She took a glance around the room.  It seemed so bare.  Even with the piles of boxes and the furniture she was taking with her crammed into the sunlit front room of the brownstone, awaiting the movers, it seemed empty.

 

She didn’t regret going to live with her granddaughter and her family, but she was very sorry to be leaving this house, the only home she had known for almost fifty years.

 

Her children had grown up here.  One of them was married here.  She had watched the Brooklyn neighborhood mature and decline and revitalize.  She had watched the neighborhood children through that front bay window.  They had played stickball in the street, run through open fire hydrants, sped by on scooters, Big Wheels, 10-speed bikes, skateboards.  The popular pastimes had changed but, somehow, the children never did.

 

“Grandmom?  I found these boxes of photos in the attic.  Are they yours?”

 

“Photographs?”  She turned, her gray eyes alert with interest, and pulled the lid off the topmost shoebox in her granddaughter’s arms to peer inside.

 

A miniature mountain of photos, both black and white and color, filled the box to the brim.  She fingered through them uncertainly, picking up one now and then to flip it over, seeking, but not finding, handwritten information about the subjects.

“They must be ours,” she determined.  “Nobody but us ever lived here.”

 

The tone in the reply was gentle.  “Grandmom, you and Pop-Pop weren’t the first ones to live here.  The brownstone is over a hundred years old.”

 

She frowned, momentarily flustered.  She remembered moving here, laying floors, sanding, painting, hanging wallpaper, polishing brass doorknobs until they sparkled.  She frowned more deeply and forced her Swiss cheese memories to bend to her will.

 

“Of course, dear,” she replied, her lips curving upward as cognizance returned.  “I only meant that this house was awfully run down when your grandfather and I moved in.  We renovated the entire place from top to bottom.  It took us years.”

 

“Yes, I remember what Mom said.  ‘Sawdust in my shoes!  Sawdust in my sandals!  Sawdust in my boots!’”  She laughed and lifted the boxes slightly in indication.  “So these are ours?  Should they go into storage or do you want to bring them with you?”

 

The elderly woman scooped through the box again.  She didn’t recognize any of the faces.  Her hand trembled slightly as the fear of dementia whisked past, taunting her with its plans for her.

 

A picture of a dark-eyed little boy she didn’t recognize fell to the floor.  As she stooped to pick it up, keeping one gnarled hand firmly on the stair railing, she noticed that the floors weren’t polished and gleaming like they used to be.  Years of children and pets running through, tracking in mud and snow, had dulled the shine she and Alfred had put on it so long ago.

 

Alfred.  He had been gone almost nine years now but it seemed like a lifetime since she had last seen his smile.  She had been so sure her broken heart would cease to beat without him, but here she still was.

 

She straightened, staring at the little boy who smiled angelically back at her, his unruly mop of dark hair falling over his face.  He wasn’t one of her sons.  They both had sandy brown hair.  The blue tricycle was theirs though.  Maybe.  Alfred would remember.  He had painted that secondhand trike for their boys.  And he always remembered all the neighborhood children by name.  He would remember who this little boy was.

 

A determined glint appeared in her eyes as she grasped the photo firmly in her hands.  “Yes, we’re taking them with me.  You never know, they just might be important someday.”

 

December 17, 2002

 

“Honey, I’ll just die if you don’t help me!”

 

Most people, upon hearing such words of anguish from a woman in her eighth month of pregnancy would leap to the woman’s aid, call for a doctor, or possibly start boiling water.  But Madeleine Wheeler Belden, known as Honey everywhere but here at Wheeler International, simply continued her work on the computer in front of her and took a quick moment to turn her head and smile indulgently at her sister-in-law.

 

“Come on in and sit down, Trixie.”

 

Trixie Mangan waddled her way across the modestly-sized office and sank into the guest chair with an exaggerated sigh.

 

Honey continued working, her fingers flying across the keyboard.  Trixie’s lack of patience was well known and Honey figured she had about thirty seconds.

 

It was less than twenty.

 

“Honey!  Did you hear me when I said I was going to die?  That usually implies a crisis!”

 

Honey laughed, stopping her work to tease her best friend.  “Trixie, if you haven’t died any of the 3,126 times you’ve claimed you were going to since I’ve known you, you can wait five minutes while I finish this report.  Then I can give you my undivided attention.”

 

She returned her eyes to the monitor.  Trixie was impatient; there was no doubt about that.  But she was understanding, too.  Honey figured she could give Trixie at least forty-five seconds of stoic silence this time.  To her credit, it was probably a whole minute before she spoke again.

 

“Do you have anything to drink?”

 

Honey nodded toward the mini-fridge in the corner.  “Water and juice.  Help yourself.”

 

Trixie hoisted herself from the chair and moved to the fridge.  She opened it and reached inside for a beverage.  “Ooh, can I have the yogurt?”

 

Honey paused, a small frown creasing her forehead.  She had brought the yogurt in for her afternoon snack.  But she remembered what it was like to be pregnant and starving 18 hours a day.  “Okay, but don’t throw away the lid.  I’m collecting them for Ronda.”

 

Trixie returned to the guest chair, a bottle of water in one hand and the yogurt container in the other.  “I thought Ronda wasn’t doing that?”

 

Honey paused again, her frown deepening.  “Everybody said she was.”

 

“Honey, they’re joking, giving Ronda a hard time, you know.  She’s not really collecting yogurt lids.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Pretty sure.”

 

“But I just mailed her a whole boxful of them!" Honey cried in distress.  “Brian and Matthew and I have been saving Yoplait lids for months!”

 

Trixie giggled and held out her hand.  Honey reached into a drawer in her desk, pulled out a plastic spoon and handed it to Trixie.

 

Trixie pulled the lid off the yogurt and scooped a spoonful to her mouth, sighing happily.  “This apple turnover flavor is so yummy.  The only one I like better is—“

 

“Strawberry cheesecake.  I know,” Honey interrupted with a grin.

 

Trixie slid the container across the desk toward her sister-in-law.  Honey pulled a second plastic spoon out of the drawer and took a bite.

 

“So, what’s your crisis this time, Trix?  I thought you were going to get all your Christmas shopping done early this year, before you were as big as a barge, as you like to think you are, which, of course, you aren’t.”

 

“I am done with my Christmas shopping, but I need help getting one more gift for Dan.  So I guess technically I’m not done, but I am done shopping.  This isn’t shopping.  It’s detective work.”

 

Honey paused, her empty spoon halfway back toward the yogurt.  Detective work was more fun than security work for Wheeler International.  Not that she didn’t enjoy her job, and the steady, somewhat flexible hours that allowed her to be home with her three-year-old son as much as possible, but sleuthing with Trixie brought back too many wonderful childhood memories.  She would always be willing to help her out on a case.

 

“Detective work?  For Dan?  For Christmas?”

 

“Yes.”  Trixie’s blue eyes misted over briefly.  “It was that game at the shower this weekend where we matched up the guests to their baby pictures.  The more I think about Dan not having any baby pictures, the more upset I get.  There has to be some way to track down some pictures of him as a little boy.  One picture, even.”

 

Honey’s eyes welled with sympathy.  It was true that Trixie had been a bit emotional at her baby shower and that most of the guests had put it off to pregnancy hormones.  But after everybody had left, Honey collared Dan before the Bob-White Christmas party started and told him that his wife was feeling blue.

 

She had found the Mangans in the Manor House den, sharing an intimate moment before the party.  Trixie was folded up in Dan’s arms, not crying, just looking downcast.  Dan’s dark eyes were filled with the same melancholy.  They comforted one another, kissed, and put on happy faces.  Celebrating the holidays with their family was an easy way to bring cheer back into their hearts.

 

But Trixie wasn’t one to let a case go unsolved or a wrong go unrighted.  Honey frowned.

 

“Honey?” Trixie asked.  “Are you still with me?  And if not, can I have the rest of the yogurt?”

 

Honey took a small spoonful and pushed the container back toward Trixie.  “I’m sorry.  I was just wondering if ‘unrighted’ is a word.  It doesn’t sound right to me.”

 

“Does it sound unright?” Trixie teased.

 

“You goose!”  Honey laughed.  “Listen, you and I have never failed to solve a case and we’re not going to fail to solve this one, either.  Somewhere, somehow, we’ll find photos of Dan from his childhood.”

“Before Saturday?  Dan and I are celebrating our Christmas then since he’ll be working all next week.”

 

Honey bit her lip.  Dan had come to Sleepyside eleven years ago.  His mother had been gone for thirteen years, his father for more than twenty.  The chances of finding photos were pretty slim.  The chances of finding them in less than a week weren’t even that promising.

 

If one of us is ever in need, we'll never fail him or her.  It was the motto she herself had come up with all those summers ago, when she, Jim and the Beldens had first formed the Bob-Whites of the Glen.

 

“Maybe not by Saturday, but we’ll find them.  I promise.”

 

“How?”

 

Honey worried her lip again, idly wondering what the awful Miss Lefferts would say if she saw her behaving in such an unladylike manner. 

 

Something like that should’ve been weeded out at boarding school, she thought.  Where on earth did I pick up such a habit?

 

She lifted her eyes and almost burst out laughing as she saw Trixie gnawing on her lip as well.

 

“What’s so funny?” Trixie demanded, seeing the sparkle of amusement in Honey’s eyes.

 

“You and I and how much we’re alike.  Let’s come up with a plan, okay?”

 

“You’re an angel.”  Trixie gave her a slightly sheepish smile.  “I did interrupt your work, though.”

 

“You know Daddy wouldn’t mind.”  She glanced at her computer screen and admitted, “It is important, though.  Year-end reports for our insurance providers and bonding agents.  Why don’t you come over tonight?”

 

“What’ll I tell Dan?  I don’t want him to know what we’re doing and he already thinks I’m done with my shopping.”

