“I just wanted to remind her that she's not alone and she can get help. She's an abused woman, Jack. She's not some clearheaded, tough woman who isn't going to take any crap from her ex-husband. She's a walking victim, and you know it.”

“And you're a bleeding heart, and I love you,” he said as he took a step closer and wrapped his arms around her. It was nearly one o'clock by then, and they were closing the office between Christmas and New Year's. And with five children at home, there was no doubt in either of their minds that they would be busy. But Liz was better about leaving the office behind her, when they went home, than Jack was. When she was with her children, they were all she could think of, and Jack loved that about her.

“I love you, Jack Sutherland,” she said with a smile as he kissed her. He wasn't usually amorous with her at work, but it was Christmas after all, and they had finished everything they could before the holiday, especially now that Amanda Parker's hearing was behind them.

Liz put her files away, and Jack stuck half a dozen new ones into his briefcase, and half an hour later they left in separate cars, Liz to go home and get ready for Christmas Eve, and Jack to do a few last-minute errands downtown. He always finished his Christmas shopping at the last minute, unlike Liz, who did hers, and theirs for the kids, in November. She was intensely organized and detail-conscious, which was the only way she could manage both a large family and a career. That and the wonderful housekeeper they'd had for the last fourteen years, Carole, who was devoted to their children. Liz knew without a moment's doubt that she would have been lost without her. She was a young Mormon woman who had come to them at twenty-three, and loved the Sutherland children almost as much as Jack and Liz did, particularly Jamie, who was nine.

As he left, Jack promised to be home at five or five-thirty. He still had Jamie's new bike to put together that night, and Liz knew he'd be frantically wrapping gifts for her in the office he kept at home, at midnight. But Christmas Eve at their house was everything it should be. They had come to each other with years of Christmas traditions they cherished, and over the years had managed to blend them into one big warm cozy celebration, which their children loved.

Liz drove the short distance to their home in Tiburon, and smiled to herself as she pulled into the driveway on Hope Street. All three of her daughters had just returned from shopping with Carole, and they were getting out of the car with all their packages. Megan was a willowy fourteen, at thirteen Annie was stockier but looked just like her mother, and Rachel was eleven, and looked just like Jack, despite her mother's red hair. The three got on surprisingly well, and were in high spirits as they argued good-humoredly about something with Carole. And all three smiled when they saw their mother walk toward them.

“What have you been up to?” Liz put an arm around Annie and Rachel, and then narrowed her eyes as she looked at Megan. “Is that my favorite black sweater you're wearing again, Meg? Or do I even need to ask? You're bigger than I am and you're going to stretch it.”

“It's not my fault you're flat-chested, Mom,” Megan said with a guilty grin. They were always “borrowing” clothes from each other and their mother, more often than not without the owner's permission or approval. It was really the only argument the girls had between them, and hardly a serious problem. Liz felt lucky just looking at them, she and Jack had great kids, and they loved being with them.

“Where are the boys?” Liz asked as she followed them in, and noticed that Annie was wearing her mother's favorite shoes. It was hopeless. They seemed destined to share a communal wardrobe, no matter how many things she bought for them.

“Peter's out with Jessica, and Jamie's at a friend's,” Carole filled in for her. Jessica was Peter's latest girlfriend. She lived nearby in Belvedere, and he was there now more often than at his own home. “I have to pick Jamie up in half an hour,” Carole explained, “unless you want to do it.” Carole had been a pretty blonde at twenty-three, and over the years had widened more than a little, but at thirty-seven, she was still pretty, and she had a warm, affectionate way of handling the children. She was part of the family by now.

“I thought I'd make some cookies this afternoon,” Liz said, setting down her bag and taking off her coat. She glanced at the mail sitting on the kitchen table, but there was nothing important. And as she looked up at the view from the kitchen windows, she could see the skyline of San Francisco across the bay. They had a pretty view, and a warm, comfortable home. It was a little tight for them, but they loved it. “Does anyone want to bake with me?” Liz inquired, but she was talking to herself by then. The three girls had already fled to their rooms, more than likely to talk on the phone. The four oldest kids competed constantly for their two phone lines.

Liz was busily rolling out cookie dough and cutting it with Christmas forms, when Carole came back downstairs to go and pick up Jamie half an hour later. Liz still had plenty of work to do, and she suspected that Jamie would want to help. He loved doing things with her in the kitchen. And ten minutes later, when Carole came back with him, he squealed with glee when he saw what she was doing, and grabbed a fingerful of the raw dough and grinned with pleasure as he ate it.

“Can I help?” He was a beautiful child, with thick dark hair and soft brown eyes, and a smile that always melted his mother's heart. He was especially dear to her, as he was to all of them, and he would forever be their baby.

“Sure. Wash your hands first. Where were you?”

“At Timmie's,” he said, returning from the sink with wet hands as his mother pointed to the towel so he could dry them.

“How was it?”

“It's not Christmas at his house,” he said solemnly, helping her roll out the rest of the dough.

“I know,” Liz said with a smile. “They're Jewish.”

“They have candles. And they get presents for a whole week. Why can't we be Jewish?”

“Just bad luck for us, I guess. But you do okay with just one night of Christmas.” She smiled at her youngest child.

“I asked Santa for a bike,” he said, looking hopeful. “I told him Peter said he'd teach me how to ride it.”

