her glass. “Jay? . . . okay, good. We were just making sure.” She turned to Deirdre. “He’s on his way. I don’t think he’s so big on Christmas.” She glanced at the three men talking around the dining room table: Frankie telling a funny story, Nick carefully sipping his champagne, Hakken listening with rapt attention, the strange stocking hat such a contrast to his demeanor.
Deirdre leaned closer to Mary, lowered her voice. “We’re always going to worry about Jay now, aren’t we?”
“At least he decided to go back to work. I was terrified he wouldn’t reopen LiveCell. The idea of being beaten by those bastards irked me to no end, but I knew Jay had to work through it in his own way. Remember Detective Artega?”
“Sure. Tall, lanky, dark. From the shooting at the factory. The only cop that seemed to believe Jay.”
“In the last few days he’s made some headway on Sammy’s death. Michael Pegonis has—”
“Who?”
“From that night, the ex-security guy who shot Jay in the arm.”
“That big asshole.”
“He worked for Alden Stone Associates. He’s contacted Artega and says he has information on the shooting. He wants immunity and protection from Artega, and two million from Jay. Jay doesn’t trust the whole thing. Artega wants him to go along, see where it leads.”
“Are you and Jay doing better?”
“Because he’s telling me these things?”
“Not just that.”
Mary examined her. Deirdre wanted to know if she was going to attempt the phone infusion. Had Jay been talking to her about it? Asked her to say something? She couldn’t open herself to him like that again, it was too destructive. Or what if she fought against the infusion as Deirdre had? What if Jay’s heart stopped?
“I don’t think I can,” she said.
“It’s like, real important that you try.”
Mary only nodded, then glanced over at the men.
“Frankie’s awful cute, isn’t he?” said Deirdre.
Mary suddenly felt that maybe Deirdre was getting too damn intuitive.
“Aw-oh, I’m making you blush again,” she said.
“It’s not that way with Frankie and me.”
“Hey,” said Frankie from across the room, his ears burning. “What’s the huddle about? Come on and join us.”
“He’s right,” said Mary. “It’s Christmas.” Besides, she wanted off the subject.
Jay finally arrived, Cutlass sounding terminal. It had developed an ominous rapping, a noise that secretly pleased Mary. She’d heard him coming—who couldn’t?—and stood now in the open doorway as he parked. Everyone had kept the space free in front of her two-car garage as she’d requested, and Jay followed suit. He jumped out and walked toward her, dressed the same as on the first day she saw him.
“Merry Christmas,” he called. “Sorry I’m late. Car isn’t running so well.”
They embraced. His body just seemed to fit hers. He was warm too, even in only the T-shirt. Why hadn’t he dressed up? Was it from being preoccupied, or from being a bit of a Scrooge? But being an orphan, what kind of good feelings could he have about Christmas? Of course, he never dressed up except in Deirdre’s jacket anyway, which, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen in weeks.
When they entered the house, everyone got up to greet Jay, even Nick. Deirdre threw her arms around him, and Mary again felt jealous; they seemed so close, their relationship uncomplicated. Frankie and Jay had met briefly at the office, but they shook hands now with no readable expression. Mary wondered how they felt about each other. Frankie treated Jay as if he were a celebrity. Maybe he was? Would she ever stop feeling this way around him? She tried to put him out of her mind and concentrated on her hostess duties, taking beverage orders, pouring champagne, passing out plates and napkins. Jay decided to join Jimmy Hakken and drink beer. He would.
After about an hour Mary couldn’t contain her excitement, couldn’t wait any longer. She also wanted to do it while there was still plenty of light outside. She double winked Frankie—their signal. He excused himself, and she kept Jay occupied. She’d made sure the CD player was loaded and that the volume was up enough. She gave Frankie five or six minutes and glanced outside. She told Jay she needed to show him something in the dooryard. He followed her.
Resting in front of her garage was an arctic blue 1965 Chevrolet station wagon with an enormous red ribbon and bow around it. “Merry Christmas, Jay,” she said.
He walked up to the car, caressed a fender for a few moments, turned back to her, put his arms around her, kissed her cheek. “It is beautiful,” he said, releasing her.