 

“Tell him we’re baking Christmas cookies.  I wanted to do that this week, anyway.  I’ll invite Di, too, and between the three of us, we’re bound to come up with something.  And if it takes a bit longer to solve this case, you can always give Dan a wallet for Christmas.”

 

Trixie’s jaw dropped.  “I think I can come up with a better present for my husband than a wallet.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t already have one sitting in the house somewhere as an emergency backup gift.”

 

She knew Trixie’s indignant huff was all for show as she grumbled, “Do not.  I got him a gift card.”

 

Honey burst into laughter and Trixie couldn’t help but join in.

 

“What’s so funny, you two?”

 

Honey and Trixie turned and smiled at the handsome redhead standing in the doorway.  Honey rose from her chair and went to give her adopted brother a hug.

“I didn’t know you were still in town,” she exclaimed.

 

“I had a lunch meeting with Dad and George Rainsford,” Jim explained.  “I’m on my way back to Indian Lake now but thought I’d stop and say goodbye.  How are you, Trix?”

 

“Um, fine,” Trixie mumbled through a mouthful of yogurt.

 

Jim looked steadily at her until she lowered her head, cheeks pink, to examine the yogurt container with fascination.  Honey hid a smile behind one hand.  Just because the two of them were no longer a couple didn’t mean Jim had given up being able to read her like a book.  It wasn’t just because Trixie had a lousy poker face, either.  He still knew her inside and out.

 

“What’re you two up to?” he asked.

 

Trixie gasped—a bit too dramatically, Honey thought with amusement—and jerked her head up.  “Nothing!” she proclaimed.  “Why would you think we were up to something mysterious?”

 

“Because you’re visiting Honey in the middle of a work day,” Jim replied calmly, his green eyes teasing.  “And I didn’t say anything about ‘mysterious’.  That was all you.”

 

“Well, it’s not mysterious.  I’m here because … I’m just … I’m…”  Trixie pressed her lips together tightly for a moment, then blurted, “I’m helping Honey with her last-minute Christmas shopping!”

 

Honey didn’t know how Jim managed to keep a straight face.  He cocked one ginger eyebrow skyward as he said solemnly, “I’m not sure what’s more mysterious, you volunteering to help with shopping or Honey actually having last-minute shopping.”

 

He turned to Honey who gave him a reassuring smile and said, “Would I let my pregnant best friend get involved in anything dangerous?  Yes, it’s sort of a secret, but I promise you no danger is involved.”

 

Trixie was pouting in her chair.  She muttered, “It’s nothing mysterious,” and jammed a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth.

 

Jim squeezed Honey’s arm and turned to go.  “All right, then.  I’ll see you both next week at Christmas and maybe you’ll fill me in then.” He stopped at the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. “Nothing mysterious?  Trixie Belden Mangan, there isn’t a ‘nothing mysterious’ bone in your body.”

 

Trixie crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him.

 

Jim chuckled and waved his good-bye.

 

 

Trixie shifted the reusable grocery bag to her other arm and reached for the buzzer at Brian and Honey’s Gramercy Park apartment building.  Before she could ring, however, the front door opened and out walked none other than her oldest brother.

 

“Hey, you,” Brian greeted, giving her a welcoming hug and his concerned doctor’s questioning gaze.

 

“I’m fine,” she said with only slight exasperation.  “Stop fussing.”

 

“Sorry, comes with the territory.”

 

“Big brother territory or doctor territory?” Trixie ribbed.

 

Brian smiled warmly.  “Both.  I’m glad I got to see you, however briefly it might be.”

 

“On your way to the hospital?”

 

Brian nodded his acknowledgement and took the grocery bag from Trixie’s arm.  He ushered her back through the open door and across the lobby toward the elevators.

 

“What are you girls up to tonight?” he asked, his tone casual but his expression suspicious.

 

“Baking cookies,” Trixie replied quickly as she punched the elevator call button.  “Check the bag if you don’t believe me.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure this bag has eggs, vanilla and whatever else it is you need to bake cookies—everything that I’m equally sure my wife already has in the house.”

 

Trixie put her hands on her wide hips and made a face.  “Why is everybody so concerned about what Honey and I are up to?  Isn’t Christmas the perfect time for secrets?”

 

“Yes, but whenever you’re keeping a see-crud, I usually end up reading about it in the newspaper.”

 

“Har-har,” Trixie said dryly.  She reached for the bag as the elevator doors opened.  “Go to work, Dr. Belden.”

 

She got onto the elevator and turned to face the front, where Brian was holding the door open for one last comment.  “I want my first niece or nephew to enter the world safely, when he or she is supposed to, so try to stay out of trouble, okay?  ”

 

Trixie crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him as the doors closed.  While the elevator rose to the ninth floor, she considered that she performed that childish gesture quite a lot where Jim and Brian were concerned, to a somewhat lesser extent with Mart and Dan, but never with Honey or Diana.

 

“Girlfriends just understand things better,” she reasoned aloud.

 

She got off the elevator and made her way down the hall to Honey and Brian’s apartment, where Diana greeted her with a bright, “Hi, Trix!  What’s in the bag?”

“Eggs, butter, frosting—cookie stuff.”  She handed Diana the bag and took her coat off, hanging it up in the hall closet and following Diana to the kitchen.

 

“You were right, Honey,” Di called out. “She brought an alibi in case she ran into Brian and couldn’t come up with a convincing enough fib.”

 

Trixie crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at both of them, then leaned down and gave Matthew a kiss on top of his head.  The dark-haired boy was intent on his cookie decorating and didn’t respond.  Trixie grabbed an undecorated angel cookie from the wax paper in front of him and popped it into her mouth. 

 

“Yummy!” she mumbled.

 

“Aunt Trissy, dose are for Santa!” Matthew protested.

 

“We’re sharing the cookies, remember?” his mother chided gently.  “You wouldn’t want Santa to get fat from eating all the cookies, would you?”

 

“Santa’s already fat,” Matthew reasoned.  “Aunt Trissy’s eatin’ ’em and she’s fat, too.”

 

Trixie resisted the urge to cross her eyes and stick out her tongue at a three-year-old.  Instead, she grabbed another cookie, put a generous blob of red frosting on top of it and popped it in her mouth.

 

“Djioueyesumupwifnydees?”

 

Honey and Diana both laughed gaily.  “What?” they chorused.

 

Trixie swallowed her cookie and grinned, inciting even more laughter from her friends.

 

“Your teeth are all red,” Honey gasped.

 

Trixie wiped her index finger across her front teeth and pulled it back to reveal a smear of red frosting.  Scrubbing her tongue against her teeth, she smiled sheepishly at Honey and Diana.

 

“Did you two come up with any ideas?” she asked again, in a far more intelligible voice.

 

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Diana said.  “Although, I guess they’re more questions than ideas.  I don’t know what you’ve already tried.  When Honey told me what you were trying to do, my first thought was the hospital where Dan was born.  All hospitals take baby pictures, right?”

 

Trixie sighed and sank down into a chair at the kitchen table.  “Yes, but they don’t keep them all that long.  I suppose they might now that everything’s digital, but back in the mid-70’s there was no such thing.  I already called and asked.”

 

She grabbed a tube of white frosting and a knife and proceeded to decorate a snowflake cookie.

 

“Well, that was my first idea, not my last,” Diana said.  She cut out a few more cookies from the dough rolled out on the counter and laid them on the cookie sheet next to her.  When the tray was full, she came and sat down at the table with Trixie and Matthew.

 

“How about milestone photos?  Studios do huge business taking baby pictures.  Some people do it every month in the first year, but most parents will at least do every three months, holidays, like that.”

 

“I don’t think Dan’s parents could afford studio portraits,” Trixie murmured as she poured some blue sprinkles on her snowflake cookie and spread them out evenly with the tip of her finger.  “They couldn’t even afford a camera, which is why we don’t have any baby pictures of Dan in the first place.”

 

“But if they didn’t have a camera of their own, I would think they’d take extra care to get studio photos.  Even if it was just once a year, on his birthday or at Christmas,” Diana insisted.

 

“Maybe,” Trixie mumbled.  She stared at her finished cookie for a few more seconds, then picked it up and stuffed it in her mouth.

 

Honey pulled a baking sheet of lightly browned cookies from the oven and put it on top of the stove to cool.  She put the sheet Diana had been working on in the oven for its turn and came over to the table. 

 

“Di’s right,” she said.  “We should check out some of the studios in the city.  You never know, right?”

 

Trixie raised her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and smiled weakly at her friends.  “Right.  I’m sorry I’m being such a pessimist.”

 

“What’s a pezmiss?” Matthew asked.

 

“It’s somebody who doesn’t believe anything good can ever happen,” Honey explained to her son.  “And it’s something that your Aunt Trixie never is.”

 

“You’re not a pessimist,” Diana agreed.  “You’re just hormonal.”

 

“What’s homono?” Matthew chimed in. 

 

All three women laughed.  Diana jumped up from her seat as the buzzer at the door rang and hurried down the hall to answer it.

 

“Hormonal is what happens when a woman is pregnant,” Trixie said, picking up another cookie, “and she feels like crying and eating like a pig all the time, and then crying some more because she’s so fat.”

 

“You’re not fat,” Honey scolded.  But she removed the cookies sitting in front of her best friend.

 

“It’s Dan and Aidan,” Diana announced as she returned to the kitchen.  “They’re on their way up.  I left the door ajar for them.”

 

“What’re they doing here?” Trixie gasped.

 

“I ran into Aidan this afternoon.  I told him he and Dan should stop by on their way into work and get some cookies to take to the station,” Diana said simply.

 

“When we’re here talking about…”  Trixie cast a wary glance at Matthew and lowered her voice.  “D-a-n will be able to read my face and D-a-n isn’t supposed to know about the secret plans.”

