“Bessie left me an income, and according to the new will, I’m allowed to live in the apartment in the Bakers’ home rent free. As though I’d stay here with those people!” The tears now ran freely down Kate’s face. “I can’t believe Bessie would do this to me. To leave this house to perfect strangers like that. She knew I didn’t like the Bakers. And to get an apartment somewhere else is impossible. You know what the prices are in Manhattan.”

Kate’s scared and she’s angry and she’s hurt, Alvirah thought. But even worse… She looked across the table and thought that for the first time since she’d known her, Cordelia looked her age.

Catching her sister-in-law’s eye, she said, “Cordelia, we’ll think of something to keep Home Base going, I promise.”

Cordelia shook her head. “Not in under four weeks,” she said. “Not unless the age of miracles isn’t over.”

Monsignor Ferris had been carefully studying the copy of the new will that Vic Baker had presented to Kate.

“From my experience, it looks absolutely legitimate,” he commented. “It’s on Bessie’s stationery, we know that she was a good typist, and that certainly is her signature. Take a look, Alvirah.”

Alvirah skimmed the page and a half and then reread it carefully. “It certainly sounds like Bessie,” she admitted. “Listen, Willy. ‘A home is like a child, and as one nears the end, it becomes important to surrender that home to the protection of those who would care for it in the most fitting manner. I cannot be comfortable knowing that the daily presence of many small children will totally change the appearance and character of the pristine house for which I have sacrificed so much.’

“Does she mean being married to Judge Maher?” Willy asked. “He wasn’t a bad little guy.”

Alvirah shrugged and continued to read. “‘Therefore I leave my home to Victor and Linda Baker, who will care for it in a manner suited to its genteel quality.’ “

“Genteel quality, indeed!” she snorted as she laid the will on the table. “What could he more genteel than giving a helping hand to children?” She turned to the monsignor. “Who witnessed this miserable piece of paper?”

“Two of the Bakers’ friends,” Monsignor Ferris said. “We’ll get a lawyer, of course, just to see if there’s anything to be done, but it certainly looks legitimate to me.”

Willy had been observing Alvirah for the past several minutes. “Your brain cells are working, honey. I can tell,” he said.

“They sure are,” Alvirah conceded as she reached to turn on the microphone in her sunburst pin. “This will may sound like Bessie in most ways, but Kate, did you ever hear her use the word ‘pristine’?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Kate said slowly.

“What kind of things did she say when she talked about the house?” Alvirah asked, persisting in her probe of the new will.

“Oh, you know Bessie. She’d brag that you could eat a seven-course meal off the floor-that sort of thing.”

“Exactly,” Alvirah said. “I know it looks bad, but every bone in my body says that this will is a phony. And Kate, Cordelia-I promise you that if there’s any way to prove it, then I’ll find that way. I’m on the job!”

Sister Maeve Marie had remained at Home Base and continued the rehearsal for the Christmas pageant, although in her mind she conjured up the worst possible scenario to explain why Sister Cordelia, Willy and Alvirah had raced off to see Kate Durkin.

“Something’s gone wrong, and Kate’s all upset,” was all that Cordelia had time to tell her before she left.

Was it possible that Kate had been robbed or mugged? Maeve Marie wondered. She knew that sometimes felons would look through the death notices in the paper and would burglarize the deceased’s home when they thought the bereaved were at the funeral. A former New York City cop herself with four policemen brothers, Maeve Marie thought instantly of potential criminal activity.

All the children at Home Base had been assigned their parts for the pageant and told to practice their lines at home. The Chanukah story would be recited at the beginning of the pageant, immediately followed by the Chanukah song.

Next would come the scene in which the decree from Caesar Augustus was read, proclaiming a census and telling everyone to go to the village of his ancestors to be registered.

The play had been written by Cordelia and Alvirah, and Maeve Marie had complimented them on including so many speaking parts in that first scene. The kids loved that. Plus the lines were both simple and familiar.

“But my father’s village is so far away.”

“It is such a long journey, and there is no one to care for the children.”

“We must find someone, because nothing is more important than that our children are safe.”

Cordelia had confessed that she was taking a few liberties with some of the dialogue, but she had invited the housing inspectors to the pageant and she wanted to be sure to get the message across to them: Nothing is more important than that our children are safe.

The only children who had not been assigned lines at random were the three wise men, the shepherds, the Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph. The ones selected for those parts were the best singers in the group and would lead the singing in the stable scene.

Jerry Nunez, the biggest cutup among the younger children, was to be Saint Joseph, and Stellina Centino, a grave and oddly composed seven-year-old, was Mary.

Stellina and Jerry lived on the same block, and Jerry’s mother picked up both children at the end of the day. “Stellina’s mama took off for California when she was a baby,” Mrs. Nunez explained to the nuns. “And her dad is away a lot. Her great-aunt Lilly raised her, but now lately Lilly’s been sick a lot, poor woman. And she worries so much. You wouldn’t believe how she worries about Stellina. She says, ‘Gracie, I’m eighty-two; I gotta live another ten years anyhow so I can raise her. That’s my prayer.’

Stellina is such a beautiful child, Maeve thought as she blocked out the final tableau for the pageant. Curly dark-blond hair that was clasped at the nape of her neck by a barrette fell down her back. Her porcelain complexion was enhanced by wide dark-brown eyes, fringed with long black lashes.

Jerry, never one to be still, began to make faces at one of the shepherds. Before Maeve Marie had a chance to admonish him, Stellina said, “Jerry, when you are Saint Joseph, you have to be very good.”

“Okay,” Jerry agreed instantly, assuming a frozen posture of almost exaggerated decorum.

“The chorus of angels will begin to sing, the shepherds will see the angels and listen, and you, Tommy, will point to them and… then what do you say?” Sister Maeve Marie asked.

“I say, ‘Shark, the hellish angels sing,’ “ six-year-old Tommy suggested.

Sister Maeve Marie tried not to smile. Lead us not into Penn Station, she thought-that’s what my brothers used to tell me to say. Tommy had a smart-aleck big brother at home; chances were, he had been coaching his younger brother. “Tommy, you have to get it right, and if you don’t listen, you can’t be the head shepherd,” she said firmly.

The rehearsal ended at six. Not a bad first practice, Maeve Marie decided as she complimented the children on their performances. The nice thing was that the kids were enjoying it.

She had enjoyed it as well, although the pleasure she took in seeing the children learn their parts was tempered by her concern and growing sense of unease: Where was Cordelia, and what had gone wrong?

As she helped to sort out jackets and mittens and scarves, Maeve noticed that, as usual, Stellina had carefully hung up her beautifully tailored blue winter jacket, which, the little girl had proudly explained, her nonna had made for her.

By six-thirty all the children except Jerry and Stellina were gone, most having waited for an adult or older sibling to walk them home. At quarter of seven, Sister Maeve Marie brought the two of them downstairs to the thrift shop, which was closed now. Five minutes later, Gracie Nunez hurried in.