Gabriella walked into a handsome bookstore on Third Avenue and looked around. They had new books, and a section of old leather-bound books as well, and even some rare first editions. And she was shocked to see how expensive they were when she browsed through them. There were even one or two that cost several thousand dollars. But she settled on something finally that she thought would really please him. It was a set of very old books, by an author she had heard him use as an example to her very often. They were leather bound, and obviously had been much read and held by loving hands. There were three volumes, and when she paid for them, she doled out her money slowly and carefully. She had never in her life bought anything as expensive, but he was worth it.

“That's a great choice you made,” a young Englishman said, as he counted her money. “I bought them in London last year, and I was surprised no one snapped them up immediately. They're very rare editions.” They chatted for a few minutes about the books, and then he looked at her curiously and asked her if she was a writer.

“Yes, I am,” she said cautiously, “or I'm starting to be. I just sold a story to The New Yorker, thanks to the man I'm giving the books to.”

“Is he your agent?” he asked with interest.

“No, a friend.”

“I see.” He told her he wrote too, and had been struggling for the past year with his first novel.

“I'm still on short stories.” She smiled. “I'm not sure I'll ever get up the courage to write a novel.”

“You will,” he said confidently, “although I'm not sure I'd wish that on you. I started out doing short stories, and poetry. But it's awfully hard to make a living at it.” He was sure that she already knew that.

“I know,” she smiled at him again, “I've been working as a waitress.”

“I did that too.” He grinned. “I was a bartender in the East Village, then a waiter at Elaine's, and now I work here. I'm the manager, actually, and they let me do some of the buying. The people who own the store live in Bermuda. They're retired, and they bought this because they love books so much. They're both writers.” He mentioned two names that instantly impressed her, and then he looked at her curiously. “I don't suppose you'd want to give up waiting on tables?” He knew the tips could be good, but the hours were long, and the conditions usually gruelling.

“It just gave me up, actually.” She laughed. “I got fired this week. Merry Christmas.”

“The woman who usually works here with me is having a baby, and she's leaving for good next Friday. I don't suppose you'd be interested, would you? The salary is pretty good, and you can read all you want when business is quiet.” He smiled at her shyly then. “And they say I'm not too dreadful to work for. My name is Ian Jones, by the way.” He extended a hand and she shook it and introduced herself to him, excited about the offer he'd made her. He told her what the salary was, and it was more than she'd been making at Baum's, including tips, working twelve hours a day. And this was exactly the kind of job she wanted. She offered him references and he said that wasn't necessary, he liked her look and the way she carried herself. She was well-spoken and intelligent, and a writer. As far as Ian was concerned, she was perfect. And she agreed to start the day after New Year's.

He wrapped her package for her, and she tucked it under her arm, and took the bus home with a broad grin on her face, and she practically exploded into the boardinghouse when she got there.

“Did you sell another story?” Mrs. Boslicki asked excitedly, as she ran into the hallway to meet her.

“No, better than that, almost. I got a great job in a bookstore! I start the day after New Year's.” She told Professor Thomas about it later that afternoon, and he was pleased for her, and delighted to see her so happy. He hadn't been feeling well all day. He was coming down with the flu, and he was starting to develop bronchitis. But he was happy for her, and they sat in his bedroom and talked, while he stayed warm and cozy in his old bathrobe. She could hardly wait to give him his Christmas present, but she was determined to wait until Christmas morning.

And on her way upstairs to her own room, she ran into Steve Porter. He was looking a little subdued and he couldn't help commenting on how happy she was. She told him she'd just found a job that afternoon, and he congratulated her and said he wished he'd been as lucky. He'd been in New York for a month, interviewing everywhere, and so far he'd had no luck at all, and he said he was running out of money.

“I hear you sold a story to The New Yorker too,” he said admiringly. “It sounds like you're having a lucky streak these days. I'm happy for you.” He didn't know that she'd already paid her dues and had had enough bad luck to last a lifetime. But she was sorry he was looking so glum. It seemed unfair to be in such good spirits when he was having such a hard time, and she felt suddenly guilty for all the unpleasant things she'd said about him.

“Thank you for the wreath, by the way.” It was the first time she'd really thanked him. He seemed to do a lot of nice things for everyone, and she'd been very critical of him, and now she was sorry. “I'll keep my fingers crossed for you, Steve.”