 

“D is for Uncle Dan and Auntie Di,” Matthew piped up, wiping a frosting-covered hand carelessly on his shirt.

 

“He can already spell?” Diana asked in astonishment.

“No,” Honey answered, a glow of motherly pride on her pretty face, “but he knows his letters pretty well.”

 

“B better not be for Beatrix,” Trixie grumbled.

 

“B is for Belden!” Matthew shouted.

 

“C is for…” Honey said.

 

“Crapippel Farm.”

 

Diana and Trixie both smothered laughter at that one.

 

“D is for Auntie Di and Uncle Dan.  E is for scrambled aggs.  F is for fish sticks.”

 

He hesitated and Honey prompted, “G is for…”

 

“Grandma and Grandpa and Granddaddy.  N is for Nana … O is for ohmeal.”

 

“Sometimes he mixes up the order,” Honey said.  “He associates the different words rather than the letters.”  She prompted Matthew to get back on track.  “H is for…”

“Aunt Hallie.  I is for Ineeya,” Matthew went on by himself.  “J is for Uncle Jim, and K is for Kendwa!”

 

Sounds like he knows them pretty well,” Trixie commented.

 

“Well, some letters are easier than others,” Honey admitted with a laugh.  “I is for India and K is for Kendra are coming over tomorrow morning to babysit while Aunt Trixie and I go detectiving.”

 

All of them jumped as a fist pounded on the front door and a gruff voice called out, “Police!  Narcotics!  Open up!”

 

A moment later, Aidan and Dan appeared in the kitchen doorway with grins on their faces.

 

“Thanks, Aidan,” Honey said with a teasing sparkle in her hazel eyes.  “Now all my neighbors will think I’m a drug dealer.”

 

Dan leaned over and gave Trixie a kiss.  “Mmm, cookie breath,” he murmured appreciatively.  “You know we’re here for the good stuff, Honey.  We’ll confiscate whatever you’re dealing here.”  He swiped two cookies off the counter and handed one to Aidan.  “You gotta try these.  Best Christmas cookies in the world.”

 

“What’s makes them so special?” Aidan asked, looking at the green Santa in his hand with mild suspicion.

 

“Dude, you’ve been working narcotics too long,” Dan teased. “Honey doesn’t lace them with LSD or anything.”

 

Honey laughed.  “No drugs, Detective O’Callaghan.  You have my word.  A touch of cinnamon is the secret to their deliciousness.”

 

“Not to mention the fact that they’re decorated by the boy genius here,” Dan added, tousling Matthew’s hair affectionately.  “What is this, Matty?  Picasso?”

 

“It’s a Cwissmas twee,” Matthew answered with a puzzled expression which deepened as everybody laughed at his matter-of-fact reply.

 

“Wow, these are great!” Aidan enthused, snitching another one off the counter.  “How many can we take and do we actually have to share them at the station?”

 

“You hafta share,” Matthew said.  “Or you get as fat as Santa and Aunt Trissy.”

 

“Thanks, Matty,” Trixie said dryly.  “Now Uncle Dan’s going to go into his Best Odds Diet spiel for the four hundredth time this week.  You’ll notice there are no cookies in front of me,” she added in a tart tone to Dan.

 

“How many were in front of you before you ate them?”

 

Trixie flushed.  “I didn’t come over to eat Christmas cookies.”

 

“Why are you here?  Uncle Bill said you dropped off Penny there because you’re staying the night here.”

 

The heat in her cheeks intensified as she struggled vainly to keep a composed expression.  “I’m here because … I’m … going to help Honey with her Christmas shopping tomorrow.”

Dan laughed out loud, a full-throated, joyous laugh that warmed Trixie through even as she made a face at him.

 

“Fine, don’t tell me what you’re doing,” he chuckled as he leaned down to give her another kiss.  “Just try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

 

Before she could retort, Diana handed Dan her camera and said, “Take a picture of all of us decorating cookies, please.”  

 

“Diana, your camera scares me,” Dan said, turning and thrusting the expensive piece of equipment toward Aidan.

 

“Don’t give it to me!  I’ll break it for sure.”

 

Honey said, “Use mine.  It’s right there on the counter by the phone.”

 

“Now you’re talking,” Aidan proclaimed as he picked up the small digital camera.  “This is the same kind I have.”

 

He took a couple of photos of the girls and Matthew and said, “By the way, Honey, I’ve got some cute pictures of Matthew from his birthday party I’ve been meaning to email you.”

 

“His birthday was two months ago,” Dan scoffed.

 

“So what?  It’s not like there weren’t a dozen cameras there, anyway.  I’m sure Honey and Brian aren’t exactly desperate for pictures of their son.”

 

Trixie stared curiously at Aidan, an inspiration whispering in her ear.

 

“We’d love to have them whenever you get around to it,” Honey assured him.  “I can’t get enough pictures of my baby.”

 

“I’m not a baby!  I’m three!” Matthew insisted.

 

Trixie lowered her head to hide her eager grin and bright eyes.  Dan would know something was up if he saw her face.

 

“Hey, we’ve gotta git,” Aidan said to Dan, glancing at the clock over the kitchen sink.

 

Dan kissed his wife goodbye.  Diana gave Aidan two plastic containers of cookies to take to the precinct.  Honey quickly wiped Matthew’s frosting-coated fingers with a damp cloth so that he could hug his uncle goodbye without soiling his uniform.  The momentary chaos helped mask Trixie’s excitement, but as soon as the door latched behind the two officers she burst.

 

“I know where we can find pictures of Dan!”

 

“Where?” Honey and Diana asked in unison.

 

“Aidan gave me the idea.  How many people were taking pictures at Matthew’s birthday party?  You and Brian, Moms and Dad, your parents, Jim, me and Dan, Bobby, Mart and Sally.  Gleeps, you invited practically the entire family!  I’m surprised Uncle Andrew didn’t drop by!”

 

“But, Trixie,” Di said gently, “Dan and his parents didn’t have any family except Regan, and he didn’t even know Dan existed until the year he brought him to Sleepyside.”

 

“You were taking pictures, too, and Aidan, India, Honey’s neighbors down the hall,” Trixie went on.  “Dan’s parents must have had friends in the neighborhood.  Maybe Dan had a babysitter we can track down.  Maybe we can find somebody who remembers Dan and has some pictures stashed away somewhere.”

 

There was a moment of silence while Honey and Diana rolled the idea around in their heads.

 

“I don’t know, Trixie,” Honey finally said.  “It’s a longshot.”

 

“No more so than calling every photography studio in the city and asking if they save negatives for more than twenty years,” Trixie replied stubbornly.

 

Diana grinned.  “You’re right.  Look, we’re short on time and it doesn’t make sense for all three of us to go traipsing down there.  Why don’t I take care of the studios and you two go check out Dan’s old neighborhood and see if anybody from back then still lives there?”

 

Trixie smiled at her friend.  Diana had come a long way from the insecure young girl who felt left out when she and Honey would go off sleuthing on their own and leave her behind.  She gave Diana an awkward hug, considering her girth.  “Thanks, Di.  Why don’t we all meet up for lunch and compare notes?”

 

Her pregnancy mood swings were aggravating but when she was on the trail of a mystery and on a sugar high, all was right with the world.

 

 

December 18, 2002

 

“This is where Dan and his mother lived?” Honey asked, her voice small and sad.

 

“Yeah, Dan and I drove through here once.  He says the neighborhood is actually better than it was when they lived here.”

 

“That’s almost hard to believe,” Honey said, as she carefully steered her car around as many potholes as she could avoid.  “Do you really think this is the best place to start?”

 

Trixie eyed the rundown row houses and beat-up vehicles lining the narrow street.  Even the fresh snowfall had done little to improve the dinginess and despair she saw all around her.  “It’s the most recent, anyway, and it’s the only actual address I have.  It’s that one,” she said, pointing out the window to her right.

 

Honey maneuvered the car to the curb and parked.  As Trixie stared at the house—its grayish paint, probably white at one time, flaking off the sides—and imagined Dan growing up there, she couldn’t contain a sniffle of dismay.  She dashed away the tears with the back of one hand before the flood could get out of control and turned her head to find Honey looking like she was about to cry, too.

 

“Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to be emotional and hormonal,” Trixie said.  “It’s my husband and I’m the one who’s—”  She stopped short and her eyes widened.  “Honey, are you—?”

 

“No,” Honey interrupted.  Trixie continued to stare at her in disbelief and while Honey’s poker face was far better than Trixie’s, she was also incapable of keeping a secret from her best friend, especially a happy secret.  “But we are trying again.”

 

Trixie smiled and its brilliance brought sunshine to the gloomy neighborhood.  She didn’t say anything, but her expressive face spoke of her joy for her sister-in-law and best friend.  She reached across the console and squeezed Honey’s hand.

 

“Okay, don’t make me cry,” Honey joked.  “We have work to do.”

 

They got out of the car and made their way up the short walk.  A rusty chain link fence surrounded a front yard that was small and bare.  They ascended the cracked wooden steps cautiously and Honey knocked on the front door.

 

They heard some movement inside and a small, high-pitched voice.  It was too muffled to make out any words but it sounded like a child, probably calling for the adult in the house.

 

There was a long wait before the door opened a crack and a pale, tired face peered out. 

 

“Yes?”

 

Honey gave the woman a friendly, reassuring smile.  “Hello, my name is—”

 

“I’m not interested in buying anything,” the woman interrupted.

 

“Oh, we’re not selling anything.  I promise,” Honey answered.  “I’m hoping you can help us.”

 

The woman glanced at Trixie.  “Is she okay?  We don’t have a phone, but there’s a free clinic a couple of miles up the main road.”

 

“No, no, she’s fine.  This is my sister-in-law, Trixie Mangan.  My name is Honey Belden.  We…”  She hesitated.  “May we come inside and explain?  It’s kind of involved.”