“I know, sweetheart.” She had helped him write the letter. She had saved all her children's letters to Santa in the back of a drawer, they were wonderful, especially Jamie's. He looked up at her with a warm smile, their eyes met and held for a long moment.

Jamie was a special child, a special gift in her life. He had come more than two months early, and had been damaged first by the birth, and then by the oxygen they gave him. It could have blinded him, but it didn't. Instead, he was learning-delayed, though not acutely, but enough to make him different, and slower than he should have been at his age. He managed well in spite of it, went to a special school, and was responsible, and alert, and loving. But he would never be like his brother and sisters. It was something they had all long since accepted. It had been a shock at first, and an acute agony, especially for her. She felt so responsible at first. She had been working too hard, she had been in three trials back-to-back, and was stressed over it. She'd been so lucky with the others, she'd never had any problem. But right from the first, Jamie had been different. It was a tough pregnancy, and she'd been exhausted and sick from beginning to end, and then suddenly nearly two and a half months early, with no warning, she was in labor, and they hadn't been able to do anything to stop it. He had been born ten minutes after she got to the hospital, it was an easy birth for her, but a disaster for Jamie. At first it had looked as though the disaster might be even greater, and for weeks it looked like he might not survive at all. When they brought him home finally, after six weeks in an incubator, he seemed like a miracle to all of them, and still was. He had a special gift of love, and his own brand of wisdom. He was the kindest and gentlest of all of them, and had a wonderful sense of humor, despite his limitations. They had long since learned to cherish him, and appreciate his abilities, rather than mourn all that he wasn't and would never be. He was such a handsome child that people always noticed him, and then were confused by the simplicity with which he spoke, and the directness. Sometimes, it took them a while to figure out that he was different, and when they did, they were sorry for him, which annoyed his parents and his siblings. Whenever people told her they were sorry, Liz said simply, “Don't be. He's a terrific kid, he has a heart bigger than the world, and everybody loves him.” Besides, he was almost always happy, which was a comfort to her.

“You forgot the chocolate chips,” Jamie said sensibly, chocolate chip cookies were his favorite, and she always made them for him.

“I thought we'd make plain ones for Christmas, with red and green sprinkles on them. How does that sound to you?”

He thought about it for a fraction of an instant, and then nodded his approval. “That sounds pretty. Can I do the sprinkles?”

“Sure.” She handed him the sheet of cookies in the shape of Christmas trees, and the shaker with the red sprinkles, and he went to work on it, until he was satisfied, and she handed him the next sheet. They worked together as a team until they were through, and she put all the trays in the oven. But by then she could see that Jamie was looking worried. “What's up?” It was obvious that he was upset about something. And once he got an idea in his head, it was hard for him to let go of it.

“What if he doesn't bring it?”

“Who?” They spoke to each other in a kind of shorthand, that was familiar to both of them and easy for them.

“Santa,” Jamie said, looking sadly at his mother.

“You mean the bike?” He nodded. “Why wouldn't he bring it? You've been a very good boy this year, sweetheart. I'll bet he brings it.” She didn't want to spoil the surprise for him, but wanted at the same time to reassure him.

“Maybe he thinks I won't know how to ride it.”

“Santa's smarter than that. Of course you can learn to ride it. Besides, you told him Peter would help you.”

“You think he believed me?”

“I'm sure of it. Why don't you go play for a while, or see what Carole's doing, and I'll call you when the cookies are done. You can have the first ones.” He smiled at the thought, and forgot about Santa again, as he went upstairs to find Carole. He loved having her read to him. He still hadn't learned to read.

Liz went to a closet and took some presents out that she'd hidden there, and put them under the tree, and when the cookies were ready to come out of the oven, she called him. But he was happy with Carole by then and didn't want to come back to the kitchen. She put the cookies on platters and set them out on the kitchen table, and then went upstairs to wrap the set of leatherbound Chaucer she had bought Jack. The other things she'd bought for Jack had been wrapped for weeks, but she had just found these recently, while browsing through a bookstore.

The rest of the afternoon flew by, and Peter came home just before Jack did. Peter looked happy and excited, and gobbled up a handful of the cookies his mother had made, and then asked if he could go back to Jessica's again right after dinner.

“Why doesn't she come here for a change?” Liz asked plaintively. They never saw him anymore, he was either at sports, at school, or at his girlfriend's. Ever since he'd gotten his driver's license, she felt as though he only slept there.

“Her parents won't let her go out tonight. It's Christmas Eve.”

“It's Christmas Eve here too,” she reminded him, as Jamie wandered back into the kitchen, and helped himself to a cookie, with an adoring look at his older brother. Peter was Jamie's hero.

“It's not Christmas Eve at Timmie's house. He's Jewish,” Jamie said matter-of-factly, as Peter rumpled his hair, and ate another handful of cookies. “I made them,” Jamie said, pointing at the cookies disappearing into his brother's mouth.

“Delicious,” Peter said with his mouth full, and then turned back to his mother. “She can't go out tonight, Mom. Why can't I go there? It's boring here.”

“Thank you. You need to stick around to do things here,” she said firmly.

“You have to help me leave the cookies and carrots for Santa and the reindeer,” Jamie said solemnly. It was something the boys did together every year, and Jamie would have been disappointed not to do it with him, and Peter knew it.