“I know the paint isn’t perfect,” she said, ignoring the placement of his kiss. “Especially on the roof. And it has the one dent, but it is all original, even the paint. You can see cracks in the lacquer. I thought you would prefer it that way. It runs like a top.”
“It’s perfect,” he said. “The best.”
By then the others had come out of the house and gathered around. “Oh my God, it’s an Impala,” said Deirdre. “And not a lowrider. Like how did that happen?”
They told Jay to get in, to try it on, see how it fit. Behind the wheel he actually looked like a tough celebrity as he smiled out the rolled down window at them. The car really did fit him.
“Let’s all go for a ride,” said Mary, and they climbed onto the blue Naugahyde bench seats. Jay fired up the rumbling engine and backed up the wagon, Mary beside him, Frankie riding shotgun, the other three behind. His old Cutlass wasn’t a small car, but he acted as though he were backing up an ocean liner.
They drove slowly, coasted through the Christmas day, the road all but empty, hazy afternoon sun in the yellow grass as they paralleled the shoreline. Nick told them how his first car in Boston had been just like this one: “A sixty-nine Buick sedan, maroon color with the black seats.” Frankie looked over his shoulder and said, “Same car exactly, Nick,” and everyone laughed. For the first time since Sammy’d been shot, Mary felt some life come back into Jay.
As the sun began to color the sky over the Pacific, Frankie said he hated to end the family outing, but he had to get the goose out of the oven. Jay carefully turned the big boat, and with the water on their right now, motored back.
It was still light when they returned but it was whispering. After mooring the Impala, Jay walked over and popped the trunk of the Cutlass, removed five packages. Jimmy Hakken, still in his incongruous hat, helped him carry them into the house. Frankie had shot into the kitchen and was a whirl of activity. He explained he didn’t need help, just quiet to concentrate. Everyone else settled in the dining and living room as a hot appetizer of fragrant steamed mussels strayed from the stove accompanied by loaves of crusty Italian bread. Though another bottle of champagne was opened, Jay and Hakken stayed stubbornly with beer. Nick sipped his one glass of red wine, commenting twice about how good it was. Mary had vodka for Deirdre, but after one on ice, she joined the champagne drinkers. Mary played Perry Como and Frank Sinatra for Nick, and Nat King Cole sang “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.” As dusk gently dimmed the room, they turned on the tree lights.
Mary and Jay set the table, and soon everyone except Frankie was seated—Jimmy Hakken finally removed his hat, exposing his freshly shaved head—and a procession of food began to arrive from the kitchen. First there was a chilled seafood salad with fresh squid, sea scallops, and shrimp, the pale creatures glistening in herbed olive oil, capers and hot peppers, each glass bowl containing a tentacled squid head like a small violet crown. This was followed by his spaghetti with signature red sauce laden with lobster bits. Accompanying the goose, steamed broccoli rabe, and mashed potatoes latticed by fried sage leaves. A salad of radicchio, arugula, and frisee, a turbulent coil of reds and greens finished the main course.
“Everyone get enough to eat?” he said.
“Frankie, best meal I have since I leave Boston,” said Nick, setting his napkin firmly beside his plate.
Mary raised her glass. “I’d like to propose a toast. To Frankie, who not only supplied us with one of the finest meals I have ever eaten, and provided the beautiful tree, but also, with his humor and his calm, helped at a very difficult time.”
He looked down as they drank to him, then his eyes came up, searching hers.
“That was like, unbelievable. Everything was so good. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so much. I mean, my God, who has?”
“Is everyone ready for coffee and dessert?” said Mary. “Frankie baked some cookies from my mother’s recipes.”
“Nick, I picked up a pannetone for you. Traditional recipe. And I got a bottle of anisette, of course.”
“I think I call Anthony, tell him you staying here now with us.”
Jay said, “Mary, and Frankie. It was a lovely idea to have this meal, and to invite all of us to share it. This is the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had. You’ve all been very considerate not talking about Sammy’s death. If I may, I would ask that we drink to our friend’s memory and to his family. I talked with Jolene earlier today, and she asked us to drink to Sammy’s memory tonight.” He looked above their faces. He held out his glass, and they waited. “Sammy . . .” If he had more to add, he couldn’t manage it. They all drank.