 

The woman glanced over her shoulder and then shook her head.  “My husband’s asleep upstairs.  He works the graveyard shift.  I don’t want to wake him up.”

 

“We won’t stay long and we’ll be quiet,” Trixie promised.  She shifted from foot to foot to emphasize how cold it was on the porch.

 

It was more likely Trixie’s obvious pregnancy, rather than Honey’s congenial smile, that got them in the door.  They carefully tapped the snow from their boots before they came in.  By unspoken agreement they left their coats on, to assure the nervous woman that they weren’t intending to stay.

 

“My husband used to live in this house when he was a boy,” Trixie began.  “He and his mother moved here after his father died, and several years after that his mother died, too.  He lived on the streets for a little over a year before his uncle took custody of him.  He doesn’t have any family mementoes and I’m just trying to find some pictures or something as a Christmas gift for him.”

 

She didn’t embellish or play on the woman’s heartstrings.  She could tell this was a simple woman with a sad, simple life.  Trying to make her story more heart-wrenching than the woman’s own life wouldn’t win her any points.

 

“We just moved here earlier this year,” the woman said.  She turned her attention to the little girl who was tugging on her housedress.  “Not now, Beth.”

 

The girl’s blond hair was dingy and uncombed.  Her pajama top didn’t match the bottoms and she clutched a one-eyed teddy bear in one hand.  “But, Momma, Cody’s crying.  He’s gonna wake up Daddy.”

 

“Excuse me,” the woman said, turning hastily toward the cluttered stairway.  She paused with one foot on the bottom step and, as if remembering her manners, turned and pointed to her right.  “Please sit down in the living room, if you’d like.  I’ll be right back.”

 

Honey and Trixie stepped into a small front room, made even more cramped by an excess of dilapidated furniture.  A couch that was missing a back leg leaned like a drunken sailor against the near wall, its brown faux leather cracked in multiple places.  Another couch that sagged noticeably in the middle was against the opposing wall, and two chairs were arranged in front of the dirt-smudged window.  Their sides were ripped and the stuffing was leaking out.  Laundry in various stages of cleanliness was piled on each of them.  A battered coffee table contained a menagerie of odds and ends.  It sat in the center of the room, making maneuvering to any of the less than desirable seating options tricky at best.  The little girl sat down in front of the table, picked up a stub of a crayon, and resumed her coloring.

 

“If I sit on either couch, I assure you I won’t be able to get back up again,” Trixie said in an undertone to Honey.

 

“We’ll just stand and wait,” Honey whispered back.

 

“Your name is Beth, right?” Trixie asked the little girl. 

 

The little girl nodded without looking up.

 

“Is it short for Elizabeth or Bethany?”

 

“’Lizbeth,” she mumbled in a lisp created by a missing upper tooth.  She looked up cautiously, uncertain about the two well-dressed women in her house.  “What’s your name?”

 

“Trixie.”

 

“What’s it short for?”

 

Trixie grimaced only slightly as she replied, “Beatrix.”

 

“Like Beetrix Potter?”

 

“Yes.  Do you like Peter Rabbit?  I used to read it to my little brother all the time when he was about your age.”

 

Beth nodded and ventured a tentative smile.  “I can read.  We go to the libarry sometimes and read.  But not today.  Cody’s got a stuffded nose, so Momma doesn’t want him to be outside.”

 

“Do you check out books and bring them home?” Honey asked.

 

Beth shook her head.  “Momma’s ’fraid we’ll lose them or they’ll get yucky and we’ll have to pay for ’em.”

 

It was said without any regret, just a realistic understanding of her family’s situation, but it still made Trixie’s heart swell with sympathy.

 

“I’m sorry about that.”  The woman had returned, the baby held against her shoulder while she tried to jiggle him back to sleep.

 

“That’s all right, um…” Honey hesitated, trying to politely draw out the woman’s name.

 

“Olivia.”  After a pause, she added, “Hobbs.”

 

There was an awkward silence and then Honey said, “Mrs. Hobbs, do you know if any of your neighbors have lived here for a long time?”

 

“How long?”

 

“Ten, fifteen years or more.”

 

“Oh, I doubt it,” Mrs. Hobbs replied.  “The houses are mostly rentals and most people who move here try to get out as soon as they can.”  She flushed in embarrassment and added, “Well, not us, but my husband was out of work when we were forced to move here and he’s just now getting back on his feet.  I can’t work because I’ve got the babies and we can’t afford daycare.”

 

Trixie gritted her teeth.  She didn’t want to cry and embarrass the poor woman even more.

 

“Do you have an attic?” Honey asked.

 

Olivia shook her head.  “Why?”

 

“Sometimes people leave things in attics or basements when they move.  They forget about them.  I just thought maybe we’d see if there was anything left here by any former tenants, on the off chance we might find something belonging to my brother-in-law’s family.”

 

“There’s a small crawl space upstairs.  There were boxes in it when we moved here that I’ve never gotten around to going through.”  She offered a small smile to Trixie.  “I was pregnant and it didn’t seem wise or feasible for me to try to get up there.”

 

“You stay here,” Honey told Trixie.  “I’ll check it out.  That is, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Hobbs?”

 

Olivia hesitated then shook her head.  “I don’t mind, as long as you keep the noise down.”

 

“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” Honey promised.

 

Trixie saw her swallow a bit nervously at that and grabbed at her arm as she started to follow Mrs. Hobbs out of the living room.  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay up there?  It’s probably really dirty and cobwebby.  There might be spiders and cockroaches and things up there.”

Honey smiled grimly.  “I’m trying to deal with the idea of mice.  Don’t make it worse.  I’m focusing on helping you and finding a wonderful Christmas gift for Dan.”

 

Trixie squeezed her arm encouragingly and said no more.  When Honey and Mrs. Hobbs had tiptoed up the stairs, she turned her attention back to Beth.  “Are you ready for Christmas?” she asked, trying to draw the little girl out some more.

 

Beth shrugged.  “We gots a tree.”

 

Trixie hadn’t even seen it on her first perusal of the room.  Stuffed back into a corner behind one of the chairs was a tiny table-top tree with some handmade decorations and a star on top with most of the lights burnt out.

 

She started to move closer to get a better look when she noticed the nativity on the mantle.  The angel that sat on the roof of the stable held a candle in each outstretched hand, with tiny light bulbs to serve as flames.  Except that instead of white bulbs they were red.  She looked like an air traffic controller and Trixie had to put a hand over her mouth to contain a giggle.

 

The remainder of the nativity set was equally hodge-podge.  There appeared to be four wise men, and a spare Virgin Mary was tending to the sheep in the absence of a shepherd.  In addition to the motley flock of sheep—one with only three legs, some missing ears or tails—there was a plastic pig bigger than the camel it stood next to, and Snoopy and Woodstock in Santa hats.  Next to the stable was the Statue of Liberty and parked in front was a purple Hot Wheels car with flames on the side and a yellow pick-up truck with a tiny horse, smaller than any of the other animals, loaded in the back.

 

“What did you ask Santa to bring you for Christmas?”

 

“We haven’t seen him.  Momma says he probably won’t be able to find us this year, since we just moved here,” Beth replied, in the same matter-of-fact tone she had used before.

 

“What do you mean?” Trixie asked before she could stop herself.

 

With the somber wisdom of a child who had already grown up too fast, Beth didn’t answer.  Trixie decided to brave the lopsided couch so she could get down to Beth’s eye level.

 

“You know, my friend has a little boy.  He’s three and his name is Matthew.”  When she knew she had the little girl’s attention, she continued.  “We’re going to take him to see Santa sometime this week and maybe we can give Santa your new address and tell him what you’d like for Christmas.”

 

The girl looked up at her, her blue-gray eyes hardly daring to hope.  Trixie waited, sensing that Beth would respond better to her silence than her typical assertiveness.

 

“Momma would like a robe,” Beth finally said in a quiet voice.

 

“A robe?” Trixie echoed, her voice slightly choked as the little girl thought of her mother instead of herself.

 

Beth nodded.  “She doesn’t have one.  She wraps herself in the blanket when she’s cold but she can’t cook or fold clothes with the blanket on.  She needs a robe.”

 

“With new slippers, too, maybe?”  When Beth smiled at her and nodded, Trixie added, “What’s her favorite color?”

 

“Blue.”

 

“That’s my favorite color, too.  What about you?  What would you like for Christmas?”

 

“My daddy needs gloves.  Good ones.  The ones he has gots holes in ’em.  He works outside, at nighttime, and his hands get all cold and red.”

 

“What color is his coat?  Black or brown?”

 

“Kinda blue, I guess.  He won it at the ballgame last summer.  It says ‘New York Mets’ on it.  That’s not his favorite, but he wears it anyway, ’cause it was free.”

 

Which means he doesn’t have a proper winter coat, Trixie mused, adding a new coat and new gloves to her mental shopping list.

 

“And what would you like for Christmas?” she prompted once again.

 

“A teddy bear.”

 

Trixie glanced down at the worn, but obviously well-loved, bear sitting next to Beth’s feet.  He was missing an eye and could have used a good turn through the wash, but he was otherwise in pretty good shape.

 

“Cody chewed on Buddy and his eye falled off.  If he had his own teddy bear, he wouldn’t bother Buddy.”

 

Trixie grinned.  “Little brothers do tend to wreck things, don’t they?”

 

Beth nodded.  “But I love Buddy.  I don’t care if he only has one eye.  I still love him.”

 

“So, a robe for Mommy, gloves for Daddy, and a teddy for your brother?”  Beth nodded again.  “And what would you like, Beth?”

 

She shrugged and returned to her coloring.  Trixie quickly added coloring books and crayons to her shopping list—the big box of 64 that she remembered coveting as a small child, not the half-dozen worn down and broken crayons Beth was using.  And she liked to read, she reminded herself, so she’d add books to the list.

