Somebody put “Jingle Bells” on the jukebox and Heath tried to block out the sound; holiday music only depressed him further. He had felt like an actor, playing his role at the party tonight, all the while conscious that he didn’t deserve Ann or the dedication she had shown in making the event a success. He knew he was rude and unfeeling and charmless toward her. He also knew that he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms all night long and tell her everything he was feeling, everything he had kept bottled up inside for years like champagne canted under pressure. But that would be folly, wouldn’t it? If she knew that his pretense of emotional indifference was becoming impossible to sustain, that he almost didn’t care anymore what she had done in the past or why, then she would win.

But was winning this contest—his unbending attitude versus her ability to endure it—really that important to him anymore? If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that keeping her with him was fast becoming the major—possibly the only—consideration. Every time he thought of the way she turned to him so trustingly in bed, gave of herself so completely in spite of his churlish behavior, his will to continue the vendetta ebbed a little more.

Heath hadn’t noticed that the stool next to his was now occupied until his neighbor said to him, “Coming from a big date?”

Heath looked down at the tuxedo he’d forgotten he was wearing. “I guess you could say that.”

“How’d it go?”

Heath ran his finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. “Not well,” he replied.

“That’s a shame. Seems to me like everyone tries too hard at this time of the year, like we’re all forcing ourselves to be happy even if we’re not.”

Heath glanced at the philosopher to his left and narrowed his eyes. The old man looked familiar.

“Don’t I know you?” Heath asked.

The man nodded. “You should. I picked you up about five times in my squad car as I recall. Heath Bodine, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” Heath said, extending his hand. “Refresh my memory. You are...?”

“Ken Gates. Sergeant, Lime Island police force. Retired.” He shook Heath’s hand.

Heath grinned. “Sure, I remember. We used to call you Gatecrasher. How the hell are you?”

“Just great. I’m down here from Chicago to visit my son for the holidays.”

“So why are you here at this bar?”

“I had to get away from the grandchildren.”

Heath laughed. “At two in the morning?”

“The baby woke up for a feeding and so we all did. That kid has lungs she inherited from my late wife, may God rest her soul.” He downed the rest of his drink. “So, what are you doing in this dive, kid? I heard you made a mint on some boat gizmo you invented a few years ago and bought the old Curtis spread. Isn’t this place a little lowlife for you these days?”

“I feel right at home,” Heath said in a tired voice.

“Not drinking?” Gates asked, nodding toward Heath’s full glass of Scotch.

“I’ve already had enough tonight.”

“Afraid of winding up like your old man?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“I had him in the drunk tank more than once.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“He was harmless, kid.”

“He was worthless.”

“Is that why you’re sitting here with a bunch of strangers two days before Christmas?”

“I had a fight with my wife.”

“Ahh. What did she do?”

“Nothing. It was my fault.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“No.”

“Then I guess I can see why you’re here.”

Gates signaled for another drink and Heath said, “I got it.” When the bartender arrived, Heath said, “Keep them coming for my man here. On my tab.”

The bartender nodded and walked away to get Gates another whiskey.

“Thanks, kid. I guess you can afford it. It’s funny, I never would have pegged you for a future success story.”

“You weren’t the only one.”

“Did you marry a local girl?”

“She used to be local. Henry Talbot’s girl. Do you remember her?”

“I hope to say I do. Pretty as a picture—blond hair, big blue eyes. Didn’t you have a thing going with her a few years ago?”

“More than a few. How did you know that?”

“Old Henry was down at the station one night at the end of one summer, must have been about ten years ago, trying to get us to arrest you for statutory rape with that little girl.”

Heath froze with his hand around the glass on the bar before him. “What?” he said softly.

Gates nodded vigorously. “I remember it like it was yesterday. We didn’t see much of the local gentry in the squad room if you know what I mean, so the incident kind of stuck in my mind. Talbot wanted to know the procedure necessary for filing charges. The chief tried to talk him out of it—we all guessed it was probably just a case of two kids in love. The Talbot girl was only a few months away from the legal age anyway, right? But King Henry was having none of it. He left determined to file the charges as soon as he squeezed the necessary details out of his kid. Then, like magic, we heard nothing more about it. A few weeks later, the Talbot housekeeper told me that the girl had gone up north to school, and later I read in the paper that you had joined the navy. I figured then that the girl had agreed to leave town if her daddy let you off the hook.”

Heath was staring at him, his fingers white around the object he held, his breath caught in his throat.

“You all right, kid?” Gates asked, concerned. “You look kinda... funny.”

Heath stood slowly, sliding off his stool and pulling a bill out of his wallet. He set it down on the bar.

“This should cover everything,” he said, then clapped Gates on the shoulder and reached once more for his hand.

“Thank you,” Heath said soberly. “And Merry Christmas. And Happy New Year.”

Gates shook his hand and stared after him for a moment. Then he snatched up the bill and tucked it into his pocket, signaling the bartender.

* * * *

Ann was asleep on the sofa in the living room when Heath returned. He took off his shoes and crept closer to the couch, noting with dismay that even in sleep her brow was creased and her expression not peaceful. Feeling guilty and remorseful to the limit of his imagination, Heath sat next to her and took her by the shoulders, gently lifting her into his arms. He remembered with a pang how he had found her in similar circumstances the day of their wedding. The deliberate cruelty of taking off and leaving her without a word on that occasion was unforgivable in retrospect, and he wondered now if their relationship was even salvageable.

He carried her into the bedroom and set her on the bed, leaning forward until she slipped bonelessly onto the embroidered spread. He took off her shoes and adjusted the pillow under her head, drawing an afghan over her legs as she stirred slightly. Then he crept quietly out of the room and closed the door.

He stood in the hallway for a long time, then went into the living room and sat staring out the windows at the lawn until the sky lightened and the sun rose.

* * * *

When Joe Jensen came into his office around noon on Christmas Eve Heath was sitting at his desk.

Joe stopped short. “What are you doing here?” he asked Heath in surprise.

“I called your house and Joan said you were coming in at lunchtime to pick up the mail.”

“And you’ve just been sitting here waiting?”

“Yes.”

Joe pulled out a chair and sat facing Heath. “What’s up? As if I didn’t know.”

“I’ve already talked to Ben Rowell and apologized for last night,” Heath said.

Joe nodded. “And your wife?”

“I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“What happened after Joan and I went home?”

“We had a fight and I left. When I came back, Ann was sleeping, and then I left again this morning before she was up.”

“Are you avoiding her?”

Heath sighed. “I wish I could avoid myself,” he said, running his hands through his hair.