’Twas a few nights before the night before Christmas.
That was our compromise, although I’m fairly certain Tracy would’ve held his ground were it not for the fact that I’d already bought the tree. The poor thing stood there naked in its stand for days. Actually, I take that back. About Tracy, not the tree. Since we were turning our tree-decorating tradition into a party to celebrate not only the survival of Harlem Legal House but its newly planned expansion, Tracy understood that we needed to accommodate the holiday travel plans of the guests on our list.
And what a list it was. In addition to many Harlem Legal House attorneys, we had CIA operatives (past and present), a couple of federal agents, and one high-priced female escort. Oh, and in lieu of two turtle doves, there was a new couple deciding to go public.
“I knew you were sweet on him,” I whispered while taking her coat.
“Shut up,” Elizabeth whispered back, softly enough so her date wouldn’t hear her. She smiled. She couldn’t help it. I’d never seen her look so happy. Come to think of it, I can’t remember my being so happy for someone after I opened the door and saw her and Danny Sullivan arriving together.
“Here, this is for Annabelle,” said Danny, handing me a gift-wrapped box.
“That’s so nice, thank you,” I said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Elizabeth leaned in. “Wait until he tells you what he got her. You’ll wish he hadn’t.”
I shook the box, but that was just for show. All I had to do was think back to the night I first met Danny at the Sky Rink at Chelsea Piers. “What’s wrong with ice skates?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he said, giving Elizabeth a nudge. “She acts like I got her a Barbie meth lab, or something.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and laughed, and I immediately knew. These two were meant for each other.
Speaking of couples, “Wait. Who’s that with your dad?” asked Elizabeth, looking over my shoulder. “Is that who I think it is?”
It was. Josiah Maxwell Reinhart had driven down from New Hampshire with his houseguest, Ingrid, whose days as “Jade” working for Vladimir Grigoryev were officially over. I’d love to report that my father miraculously talked her into a new line of work, but that’s a Disney movie that’s probably not going to get made. He did, however, take her hunting and teach her how to make his infamous squirrel stew, which, thankfully, doesn’t actually contain squirrel. The name derives from his making huge batches at a time and storing it, like nuts, for the winter.
“That’s right, you never met Jade,” I said, following Elizabeth’s eyeline to the strange juxtaposition of my father standing with a very tall and very beautiful Russian woman in her mid-twenties, as they chatted with Julian. “You only met Betty.”
For the record, Paulina—Carter’s Betty, his standing Tuesday date—was also no longer working for Grigoryev. Her unconditional “release,” along with Ingrid’s, was granted without much fuss by Grigoryev once he was made aware of the connection between my entanglement with him and the demise of Frank Brunetti. The criminal underworld is a zero-sum game, and the loss of an Italian mob boss with a firm grip on the five boroughs meant a significant gain in power for the Russian pakhan. Letting two of his girls go their own way was the least he could do for me, as was returning Vincent Franchella safely home to his family in New Jersey. I hoped Franchella’s days of hookers and hotel rooms were over.
“Come, try the eggnog,” I said. “I made it myself. It’s absolutely horrible.”
Elizabeth and Danny joined the party, and soon all of us began decorating the tree. Everyone took a turn hanging an ornament on a branch. I watched, enjoying every moment of it, while ever mindful of the irony. Suffice it to say, the man responsible for bringing us all together didn’t exactly score an invite. Not that Mathias von Oehson would’ve ever been angling for one. If he never laid eyes on me again for as long as he lived it would still be too soon for him. I would imagine that Julian, who was very much enjoying his new Italian toy, felt the same about von Oehson. There’s nothing quite like a Ferrari to turn a near hermit into a man about town. Once he got the new windshield installed, Julian was taking that baby out for a spin on a daily basis. I should know—I joined him a few times to get another turn behind the wheel.
“Okay, Annabelle. Are you ready, sweetheart?” asked Tracy, handing her the last ornament.
We hoisted up our little girl as she raised the star she’d made from a paper plate (with a scissors assist from Tracy), decorated with silver glitter (with a glue assist from me). As for the Cheerios that somehow managed to get mixed in with the glitter, that was all Annabelle.
“Higher, Daddy D! Higher, Daddy T!”
As Tracy and I lifted her higher, I couldn’t help but think in that moment of how lucky we were. How lucky I was. The void in my younger years, created when my mother died, had been filled with family, friends, and purpose. I knew what it felt like to love and be loved. Best of all, the future was literally in my hands. Her name was Annabelle, and she was the greatest gift of all.
Smiling and giggling, our little girl placed her star on top of the tree. It was sideways. It was off-center.
It was perfect.