As he followed Andrew out the door, he threw Karen a look that made her insides react in strange, exciting ways. A look of frustration and promise.
By the time they came back with the ladder, she had her meager supply of decorations spread out on the couch, the ones she and Bob had bought for their tiny coffee table tree their first Christmas together, the year Andrew was born. A box of unbreakable red balls, some white plastic snowflakes, a few feet of silver tinsel garland, a single string of lights, and a crumpled gold foil star. She touched the star, remembering how dismayed they'd been when Bob had stepped on it accidentally while backing up to admire the tree, and how they'd comforted each other, and finally laughed about it and decided to keep it anyway, to always remember that first Christmas…
"It's not much for such a big tree, is it?" she said, clearing her throat as Tony came up behind her. "One string of lights isn't going to go very far."
"It's a start." He had that particular gruffness in his voice that meant he was going to say or do something nice. "And… I've probably got a couple of strings lying around my place we can add to it. Um-" he coughed and shifted uncomfortably "-if you want me to, I can bring 'em tomorrow."
"That would be-" she paused, then, with a soft, inward smile, substituted for that forbidden word, nice "-great! But are you sure you don't need them?"
"Nah, I don't need 'em. I hadn't planned to put up a tree this year, actually. Too much trouble. I'm going to my folks for Christmas, anyway."
"Oh," Karen said. "I see. Well, then… "
"I always go to my parents' place Christmas Day," Tony said. "For dinner, and… you know. Traditional family get-together."
"That's… nice."
"Yeah."
They stood side by side in silence, watching Andrew maneuver the ladder into place astride the train track. Then Karen said, "What about Christmas Eve?"
"Christmas Eve?" Tony coughed and rubbed his nose. "I hadn't actually made any plans."
"Well," Karen said, and took a deep breath, "would you like to come over here? It will just be Andrew and me. Nothing special, but… we'd like to have you, if you don't have anything else planned. I know Andrew-"
"Okay," Tony said, "I'll come." He sort of squinted up at the top of the tree, then looked down at her. "If… you come with me to my folks' house on Christmas Day."
"Come… with you?" Warmth and wonder flooded her. She turned to him slowly. "Are you sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure."
"They won't… your family won't mind?"
She was a little puzzled when Tony burst out laughing. "You have no idea," he said, still chuckling, "how happy they're going to be to meet you!"
The early winter night was upon them by the time they'd finished hanging the decorations-including Andrew's polyhedron-on the tree. The single string of lights winked bravely from the topmost branches and was multiplied by its reflection in the dark window. Outside, the snow fell silently, drifting on the windowsills like painted-on holiday trimmings.
While Andrew and Tony returned the ladder to its proper place, Karen opened two cans of soup- chicken noodle for herself and Andrew, and mine-strone for Tony. They ate in the kitchen. While the snowflakes sifted past the windows, Tony told Andrew stories of boyhood adventures and mishaps in the snow.
Watching them, listening to the sounds of their voices, laughing with them, Karen felt warm and contented and happy. Happier than she'd thought she could ever be again. So happy it scared her. Because she knew how fragile such happiness was, and how suddenly it could all be taken away. The fear blew through her like a blizzard wind, shaking her so that she had to get up and leave the table, for fear they would see it and ask her what was wrong.
How could she explain such fear? How could she tell anyone that, standing at the sink looking out at the swirling snow, she felt the same cold inside herself, even though the room behind her was filled with the warmth of laughter and much-loved voices? I'm afraid of happiness, she thought, her heart trembling with both those emotions. I'm afraid of loving again. I'm falling in love with Tony, but- Oh God, how would I stand it if I ever lost him? How could I survive that again?
Watching her, Tony felt the struggle in her as surely as he'd felt it that morning in his office when he'd held her unwilling hands closed around the keys to his car. He could see it in her rigid shoulders, in the white-knuckled hand on the edge of the sink. It was a battle of wills, only this time she was fighting herself, and he wasn't sure which side was winning.
Damn it, he thought, frustration lancing through him, why is she fighting it? Something this good-and it was good, he was sure of it-why didn't she just let it happen? It took all of his willpower to keep from throwing himself into the middle of her battle, to keep from going to her right then and there, putting his arms around her and telling her it would all work out fine if only she'd just stop fighting it.
The evening seemed long to Karen, full of tensions and undercurrents to which Andrew, happily, seemed totally oblivious. He worked diligently on the train, painting with his usual deliberation and painstaking care, while Tony reduced the switchbox to an indistinguishable litter of parts and pieces. It didn't look to Karen like anything that could possibly be in working order by Christmas, but Andrew seemed to have no doubts. He chattered away to Tony about how "cool" it was going to be to have the train chugging around the tree on Christmas morning, and how neat it would be to build tunnels and a village for it to run through. Karen just hoped he wasn't setting himself up for a big disappointment.
She spent the evening sitting cross-legged on the carpet, dipping sycamore balls in acrylic paint and spreading them out on waxed paper to dry. And nervously watching the clock. She didn't know whether she was looking forward to being alone with Tony or dreading it, but the closer it got to eight-thirty, the more butterflies there were rampaging around in her stomach.
In any case, inevitably, eight-thirty did arrive, and once again Karen was surprised to receive no arguments from Andrew in response to the gentle reminder that it was his bedtime. He seemed, in fact, to have anticipated the moment, because the paint he'd been using was already put away, and when Tony sternly asked him if he'd cleaned his brush, he held it up and said proudly, "Yep-see?"
That alone woke Karen's suspicions. They grew by leaps and bounds when her son took off his glasses, gave a huge, stagey yawn and, blinking like a sleepy owl, announced, "I'm pretty tired. Guess I'll turn in… 'Night, Tony. 'Night, Mom."
Turn in? He'd never said that before in his life.
In the doorway, Andrew half turned. "You don't have to tuck me in," he said earnestly. "Just go right on with what you're doing."
That was Andrew, subtle as a truck! Karen was so bemused she even forgot to tell him to brush his teeth.
"What's funny?" Tony asked. She was trying her best to stifle her laughter by burying her face in her hands.
"Oh… nothing." But she made the mistake of looking at him, and just like that the laughter died. Her heart began to hammer painfully; she made a tiny, throat-clearing sound and looked away again. "Well," she said, nodding at the dismantled switchbox and the array of tools spread out on the coffee table, "how's it coming? Do you think you can get it to work?"
"Hey," Tony growled, ignoring her question, "come on up here." Shifting a little to make room, he leaned over, caught her hand and pulled her up beside him. "Forget the damn train. I think you and I have some unfinished business…"
Chapter Six
" 'Unfinished business… '" Karen whispered, looking toward the doorway to the hall. She could still hear the sounds of water running, and the indeterminate bumps and thumps Andrew made getting ready for bed.
"Does it bother you?" Tony asked softly, following her glance. He didn't have to say any more.