 

Honey and Mrs. Hobbs returned.  Mrs. Hobbs had obviously gotten the baby back to sleep because she no longer had the crying infant in her arms.  Honey shook her head and gave Trixie a disappointed half-smile.

 

“I’m sorry you didn’t find anything,” Mrs. Hobbs said.  “We don’t have a camera, so I understand how hard it must be not to have any family photos.  If you want, I can ask around, see if any of the neighbors remember the … Mangans, was it?”

 

Trixie nodded and pulled a business card out of her purse.  “It was a long time ago, but you can call me here if you happen to find out anything.”

 

They said their goodbyes and left.  When they were back in the car with the heat turned up full blast, Honey said, “That has to be the saddest house I’ve ever seen.  It wasn’t any better upstairs, either.  There are only two bedrooms and those two little children are sharing a room that isn’t any bigger than a closet.  I wish there was something we could do.”

“There is,” Trixie said.  “I’ve got a wish list.”

 

“Do you think they’ll accept our charity?”

 

“It’s not charity,” Trixie insisted stubbornly.  “We’re giving them Christmas presents.”

 

Honey grinned.  “You’re like Secret Santa.”

 

“I prefer Spy Santa,” Trixie said with feigned arrogance.  “After all, I had to do some reconnaissance to figure out what they needed.  I’m going to swing by the farm tonight and get some of my old books for that little girl.  I’m sure Moms won’t mind.”

 

“But won’t you want them for your children?”

 

Trixie shrugged.  “I can buy new ones.  Beth needs them right now more than I do.”

 

“Well, I’m going to box up some of Matthew’s old clothes and toys and send them over for that baby boy.”

 

“But if you guys are trying again, you might need those things soon.”

 

“I can buy new ones, just like you will,” Honey asserted.  “Cody needs them right now more than I do.  Did you by any chance reconnaissance the kitchen cupboards, too?”

 

“No, but a basket of food for Christmas dinner certainly wouldn’t hurt.  And some disposable cameras.  I don’t want them to end up like poor Dan, without any family memories.”

 

Honey flashed a conspiratorial smile Trixie’s way and added, “And a gift card to the drug store down the street so they can get the pictures developed.”  She put the car into Drive and pulled away from the curb.  “And Trixie?  We will find something for Dan.”

 

 

Trixie and Honey met up with Diana for lunch.  She hadn’t had any luck with the photography studios but was determined to keep trying.  She also eagerly agreed to do some shopping for the Hobbs family and make arrangements for everything to be delivered.

 

“Remember,” Trixie said with a gentle glare at her two friends.  “We’re not doing this on Daddy’s credit card.  This is a Bob-White project and we have to fund it ourselves.”

“Thank goodness we all have jobs now,” Honey laughed.

 

“Does Mart even still have the Bob-White treasury box?” Diana teased.

 

“There’s one way to find out.”  Trixie pulled her cell phone out of her purse and quickly rang her brother.

 

“I hope you don’t interrupt him while he’s teaching,” Honey worried.

 

Trixie listened as the phone was answered on the other end, made a face, and told her girlfriends, “No, eating, as usual.  Mart, is that any way to answer the phone?”

 

“Well, I knew it was you,” Mart replied after he had finished chewing and swallowing whatever sandwich masterpiece he had been eating.  “What’s up?”

 

“I’m having lunch with the girls and we wanted to know if you were still the official Bob-White treasurer.”

 

“Why?  Are you conspiring to confiscate the club coffers and go cavorting in Kauai?”

 

“Mmm, tempting, but no.  We have a Bob-White pet project.”  She gave him a quick recap of her and Honey’s morning adventure, without saying exactly where they had been or what they had been doing there.

 

But this was her almost twin.  He knew she was up to something.

 

“Why were you and Honey out and about instead of at work?” he asked.

 

“We took the day off.  Honey needed me to help her with some last-minute Christmas shopping,” Trixie replied nonchalantly, glad Mart couldn’t see her face.

 

He didn’t need to.  He uttered a short, scoffing laugh.  “Yeah, right.  That’s a good one, Trix.  No, really, what were you doing?”

 

Trixie scowled at the phone.  “None of your business!  Do you and Sally want to contribute to the cause or not?”

“Of course we will.  My fiancée is a Bob-White at heart, after all.  And I’m sure Jim will, too.  I’ll ask him when I see him.”

 

“Thanks, Mart.  I love it when the Bob-Whites get together to help others.”

 

“Especially at Christmas,” Mart agreed.  “Call me if you need anything else.  I’ve got to get to my classroom.  Talk to you again soon.”

 

 

December 19, 2002

 

“So, where do you want to start today?” Honey asked, slowing the car and looking for a place to park along the curb of the tree-lined street in Brooklyn.

 

After lunch the day before, they had come to this same street, not knowing what else to do but start knocking on doors.  A few hours of walking door to door in the cold without success had done Trixie in and Honey had insisted they call it a day.  She had raced through her work at Wheeler International that morning and picked up Trixie at the Treasury office in Brooklyn shortly after noon.

 

“This must be the longest street in the city,” Trixie grumbled.  “I should’ve asked Dan for more specifics when he told me about his childhood, but it was the first time he was really willing to open up and tell me about his mom and dad.  It was right after we were engaged.”

 

“Trixie, that was four and a half years ago.  How did you know you’d be trying to solve this mystery back then?”

 

“I know, I know.  But I can’t exactly ask him for more details right now, can I?  Last night was bad enough.  I’m sure my disappointment was all over my face.  If I press him about his childhood and specifically about when he lived here, he’d know something was up.”

 

“He already does.  He knows you too well.”  She grinned as she saw Trixie’s telltale blush and asked again, “Where do you want to start?”

 

“I know we’re on the right street.”  Trixie furrowed her brow and a moment later, her eyebrows shot back up and her sandy blond curls bounced with excitement.  “Wait a minute!  I remember Dan talking about a little mom and pop store that he and his mother used to walk to.  They’d just go there to get little things they’d run out of or forgotten, like milk and bread.”

 

Honey asked the GPS for grocery stores and read off the results.  “There are two small grocery stores within about two miles of where we are.  Do you know if it was on the same street where Dan and his parents lived?”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“Well, one is on this street, several blocks down, and the other is on the next street but just around the corner.  Why don’t we park here, since the second store is definitely within walking distance, and start knocking on doors again?”

 

“This is going to take us months,” Trixie groaned.

 

“Or maybe it’ll take us five minutes,” Honey insisted.  “We performed a good deed yesterday and that karma has to come back on us at some point, right?”

 

Despite her distress, Trixie had to smile.  “Always the optimist.  I think that’s why you’re my best friend.”

 

“I’m your best friend because I had horses,” Honey teased as she got out of the car.

 

Trixie scowled fondly at her, then linked arms with her as she came to the sidewalk.  Together, they walked up the long stoop of the first brownstone and rang the doorbell.

 

Despite her outward confidence, Honey had to admit she felt herself deflate a bit as the door opened.  Trixie’s disappointment was evident.  She surely shrunk a whole inch as her shoulders sagged.  The man who answered the door was probably too young to have remembered the Mangans living here.  He didn’t look much older than Trixie and Honey.  It wasn’t a promising start.

 

“May I help you?” he asked.

 

“I’m not sure,” Trixie said candidly.  “We’re hoping to be able to talk to somebody who’s lived in this neighborhood for twenty years or more.  We’re looking for somebody who might remember a family who used to live here back then.”

 

The man said nothing in reply, his expression neither friendly nor cold.

 

“My name is Trixie Mangan and this is my sister-in-law, Honey.  The information we’re looking for is about my husband’s family.  Do you know of anybody on the street who might be able to help us?”

 

He hesitated and Honey had the feeling that he wasn’t trying to come up with an answer so much as he was trying to determine if he was going to answer Trixie or not.

 

“My wife and I just moved here about a month ago.  We don’t really know a lot of the neighbors yet.”  He paused, then added, as if in explanation, “The holidays and all, you know.”

 

Honey could see packing boxes in the hallway beyond the man’s shoulders, so she knew he wasn’t lying.  But she had the feeling he was holding something back.

 

Trixie must have felt it, too, because she said, “I understand,” but made no move to indicate that the conversation was over.

 

“Danny, who’s there?”

 

A young woman with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail came up the hallway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

 

“Just some women looking for somebody who used to live in the neighborhood.  I told them we just moved here.”

 

The woman laid a hand on her husband’s arm and smiled at Trixie and Honey.  “We did just move here, but we bought the brownstone from Danny’s uncle.  They must have lived here, oh, thirty years, isn’t that right, Danny?”

 

Honey noticed the way she looked at him and the weight she gave her words.  She also noticed the tension in Danny’s face as he nodded.

 

“I’m Tess and you’ve met my husband, Danny.  Won’t you come in?”

 

Gently, she prodded her husband aside to admit Honey and Trixie into the brownstone.

 

“My husband’s name is Dan, too,” Trixie said.  “Do you think your uncle might remember a little boy who lived in the neighborhood way back then?  Does he have any children of his own that age?  Maybe they played together?”

 

“Excuse me,” Danny mumbled and went up the stairs, his feet heavy on each step.

 

Tess watched him go with worry in her deep brown eyes.  “I’m sorry, my husband and his uncle aren’t close.”

 

“But you bought the brownstone from him,” Honey commented curiously.

 

“We took over the payments to prevent foreclosure.”  She hesitated, worrying the towel in her hands in an absent manner.  “Would you like some tea?  I’m doing some baking in the kitchen and you could keep me company while I explain.”

 

“That sounds lovely,” Honey said agreeably.  As they followed Tess up the long, narrow hallway to the back of the house, she added, “Is there anything we can help with?”

