J.P. laughed. "Yeah," she admitted. "Those Irish boys do have their charms, though I never before considered putting little Bill and Mick in the same category. But I suppose you're right, Emily. Well, as long as he edits you well, what do we care, right?"

Aaron joined them. "Emily has been a good sport long enough, J.P. I'm going to take her home now. I hope you'll have a good holiday."

"What's wrong?" J.P. was suddenly businesslike again.

"I just have a little cold," Emily said. "Aaron worries like an old woman, but I am a bit tired. Going home sounds really good to me."

"Well, I'm not surprised," J.P. said. "It was a big push, and you came through for all of us, Emily. I won't forget that. Yes, go on home and cosset yourself."

"Have a good holiday, J.P.," Emily told her.


"I will," J.P. said. Then she lowered her voice and said to Emily, "Have you ever heard of that women-only network? It's called the Channel. A friend suggested it."

"Yes," Emily murmured. "I suspect you'll like it, J.P. Everyone I know who gets it just adores it. But be careful. It can be addictive sometimes, I'm told."

The two women air-kissed, then parted. Emily and Aaron made their way out to the reception room and took their coats from the closet. Denise was nowhere in sight. Bill, the elevator man, was slightly tipsy, they both noted with amusement as he took them back down to the building's lobby. Outside it was already dark, but Frankie was waiting patiently, and to their surprise Kirkland Browne was already in the car.

"I walked over," he said. "This way we can just get out of town. A messenger came, picked up the hamper, and delivered another. I didn't want to open it until you got here, as it's Emily's ride. I'll sit up front."

Frankie helped them in, and Emily realized as she sat down that she was absolutely exhausted. Despite the Scotch her cold was back full bore. She coughed as she fell into her seat. "I'll see what's in the new hamper," she said. "They sent me soup and little sandwiches for my ride into town." She lifted the wicker lid. Tea sandwiches, miniature tarts with lemon curd, raspberry, and mincemeat met her eye. There would be tea in the large thermos. "Frankie, you want some tea and goodies?" she asked the chauffeur.

"Nah, when Mr. Browne came I took the opportunity to run to the deli in the side street and get lunch. I got a couple of packages of Twinkies and some seltzer with me now. I'll be fine. Thanks, Miss Shann."

Emily poured tea in the cups provided and handed them around to Aaron and Kirk. Frankie began the trip from the city out to Egret Pointe. The two men demolished the little sandwiches and tartlets. Emily fell asleep again, awakening only when Aaron shook her shoulder gently.

"Em, you're home," he said. "I'm going to take you in." He helped her from the car and walked her into the house. The Christmas lights had gone on automatically at five that afternoon. "I'm going to have Sam stop by tomorrow. You've got bronchitis, if I'm not mistaken. I can hear it."

"Okay," Emily said weakly. "Thanks, Aaron."

When he had left Emily put on her electric kettle and climbed upstairs to get out of her author clothes. She hung everything neatly, pulled on a violet-sprigged flannel nightgown, and wrapped herself in her fleece robe. Padding downstairs to the kitchen, she made herself a cup of chicken bouillon, and sat down to drink it. A knock sounded at her back door. Emily got up and answered it.

"Aaron says you're sick." Dr. Sam came in, reaching for Emily's wrist. "Sit."

She obeyed. "It's the first night of Hanukkah," she said to him.

"So? I've got a sick patient. I'm a doctor. The grandchildren have already lit the first candle in the menorah and ripped open their presents. Rina is in her glory feeding everyone. Aaron and Kirk are both concerned." He took out his stethoscope and listened to her chest. "Yep, bronchitis, but not too bad yet." Pulling out a digital thermometer he said, "Open," and stuck it in her mouth. When the thermometer beeped Dr. Sam pulled it from her mouth, looked at it, and said, "Emily, you have a temperature of one hundred and two. You are sick. You have to go to bed and stay there." He put the stethoscope back in his bag and pulled out a small bottle. "There are eight antibiotics here. Take two now, and then tomorrow morning start taking one every six hours until they are gone. Are you all right alone? Rina will come check on you tomorrow, okay?"

"Devlin was supposed to come," Emily said. "He got stuck in London. I'll be fine; Rina doesn't have to bother. You've got the family here, for heaven's sake, Dr. Sam."

"You're family too, sweetheart," he told her. "I couldn't keep Rina away, and you know it. Even her brother won't have to nag her to come." Dr. Sam chuckled, getting up. "Now I'm going home, and you go to bed," he ordered her.

"Okay," Emily agreed, seeing him out and then locking the kitchen door behind him. She went to the sink, rinsed her soup cup, refilled it with water, and took two pills. She really was beginning to feel lousy. She was clammy and hot, and the skin across her chest itched. Vicks! She had some in the upstairs hall closet where she kept medical supplies. She climbed the stairs slowly, got the Vicks, rubbed her chest with it, and after taking her robe off climbed into bed.

Emily did not sleep well, however. She awoke several times in the night, coughing a deep, racking cough and spitting up amounts of thick green gunk. She thought her fever might be higher, but she couldn't remember where she had put her thermometer. And finally, when she had awakened for the fourth time, and the clock in the hall struck six a.m., she got up. She didn't feel any better lying in bed. She was sweaty and chilly by turns. Wrapping herself in her robe, she went downstairs and made herself a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea. She took another of Dr. Sam's pills, then fell asleep in her comfortable recliner in the den, only to be awakened by the ringing telephone. Devlin! It had to be Devlin. She grabbed for the receiver.

"Emily, it's Rina. How do you feel?"

"Terrible," she admitted.

"I'll come over," Rina said.

"Rina, please don't. I have everything. I'm not up to company. I love you, but I feel like crap right now. I just want to be left alone to die quietly."