Jimmy Hakken, standing on a chair, lit the top half of the tree candles. Frankie, after giving Mary another gift, a CD with A Child’s Christmas in Wales on it, lit the rest. They sat on chairs and sofas, each person with a full beverage, all other lights turned off. “ . . . and out of all sound except the distant speaking of voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, . . . All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky . . .” Each of the three-dozen candles with a starred halo, the tinsel icicles wavering restlessly in the rising heat of the flames, the ornaments reflecting, the warmed balsam sap beginning to scent the air. “ . . . I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”
“I’ve never seen anything so totally beautiful,” said Deirdre, after they’d blown out the candles and put the room lights back on. “I mean, it was just so amazing.”
It was time to open the rest of the presents. Mary gave Frankie a pair of handmade Italian loafers in oxblood-colored leather, Deirdre a visit to a fancy spa, Nick season tickets to the opera. Mary and Deirdre gave Jimmy Hakken an exact plaster copy of a winged gargoyle cast from Notre Dame cathedral for his office.
“I wondered what that blanket-wrapped thing was in the wagon,” he said.
Nick gave everyone a very delicate hand-blown glass ornament imported from Italy. Deirdre gave Mary hand-embroidered silk pajamas with a matching robe, and Jay a new sports jacket.
“What happened to your other one?” said Mary.
“It got lost,” he said.
Jimmy Hakken presented each of them with a wrapped box, each box a different size and in a different wrapping paper. But inside, each person found the identical chunky silver pendant, cast from the same obviously hand-carved mold, attached to a leather lanyard. Everyone was a bit dumbfounded. At the silence, Hakken said, “Luke Delamar’s buddy, he does metal, he made ‘em up for me. I told him to go all out, no skimping, real actual silver.” He looked around at their faces. “It’s the eye inside the hand . . . I got one too. We all got one.” Still no one spoke, they just kept staring at their pendants.
Finally Frankie said, “Keeps off the evil eye?”
“Right,” said Hakken, brightening. “Right, they’re real good luck.”
Jay gave each of them a framed drawing by a Maine artist. All five drawings were of falling lit matches, the burning matches and flames realistic against backgrounds more sketchy, dark and brooding as if with an ominous hint of storm, the paper itself scratched. Mary said the drawings reminded her of the painting in Jay’s office. Jimmy Hakken kept examining his drawing, nodding his head as if the image made special sense to him.
Nick excused himself around ten, kissing Mary carefully on each cheek before he left. It was the first time he’d shown such affection. When it was near midnight, the others decided it was time. Mary saw them off as Frankie began to clean up. Soon Deirdre’s station wagon roared down the road, Hakken at the wheel. “I only had beer,” he’d said as if beer didn’t count as drinking. Jay abandoned the Cutlass, told Mary he’d have it towed tomorrow, and the Impala’s round taillights slowly disappeared down her road. She stood looking into the darkness long after he was gone. Then she turned abruptly and went back into the house.
After Frankie finished cleaning the kitchen—he insisted she didn’t help—they sat together and drank a last glass of champagne.
“I think it went really well,” she said, feeling a tiredness beginning to tug after the long day. “First time I’ve seen Jay come out of his shell since the shooting. I was glad he brought up Sammy. Maybe he’s beginning to heal. Maybe we all are.”
“He’s a very tough guy. You see that right away.”
“You haven’t seen him at his best.”
“Don’t need to. I can tell. I also see the loyalty he generates.”
She looked at the tree, the stubs of the burnt-down candles, the multicolored lights still on. “Your food was beyond belief, and the tree, and everything,” she said.
“Mary?”
She heard something in his voice.
“I have here one last little present for you.” He took something out of his pocket. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I wanted to get this for you.” He slid it toward her. “Merry Christmas.”
A flat box wrapped in blue paper with a white ribbon.
“Please,” he said.
She slowly unwrapped it. Found a felt-covered box of the same shade of blue. Inside were two large pearl earrings. She didn’t speak right away.
“Frankie, these are very beautiful, but I don’t know if I can accept them.”
“I don’t have no family. I got no one to spend money on. It would mean a lot to me if you’d accept them as a token of my friendship.”
She stared at him, and he glanced away.
“Don’t decide right now, okay? Just give it a few days. What’s it gonna hurt—a few days. Please?”
She continued to look at him, and finally, unable to make up her mind, she said she would give it a few days.