 

“Oh, no,” Tess laughed.  “I’ve got it down to a science, even in the new kitchen.  We’re hosting our first family Christmas next week and between getting ready for that and sewing costumes for the church Christmas pageant and organizing the holiday bazaar, I’ve been baking up a storm.”

 

She gestured to the table in the corner of the cheery, yellow kitchen and put a teapot on the stovetop to boil before returning to her mixing bowls.

 

“Danny’s uncle is in prison,” she said plainly.  “He was convicted of vehicular manslaughter two years ago, a drunk driving accident that killed his wife and a man in another car.”

 

Trixie and Honey both murmured sympathies as they sat down at the table.

 

“I suppose it’s not something you’d come right out and tell two complete strangers,” Tess went on.  “But we received a Christmas card and letter from Uncle Gary yesterday and Danny’s been stewing over it, trying to decide if he should go see him or not.”

 

She spooned batter into a cake pan and added, “I told Danny it was a sign that he should try to reconcile, but he said it was a coincidence—that we just bought the place and Uncle Gary’s simply trying to make contact again.  You two showing up on our doorstep must have shaken him up.”

 

The tea kettle began to whistle. Tess put the cake pan in the oven and set about preparing the tea.

 

“My husband doesn’t take as much stock in signs as I do.  Sometimes he needs an extra nudge.”  She smiled at Trixie and Honey as she set the teacups on the table.  “Would you like some cake, too?  I’ve got a tea ring I made fresh this morning.”

 

Without waiting for their reply, though Honey was quite sure Trixie would’ve eagerly agreed, Tess turned back to the counter and sliced some of the cinnamon and raisin cake for each of them, then brought her own cup of tea to the table and sat down.

 

“Today is the regular visiting day at the prison.  I’ve been trying to persuade Danny to go.”

 

“Is it just family or can anybody visit?” Honey asked.  “That is, if you think your husband’s uncle might know something that could help us out.”

 

“If Uncle Gary didn’t know you were coming, he might not agree to see you.  But maybe I can call and let him know he’ll be having a couple of visitors.”

 

“Make that three.”

 

The women turned and saw Danny standing in the doorway.  Tess immediately rose and went to him, slipping her arms around his waist and tilting her head up to him.

 

“Are you really going to go?”

 

“Yes, my stubborn wife, I am.”  He planted a kiss on her nose.  “I tried to ignore your silly signs, but when two angels show up on the doorstep asking about my uncle the day after I hear from him, looking for information about a boy with my name who lived in this neighborhood, I guess I can’t ignore them any longer.”

 

 

Gary Wharton was housed in the Arthur Kill Correctional Facility, located in a remote area of Staten Island.  Trixie and Honey rode with Danny in his car.  He didn’t say much on the trip out, but once they had gone through the check-in process and were waiting in the Visitors Room, he offered them a little more family history.

 

“My father died when I was fourteen.  I was always close to my aunt and uncle—they didn’t have any children of their own—but Uncle Gary became a real father figure to me at a time in my life when I needed one most.  Losing him was like losing my father all over again.”

 

Honey could see the anger beginning to cloud his face again.  He pulled his hands off the table and fisted them on his lap.  She reached out a hand and touched him on the arm.  A Bible verse sprang, unbidden, to her mind.

 

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”

 

Danny turned his head and offered a weak smile.  “First Peter, right?  I knew you two were angels.”

 

The door opened and a man in prison blue came in, accompanied by a prison guard.  The guard motioned him toward the table.  “You have an hour,” he said without emotion and shut the door behind him.

 

“Daniel,” the older man said softly.  Honey supposed he was only in his 50’s but he looked much older than that, his face haggard with stress lines, his dull, brown hair streaked with gray.

 

“Hello, Uncle Gary,” Danny said.  As the older man looked askance at the two women in the room, Danny added, “This is Trixie and Honey.  They need your help.”

 

Gary shuffled over to the table and sat down across from the trio.  “I can’t imagine what kind of help I can offer two lovely young women,” he said.  Had he been younger, happier, more carefree, the words might have been charming, but instead they sounded flat and forced.

 

Trixie looked past Honey to Danny, as if uncertain of how to proceed.  “Did you want to…?” she asked.

 

“No, no, go ahead,” Danny replied.  “I can wait.”

 

There was a moment of awkward silence as the two men stared mutely at one another—one seeking forgiveness, the other seeking a release of the pain and anger that had been building for several years.

 

Honey heard Trixie take a deep breath in preparation.

 

“Mr. Wharton,” she began, “My husband and his parents lived on your street in Brooklyn.  Mangan?  I was wondering if you might remember them or perhaps know somebody else from the neighborhood who knew them well.  I’m trying to track down some family photos for my husband.”

 

Gary leaned back in his chair and stared at Trixie.  After a moment a small smile began to materialize on his face and Honey felt her heart pound in anticipation.

 

“That name doesn’t sound familiar to me,” he admitted.  He darted a remorseful glance at Danny.  “My wife would’ve been the one to ask.  She was the gregarious one.  She knew everybody in the neighborhood, helped organize all the block parties, headed up the welcome wagon.”

 

“Aunt Connie always used to say, ‘A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet,’” Danny said softly.  “My wife’s the same way.  Here we are living in New York City and she invites these two girls into our house thirty seconds after they knocked on our front door.”

 

There were nervous chuckles from the men and a few heartbeats of silence before Danny continued, “Maybe I’ll bring Tess when I come visit next week.”

 

“Next week is Christmas Eve,” Gary said.

 

“Right.  My wife’s family is coming over for dinner.”  Danny paused, then said resolutely, “We’ll come by Christmas Day then, if that’s okay with you.  Is there anything you want?  Anything you need?”  With an almost shy grin he said, “My wife loves to bake.  She could probably bake a file into a cake for you if you want.”

 

Gary smiled back and shook his head.  “I don’t want to ruin my chances for parole next year.  Books would be good, though.  Pen and paper … photographs of you and your wife?”

 

Honey glanced at Trixie, not surprised to see there was no disappointment on her face.  Maybe they had hit another dead end but, as with the Hobbs family, something good had come from their venture.  She felt certain it boded well for their search.

 

Gary snapped his fingers suddenly.  “That reminds me.  My wife may have been the one with the knack for names, but I never forgot a face.  There was a woman in the neighborhood who might be able to help you girls.  All those block parties my wife organized?  This woman was always there, taking pictures of everybody.  She was an older woman.  I think her children were grown by the time we moved in.  It was just her and her husband.”

 

Honey leaned over the table eagerly, but Trixie’s voice was more cautious.  “But you don’t remember her name?”

 

“No, but I never forgot a face … or an address.  I drove a cab for years in New York.  I have no idea if she’d still be living there or not, but I’ll write down the address for you.  Can’t hurt to check, right?”

 

 

It was dark out by the time Danny and the girls returned to the Brooklyn brownstone.  Danny thanked them again for their help in reuniting him with his uncle, wished them luck on their search, and told them they were welcome to come back and visit anytime.

 

Honey and Trixie got back into Honey’s car and while it warmed up, they silently contemplated the events of the day.

 

“I wish we could drop by there now,” Trixie finally said, a trace of impatience making her tone not quite wistful.

 

“It’s getting late,” Honey pointed out.

 

“I know.”  She continued to stare down the street, as if wondering exactly which brownstone matched up to the address she had in her pocket.  After another minute of silence, she sighed heavily.  “Dan’s not working tonight.  I can’t go home and face him with … my face!”

 

Honey giggled.  “What’d you do last night?”

 

“I was so exhausted and my feet were so swollen he was much more worried about that than trying to figure out what we’d been up to.”

 

“It’s Christmastime.  Do you really think he’s going to grill you for information?”

 

Trixie snorted.  “It’s his favorite pastime!  He loves to try and crack me when I’m hiding something from him.  He wants his detective badge so bad.  I think he’s using me for practice.”

 

“You can stay the night again at our place if you want.”

 

“No.”  She hesitated, then admitted, “I kind of like it when he interrogates me.  I want him to make detective, too, you know.  Anyway, he promised we could have pizza for dinner tonight.”

 

“You’re becoming more like your brother every day,” Honey teased.

 

Trixie grimaced then laughed out loud.  “Can you imagine what Mart would be like if he was pregnant?”

 

Both girls burst into uncontrollable laughter and with that image firmly planted in their heads, they left Brooklyn behind for the day.

 

 

December 20, 2002

 

“Oh, Honey, what if she doesn’t live there anymore?” Trixie breathed. 

 

They had just pulled up to the curb outside the Brooklyn brownstone where Gary Wharton had directed them.

 

“I just told my son a couple of days ago that you weren’t a pessimist!” Honey exclaimed.  “And you aren’t a pessimist!  So why are you being such a pessimist?”

 

“You’re right, you’re right,” Trixie surrendered, laughing at her best friend’s patented Honeyspeak.  “She still lives here.”

 

“And if she doesn’t, we’ll just track her down wherever she is,” Honey said stubbornly.  “Manhattan, Queens, New Jersey, Philadelphia, Seattle—”

 

“Dan and I are celebrating Christmas tomorrow,” Trixie reminded her.

 

“Okay … then she still lives here.”

 

Both girls laughed as they got out of the car, climbed the stoop to the front door of the brownstone, and rang the bell.

Their joy abated as a woman answered who couldn’t possibly be the same woman Gary Wharton remembered.  She was in her forties, with graying blond hair, and pale green eyes.

 

“May I help you?”

 

Honey squeezed Trixie’s arm encouragingly and said, “Hello, my name is Honey Belden.  My sister-in-law and I are looking for a woman we were told lived here, but I think she’s much older than you.”

 

“My husband and I have lived here for almost three years.”

 

“Did you by any chance buy the brownstone from a family member?” Honey asked, remembering Danny and Tess from the day before.

 

The woman shook her head.

