It was past noon when Margo finally awakened from the best sleep she’d had since Jack disappeared. She padded into the kitchen and dropped a pod into the coffee machine. It seemed somehow unfair to Margo that some things, like making perfect espresso, were so easy; while other things, like life, were so hard.
She heard a noise coming from the other end of the big apartment, from her childhood bedroom. She wasn’t frightened in the least. She reached the doorway just as Billy emerged from the armoire that had connected the two apartments since they were kids. He was carrying a pile of perfectly wrapped Christmas presents and five or six thick cream-coloured envelopes.
‘Father Christmas I presume,’ Margo said. ‘Want coffee?’
‘I’m already thinking about lunch,’ Billy said. ‘And I feel I must tell you I’m worried you are becoming a sloth. It is after twelve, you know.’
‘I assume you’ve been in and out all morning making sure I’m alive.’ She pointed to the armoire. ‘Close those doors, would you? Mrs Watson comes to clean today.’
Billy carefully closed the doors. ‘I liked watching you sleep,’ he said, following her to the library. ‘You looked twelve.’
Margo sipped her coffee and eyed the presents. ‘I hope those aren’t for me, Billy. I told you I’m not doing Christmas this year.’
‘And a Jolly Holly to you too, Madame Scrooge. No, as it happens, they are not for you.’ Billy put the packages between them on the big window seat overlooking the lake. Despite rooms full of luxurious furnishings, Billy and Margo still gravitated to the places they had chosen decades before as children.
‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ Billy said. ‘I’m making dinner for us tonight at my place.’
‘Billy …’
‘You may be as grumpy as you like. I, on the other hand, will be my usual ebullient self. The food, as always, will be superb. We are not missing Christmas just because some jerk you married turned out to be a mass murderer. Priorities, my dear.’
‘I love you,’ she said, laughing in spite of herself.
‘And I love you back. But enough passion for one day. Did you get gifts for your staff at the office?’ Billy asked. ‘For Mrs Watson? Did you fill tip envelopes for the building staff?’
‘Oh God …’
‘I thought not.’ Billy pushed the pile of gifts toward her. ‘These are tagged and ready to go, selected with care by my personal shopper at Neiman Marcus.’
‘Oh, Billy …’
‘St Billy, if you please. The envelopes are self-explanatory,’ he said. ‘Just remember to pass them out as you leave the building today. Otherwise you may not have electricity in your apartment when you return tonight.’
‘Thanks, Billy.’ Margo was moved to tears by his thoughtfulness.
‘De nada,’ he said. ‘Ten o’clock sharp at my place. Dress up.’
And he was gone.
Margo sat for a few minutes, idly watching the traffic below on Lake Shore Drive. Somehow the icy lake didn’t seem so ominous in the bright light of day.
It had begun to snow this morning and the cars on the drive hadn’t yet had a chance to turn it to slush. Hi baby, she thought, tenderly stroking her belly. It’s your first Christmas Eve and it’s snowing. I consider that a very good sign. It means there’s still a bit of magic in the world.