Rina chuckled. "Okay," she said. "I'll call you this afternoon to see if there's any improvement. You have to let me do that."

" 'Kay. Bye." Emily hung up. And then she began to cry. She was alone, and she was sick, and it was Christmas Eve. Where was Devlin, and why the hell hadn't he called her? He had said he would be home, but instead he was cavorting in London with some young thing, J.R had said. Well, she hadn't quite said it. She had just suggested it, but J.P. had known Devlin longer than Emily Shanski. Emily sobbed and sobbed, until her nose was so stuffed up she could hardly breathe. Then she began to cough the green glop up again. Gradually her sobs died away. She felt empty. Putting her head down she fell asleep again.

It was almost four in the afternoon when she was awakened by the sound of pounding on her front door. Stumbling to her feet, she made her way into the hall and opened the door. Michael Devlin was standing there, a worried look on his face.

"Jaysus! You look like merry hell," he said to her as he came inside.

"Thank you." Emily sniffed as she closed the front door. "What are you doing here? J.P. said you were staying in London. That you couldn't get back. There's no food in the house. I couldn't shop." She began to cry.

Michael Devlin shook his head and took her into his arms. "I couldn't get back in time for the Stratford party, angel face, that's all. I didn't say anything about not being back in time for Christmas."

"She said you had probably met some young thing," Emily sobbed.

Michael Devlin sighed. "A lot J. P. Woods knows about me," he said. "How late are the markets around here open tonight? I'd better make a run for some food."

"The IGA is open until five thirty," Emily told him, beginning to pull herself back together. He was home! Devlin was home, and it was Christmas Eve! "The butcher will have the beef for tomorrow. I ordered it," she told him. "At least get the roast beef. We need other stuff, but I can't think right now."

"I'll take care of it, Emily. You just go back to wherever you were and get some rest. Has Dr. Sam seen you?"

"He brought me pills. Oh, Lord! I'd better take another one. I'll leave the kitchen door open for you. Don't lose my beef. And Devlin, I want an ice cream sundae. Stop at Walt's. Forbidden Chocolate with marshmallow and butterscotch. He's open until seven, even tonight. The early churchgoers usually stop in on the way home."

With a grin he hurried from the house. He gunned his Healy into the village, noting that the parking lot at the IGA was still full. Going inside, he grabbed a cart and headed directly for the butcher's counter. "I'm picking up Miss Shanski's roast beef," he said to the man behind the counter.

"You the boyfriend I've been hearing about?" the butcher asked with a friendly grin. "I got her meat all ready and wrapped. You pay at the checkout."

"Yeah, I'm the boyfriend," Michael Devlin said, grinning back. "Gimme that roasted turkey breast too. It'll do for sandwiches tonight."

The butcher took the turkey breast from beneath the heat lamp and put it into a clear plastic container. "Just came off the rotisserie an hour ago," he said.

"Thanks, and happy Christmas to you," Devlin said, putting both items into his cart. Then he began to make his way around the grocery store, choosing items he thought they would need for a few days. Rye bread for the sandwiches, Country Crock mashed potatoes, frozen Southland turnip, a small jar of onions, frozen French-cut green beans, heavy cream, and milk. He spotted a small bottle of horseradish sauce among some gourmet items, and took it. A carton of orange juice, and another of pineapple juice. Emily had a weakness for pineapple juice. He took a wooden carton of Clementines, and bagged some green grapes. Butter! You could never have enough butter. And very fine sugar, if she was making hard sauce for the Christmas pudding in his luggage. Passing the vegetables he grabbed a bag of mixed field greens. Then, glancing at his watch, he headed for the checkout.

"You just made it," the girl at the register said, eyeing him and smiling.

"I did, didn't I?" he agreed, smiling at her.

Putting his groceries in what passed for a backseat in the Healy, he headed for Walt's and got two sundaes.

"Only one person in town does Forbidden Chocolate with marshmallow and butterscotch," Walt said, "and that's Emily Shanski. You must be the boyfriend Pve been hearing about."

"Guilty as charged," Michael Devlin admitted with a smile. "I'll take coffee ice cream with chocolate and marshmallow."

"You got it," Walt replied, making up the two sundaes to go and bagging them.

"What do I owe you?"

"It's on the house," Walt said. "Tell Emily I said 'Merry Christmas.' I've known her since she was born, you know."

"I'll tell her, and happy Christmas to you," Michael Devlin said as he departed the little ice cream shop with the two desserts. Driving back to the house, he remembered how nice it was to grow up in a small town-the warm feeling you got in the shops knowing people's names and families. And it was obvious that, as quietly as Emily Shanski lived, she was well-known and well liked by the people of her hometown of Egret Pointe. He hadn't felt a twinge of embarrassment at all when people had identified him verbally as "the boyfriend." It had tickled him. Emily had been so discreet, and yet it would appear that everyone in Egret Pointe knew all about them, and it didn't bother Michael Devlin one bit.

Getting back to the house, he brought the groceries inside and checked on Emily. She had fallen asleep in the den again. He put everything away, setting the sundaes carefully in the freezer. Then he made them turkey sandwiches on rye bread with mayo. He fixed individual bowls of salad and dressed them with a raspberry vinaigrette he found in the fridge. Lastly he brewed a large pot of tea in the big brown teapot that had belonged to Emily's grandmother, Emily O. Setting everything on a tray, he brought it into the den and put it down on the table.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he said, shaking her gently and kissing her brow. She was very hot. Dry and hot. Not good, he thought.

Emily opened her eyes. "You really are here," she said. "I didn't dream it, did I? Get the meat? And my sundae?"

"Got everything. Walt says, 'Merry Christmas.' The sundaes were on the house," he told her.