 

“It’s very important that we find the former owner,” Trixie said, her chin thrust out tenaciously.  “If you wouldn’t mind giving us your name, we could possibly look her up through public property records.”

 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” the woman replied.

 

“Please,” Trixie said, a small note of desperation in her voice.  “I’m trying to find a special Christmas gift for my husband and this woman might be able to help me.”

 

For the first time, the woman in the doorway smiled.  “What I mean is, you don’t have to go to the trouble of checking public records.  Her name is Iris Miller.”

 

“Miller?” Honey echoed, her heart sinking a bit.  A last name like that might take them weeks to track down.

 

“Yes, she moved in with her granddaughter after she sold this place.”

 

“Do you happen to know where?” Honey asked, hope returning quickly to her heart.

 

“I don’t know the address off the top of my head but it’s in Pennsylvania, a little town called Yardley, near the New Jersey border.”

 

Honey bit her lip, trying to contain her excitement.  It would be a good drive, maybe an hour and a half, but in a town that small, it shouldn’t be too hard to track Iris Miller down.

 

“You can come in and call them if you’d like,” the woman continued.

 

“Excuse me?” Trixie managed to choke out.

“Iris’ granddaughter used to attend my church before she moved to Pennsylvania.  I’m sure I have Cammie’s number around here somewhere.  Please come in.”

 

 

The white colonial on the Delaware River looked like a model for a Currier and Ives Christmas card, with a wreath on the front door and a small sleigh on the front lawn.  Trixie’s heart was pounding as Honey pulled into the driveway.  They were so close.  She could feel it.  Unconsciously, she crossed her fingers on both hands as she got out of the car and she and Honey made their way up the front walk.

 

“Honey,” she said impulsively as they stepped up onto the porch, “thank you for coming all the way out here with me.”

 

Honey smiled.  “I love solving mysteries with you, Trix.”

 

Trixie grinned back.  “Ditto.  It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without you.”

 

She reached out and pushed the illuminated doorbell with her finger but when the door wasn’t opened immediately she felt a twinge of anxiety and reached up for the doorknocker.

 

Honey halted her with a hand on her arm.  “I heard the bell ring,” she said gently.  “It’s a big house.”

 

They waited a few more moments and just as Honey’s own patience started to thin and she was reaching for the bell herself, the door cracked open.

 

Trixie smiled amiably at Iris Miller.  The elderly woman was smartly dressed in a skirt and jacket of a dusty rose color with a white blouse underneath.  A gold and ruby poinsettia was pinned near her right shoulder.  Her snow white hair was carefully coiffed, as if she had just been to the hairdresser that morning.  She was an inch or two taller than Trixie, but Trixie imagined she had been even a few inches taller than that before old age had shrunk her to her current height.

 

“Hello, Mrs. Miller.  I’m Trixie Mangan and this is Honey Belden.”

 

The woman’s gray eyes were curious but not quite comprehending.

 

“I believe your granddaughter told you we were coming?”

 

“My granddaughter’s not here at the moment,” Mrs. Miller said.

 

Trixie frowned and darted a glance at Honey, who checked her watch and shrugged.  Trixie turned back to Mrs. Miller.

 

“Will she be back soon?”

 

“Oh, yes.  She just had to go pick up her daughter at school.”  She hesitated, then added, “I’m not supposed to let anybody in when she’s not here.”

 

“That’s okay.  We can wait in the car until she gets back.”

 

“Oh, don’t do that.  It’s cold outside.  Won’t you please come in?”  She seemed to have already forgotten that she wasn’t supposed to allow strangers into her granddaughter’s home.

 

Trixie and Honey stepped into the tiled foyer and Mrs. Miller closed the door behind them and urged them to take off their coats and hang them in the hall closet.

 

“It’s almost tea time,” she went on with a sweet, childlike smile.  “My mother was English and she taught me to love tea time.  But I’m not supposed to make tea when Cammie’s not here.”  She looked ruefully at the girls.  “I’m a little forgetful and sometimes I leave the stove on.”

 

“If you’d like, I can help you with the tea,” Honey offered.  “I like tea time, too, and I’ll make sure you turn the stove off.”

 

Mrs. Miller’s gray eyes lit up with pleasure.  “That would be lovely!”  Turning to Trixie, she said, “Why don’t you sit down in the living room, dear?  You look like you need to get off your feet.”

 

She gestured Trixie into the sunlit front room and went with Honey toward the kitchen.

 

Although the formal sitting room didn’t have the same hominess as Crabapple Farm, it was warm and inviting all the same.  A floral couch and two matching wingback chairs sat around a polished mahogany coffee table with a neat fan of magazines centered on it.  The white brick fireplace was adorned in pine boughs, and a hand-carved crèche sat on the mantle underneath a large, brass-framed mirror.  In front of the bay window overlooking the front yard was a huge Christmas tree—ten feet tall if it was an inch—that made Trixie sigh enviously.  The ceilings of the rental house she and Dan shared in White Plains couldn’t accommodate the tree she had wanted for the holidays, but next year, when their own house was completed…

 

The tree was decorated in white lights and gold ornaments, with a white-lit star on top.  Just underneath the star was a large glass angel, looking down on the room with a beatific expression on her face.

 

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

 

Mrs. Miller had returned to the living room and was standing at Trixie’s elbow.

 

“She’s beautiful,” Trixie agreed.

“My husband Alfred gave her to me for our anniversary one year.  We got married on Christmas Eve, you know.”  She frowned.  “I don’t remember which anniversary it was though.  Tenth, maybe.  When I moved here, I gave it to Cammie for her tree.”

 

She and Trixie moved to the seating area.  Mrs. Miller sat on the couch and Trixie took one of the chairs.

 

“Every time I see her, I start humming that song.”

“What song is that?”

 

“‘Angels We Have Heard on High.’  It’s my favorite Christmas carol.”

 

“It’s one of my favorites, too,” Trixie said with a smile.

 

Mrs. Miller frowned again.  “I’m so sorry.  What was your name again, dear?”

 

“Trixie.”

 

She nodded slowly as if trying to commit the name to memory.  “And your friend?”

 

“Honey.  She’s easy to remember.  Just think about the color of her hair and how sweet she is.”

 

Mrs. Miller smiled.  “I always tell people to remember the flower to remember my name.  I’ve always loved irises.  We have them in the garden every year, but I miss them in the winter.”

 

“Mrs. Miller, did your granddaughter tell you why we were coming by?”

 

The elderly woman shook her head slowly, not looking at Trixie but somewhere vaguely over her shoulder.  “She may have.  I don’t remember.”

 

“We just called earlier today,” Trixie prompted.  “From Brooklyn.  The brownstone where you used to live.”

 

Mrs. Miller began to look mildly upset, as if frustrated by her absent-mindedness.

 

Luckily, as she so often did, Honey was there to save the day.  She came out of the kitchen with a tray containing a teapot, cups and saucers.  “Tea time,” she chirped brightly as she set the tray down on the table between them.  She gave Trixie a gently admonishing look, silently cautioning her not to pressure the elderly woman.

 

Trixie nodded and settled back in her chair with her cup of tea.  “Will your granddaughter join us for tea, Mrs. Miller?” she asked politely.

 

“Please call me Iris,” she replied.  “Your name is…?”

 

“Trixie,” Trixie reminded patiently.

 

“Yes, and your friend is Honey, because she’s sweet.”

 

Honey blushed and handed the woman a cup of tea.  “I brought out an extra cup, in case your granddaughter wants tea when she gets back.  Was it your birthday recently, Iris?”

 

The puzzled look returned but this time she wasn’t confused.  She looked at Honey and Trixie as if they were the ones who were forgetful.  “No, dear.  My birthday was September 29th.”

 

“I’m just asking because I saw the birthday cake on the counter.  It looks homemade and I’m guessing your granddaughter wouldn’t have made a cake for herself.  It doesn’t look like a child’s cake, either, so that leaves you or your granddaughter’s husband.”

 

Iris smiled and there was a sparkle of amusement in her gray eyes.  “You two are regular detectives, aren’t you?”

 

Honey and Trixie grinned at each other.  “I guess we are,” Trixie answered.

 

“Well, dear, it’s Jesus’ birthday in a few days and we always make a cake to celebrate the occasion.”

 

“What a lovely idea,” Honey remarked.  “I have a three-year-old son and this is the first year I think he’s really into Christmas, understanding what it’s all about and everything.  I’m trying to come up with unique Christmas traditions that he’ll always remember.”

“Well, we’ve been making a cake for Jesus’ birthday since Cammie’s mother was a little girl.”

 

“Grandmom?  Who’s here with you?”

 

“Speaking of my granddaughter…”  Iris winked at the girls.

 

“It’s Honey Belden and Trixie Mangan, Mrs. Russell,” Honey called out.  “From New York?”

 

“Oh, dear!”  A moment later, a woman in her mid to late 30’s stood in the living room, still in her coat and gloves.  “I forgot!”

 

“And she thinks I’m the one with dementia,” Iris said in a stage whisper to Trixie, making her giggle.

 

“Grandmom,” her granddaughter scolded.  Shedding her coat and gloves and laying them across the back of the couch, she said, “My daughter missed her bus from school and I had to go pick her up and get her to gymnastics practice.  I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived.”

“That’s all right,” Trixie replied.  “We’ve been having a nice chat with your grandmother.”

 

“I have an extra cup here,” Honey added as she poured the tea.  “Please sit down and relax.”

 

Cammie Russell sank into the chair next to Trixie’s and gratefully took the cup of tea.  “Things are so crazy around the holidays.  My husband and I own a UPS shipping store and you can imagine how hectic this time of year is for us.  It makes it hard to enjoy the season sometimes.”

 

She savored a couple of sips of tea then looked at each visitor in turn with a smile.  “So, which one of you is Trixie?”

 

“That would be me,” Trixie answered.

 

“You’re looking for pictures of your husband and thought my grandmother might be able to help?”

 

“Yes.”  Trixie told Iris and Cammie all that she and Honey had discovered over the past couple of days, their door-to-door campaign, the couple whose uncle had once lived in the neighborhood, their meeting with that former neighbor who remembered the woman who often took pictures in the neighborhood, and the woman who had directed them to Yardley.

 

“You two really are detectives,” Iris said admiringly.

 

Trixie flushed.  “If I could find any photos, it would mean so much to me … and to my husband.”

“And to your child, no doubt,” Iris added.

 

Trixie nodded, rubbing her swollen belly and smiling as Baby Mangan gave a kick of wholehearted agreement.

 

“Camellia, I told you those photos would be important someday.”

 

“Grandmom?”  Her granddaughter looked at her with questioning eyes, unable to hide a trace of concern.

 

“Now don’t look at me like I’ve lost my marbles.  I still have a few rolling around up there.  When I moved in with you I brought a couple of boxes of photographs that you found in the attic.  Don’t you remember?”

 

Her granddaughter gasped.  “Of course!  Is that what those photos are?  Pictures from the old neighborhood?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Iris admitted, “but it’s a definite possibility.  Your grandfather gave me a camera for my birthday the year your Uncle John was born.  I must have used it for thirty odd years before it finally died on me.  It was an Argus.  They were one of the first affordable cameras ever produced for the general public.  I think he paid twelve dollars for it.”

 

“Our friend Diana is a professional photographer,” Honey commented.  “She would love to hear about those old cameras and see those old photos.  I’m sure her fancy digital camera cost a great deal more than that,” she laughed.

 

Trixie’s heart was pounding again.  She wanted to leap up and tear through the house, throwing open closets and drawers in search of those boxes.  Of course, she wasn’t exactly in any kind of condition to be leaping or tearing, so took a sip of tea and tried to channel Honey’s patience.

 

Cammie rose and set her cup down on the tea tray.  “I think I know where I put those boxes.  I’ll be right back.”

 

“What’s your husband’s family name again?” Iris asked Trixie.

 

“Mangan.  Timothy and Cathleen were his parents’ names.”

 

Iris shook her head.  “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

 

“Timothy was tall and thin, dark-haired.  Cathleen had curly red hair.  I never met them.  They both died before I met Dan.  But Dan says he takes after his father—dark hair, dark eyes.”

 

“Hmm…” Iris murmured thoughtfully but said no more.

 

As promised, Cammie was back within five minutes, two large shoeboxes in her arms.  Honey took one from her and gave it to Iris.  Trixie took the other one and, realizing she had little lap to set it on, laid it on the coffee table instead.  She held her breath as she pulled the lid off, then let it out in a disappointed sigh as she saw piles of black and white photos, the clothing of the subjects and the cars in the background telling her these photos were too old to be what she was looking for.

 

“I think we’ll find what you’re looking for in this box,” said Iris, patting the cushion next to her on the sofa for Trixie to join her.

 

The second box contained a mix of black and white and color photos that seemed to be more recent.  Together, the four of them shuffled through handfuls of photos, chuckling and commenting on the changing fashions of clothing and hairstyles.

 

“Trixie,” Honey said suddenly, her voice laced with excitement.  “Could this be Dan’s mom?”

 

She handed the photo over and Trixie studied it carefully.  The woman in the photo was a redhead, with wild curls that framed her heart-shaped face in an unruly tangle.  She was smiling but it didn’t look natural, as if the person behind the camera had prompted her to smile just before shooting.

 

“I think it might be, but I’m not sure,” Trixie finally said.  She set the photo aside and they kept searching.

 

A minute or two later, she found it.  While the other three women continued to sort through photos, occasionally making comments out loud, Trixie savored the photo in her hands.  No matter how many years pass, some characteristics never change, are always distinct.  With Dan it was his eyes.  Trixie would recognize her husband’s eyes even if they were the only thing in the photo.  And even now, with the photo in her hand taken at least twenty years ago, somewhat grainy, the young boy on the tricycle hamming it up for the camera with an exaggerated grin, his coffee brown eyes stood out to Trixie.  This was definitely Dan.

 

Honey softly called her name, breaking her from her reflection.  With a watery smile, she handed the photo to Honey.

 

Honey whispered a maternal coo and smiled.  Trixie turned to the other two women and said, “It’s my husband.  It’s Dan.”

 

They passed the photo around, made favorable comments, and studied the photo so they’d know what they were looking for as they continued their search.

 

Less than a minute later, Honey cried out in triumph, “I think I found another one!”  She handed the photo to Trixie for her confirmation.  “I know he’s just a baby in this photo, but the man looks exactly like Dan.  It must be his father.”

 

The dark-haired man—Timothy Mangan, Trixie was certain—looked adoringly at the woman and baby in the lawn chair next to him.  Trixie picked up the photo she had set aside earlier and compared the women.  It was definitely Cathleen Mangan in both photos.  Now she had three pictures of Dan and his parents.

 

They looked through the remainder of the box, but found only one more photo, this of Dan as a toddler, two or three years old, sitting with his father on the steps of the Brooklyn brownstone.  They wore matching New York Mets ballcaps, Dan’s so big it fell nearly to his nose, though it didn’t hide his boyish grin.

 

“Thank you so much,” Trixie said, hoping all the gratitude in her heart was coming through in her voice.  “Dan will love these.  We’ll treasure them forever.  I know it’s only four photos but it’ll mean so much to him.  And I have three photos of my husband as a child.”

 

Honey giggled, holding one of the photos in her hand.  “I think you have four photos of Dan, Trix … well, sort of.”  She held out the photo of Cathleen and pointed to the slight bulge around her middle.  “I do believe they call that a baby bump.”

 

Trixie laughed and took the photo to examine it again.  Perhaps it was post-baby weight lingering stubbornly, but without a date on the photo to go by, she would choose to believe it was her husband in utero, four or five months before his birth.

 

Iris laid her hand on Trixie’s arm.  “I’m so glad I was able to help.”

 

Impulsively, Trixie threw her arms around the frail, elderly woman and hugged her as tightly as she dared.  “You’ve been my angel this Christmas, Iris Miller.  Whenever I hear your favorite Christmas carol, I’ll always think of you.”

 

 

They visited for a little while longer, until Honey gently reminded Trixie that they had a long drive back to the city.  Promising to keep in touch and to let Iris know all about Dan’s reaction to his Christmas present, they returned to the car and settled in for the drive home.

 

Trixie held the photos tightly in one hand, while she fiddled with the radio with other, searching for whichever of the many all-Christmas-music stations would be playing “Angels We Have Heard on High”.  Finally finding one, she settled back in her seat with a blissful sigh, gazing out the window as they drove through the quaint downtown of Yardley.

 

Honey remained tactfully quiet but glanced periodically at Trixie, always seeing a bright smile splashed across her face and a noticeable shimmer in her eyes.

 

“Oh!  Honey, stop!” Trixie suddenly exclaimed.

 

Caught off guard after the minutes of silence, Honey nearly ran the car off the road.  “Gleeps, Trixie, what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Trixie assured her with a smile, pointing out the window on Honey’s side of the road.

 

Barely half a block ahead and coming up fast was a florist shop.  Honey glanced in her rearview mirror, turned on her blinker, and made a quick left into the tiny lot next to the building as Trixie said, “Irises.  I’m going to send Mrs. Miller the biggest bunch of irises I can find.”

 

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Author's Notes

Chapterette 39B (14,520 words)

Merry Christmas, Ronda! Your stories have kept me enraptured for several years now and I was very honored to write a Christmas story for you. Dan only made a token appearance, but it was all about him, you know (wink) so I hope you enjoy it!

This story goes back to Chapter 37-Happiness, Part 3 and, no, I never envisioned a “chapterette” being over 14,000 words long! If you want to find out how the gift exchange went (or reread the Christmas smush), you can find it HERE.

Iris Miller’s late husband Alfred was named in honor of my great-grandfather (whom I never met) as I’ve been enjoying reading my great-grandmother’s Christmas letters and her love for her husband.  I chose Iris after asking Ronda what her favorite flower was.  Good thing it wasn't Carnation, huh?

I enjoyed putting in Ronda touches (names, Hawaii, Christmas traditions, UPS) but nothing more than putting the yogurt and the yogurt lids in the story. Hee-hee.

The “Best Odds Diet” was detailed in the popular book What to Expect When You’re Expecting.  It sounded dreadfully dull and Trixie totally agreed. Dan went a little overboard with the book.

Ronda’s story about the “air traffic controller angel” not only made me laugh but reminded me of a high school friend, Larissa, whose family had a rather eclectic nativity scene. I don’t remember the details, other than a miniature Eiffel Tower, but I don’t think the Hobbs family’s nativity was too far off.

Tess and Danny are in homage, of course, to Ronda’s lovely Tessa and Dan in her Connections universe.

The Bible verse Honey quotes is from 1 Peter 4:8 and is one of my favorites.

Yardley is a small town in Pennsylvania near the New Jersey border. My friend Bonnie grew up there and I’ve been there. (grin)

You can read more about the Argus camera HERE.

The reference to Cathleen Mangan’s baby bump was sparked by a memory of this photo I have of my grandparents. My grandma was quite in shock that she was wearing overalls; she didn’t even know she owned pants in the mid-40’s. But I looked at the date on the back, looked back at the picture and pointed to my grandma’s slightly bulging belly and said, “That’s my mommy!” (grin)

Story header photo/title is from Istock.com and was created by Mary N (Dianafan), a talented graphics artist, a true Bob-White, and a pretty darn good Secret Santa herself, selflessly offering to create giftfic graphics for anyone who wanted them.  Thank you Mary!  The glass angels in the section divider was shamelessly stolen from an online Sears catalog.