“Thanks, I need it.” And then as he walked away, he turned and looked at her hesitantly and she saw it. “I've been meaning to ask you something, but I wasn't sure if it would sound odd to you. I was wondering if you'd want to go to midnight Mass with me on Christmas Eve.” She was touched that he had asked her. She knew it was going to be a hard Christmas for her, with Joe gone, and having left St. Matthew's. But she also hadn't been to Mass since she'd left the convent.

“I'm not sure I want to go,” she said honestly, “but if I do, I'll go with you. Thanks for asking.”

“Sure. Anytime.” He smiled and went back downstairs to pick up his messages. Understandably, since he was looking for a job, he made a lot of phone calls. And Gabriella realized suddenly how wrong she'd been about him. Professor Thomas was right. He was a nice guy. And so was Ian Jones, her new boss. She thought he was going to be fun to work with. He said he lived with someone, and it was obvious that his interest in Gabbie was professional and intellectual, and not romantic, which suited her to perfection. She wasn't interested in getting involved with anyone, or dating. She was still missing Joe, and she wondered if she'd ever be ready for someone else in her life. She couldn't imagine ever finding anyone even remotely like him. But it was sweet of Steve to ask her to Mass anyway. It would be nice if they could be friends. She was in such a good mood these days, that she was much more open to being friends with him than she had been. And she said as much to Professor Thomas that night after she brought him dinner from across the street, and they ate it in his bedroom.

“I think you might be right about him,” she admitted, talking about Steve. “He seems like a nice guy after all. He says he's having a hard time finding work.”

‘That's hard to believe for a bright young guy like him. I've talked to him a few times. He has a lot going for him. He went to Yale, and graduated summa cum laude. And he has an MBA from Stanford. Pretty impressive.” It was one of the reasons he would have liked to see him go out with Gabbie. He was bright, well educated, and once he got a job, the professor was sure he would do well. He just had to be patient. Listening to him, Gabbie realized again how lucky she'd been to find a job that suited her so well only days after she lost the last one. She still thought about the scene with the little girl in the restaurant, and she knew she'd always be glad she'd come to the child's rescue. Maybe it would tell Allison one day that somewhere in the world there were people who could care about her.

She and the professor talked for a while that night, but his cough sounded worse to her so she left him to get some rest and she went back up to her own room to do some writing. And she was surprised when she found a note from Steve there. It was polite, and neatly written.

“Dear Gabbie, thanks for the encouragement. Right now I need that. I've been having a lot of problems with my family, my mom's been sick for the last year, and we lost my dad last winter. We could all use a bit of cheer, and I can't get back to Des Moines right now, so if you come to Mass with me on Christmas Eve, it would mean a lot to me. If not, we'll make it another time. Maybe even dinner. (I'm a great cook, if Mrs. Boslicki will ever let me use her kitchen! Steaks, spaghetti, pizzas! You name it!) Take care, hope this Christmas season ends as well as it started for you. You really deserve it. Best, Steve.”

She read it over carefully, and was touched by what he'd said about his family. He was obviously having a rough time, and she promised herself she'd be nice to him from then on. She didn't know why she'd been suspicious of him at first. He just seemed too slick to her, he tried too hard, and was too friendly. But you could hardly hold it against someone for being pleasant. She was ashamed of herself now for her suspicions, and she thought maybe she would go to Mass with him on Christmas Eve, if only for his sake. And maybe she owed it to Joe and Mother Gregoria anyway, to pray for them. It would be hard this year, but she'd survive it.

She put the note from Steve on the dresser, took out her notebook, and forgot about him. She didn't see him again until Christmas Eve, when she told him in the afternoon that she'd be happy to go to midnight Mass with him, and he looked ecstatic and thanked her profusely for her kindness. It made her feel even worse about the earlier things she'd said about him, and she said as much to Professor Thomas when she brought him another dinner.

“You should feel guilty,” he scolded her. ‘He's a nice guy, and he's having a hard time.” He got a million messages every day, but he never found a job. The professor wondered if he'd set his sights too high, and expected to be running General Motors. But in spite of what Gabbie had said about him initially, he didn't seem arrogant, just smart, and easygoing.

They met in the hallway at eleven-thirty, and Steve held the door open for her, as they walked out into the bitter-cold night. There was ice on the ground, and frost in the air each time they spoke to each other. They didn't say much because the air was so cold it felt like fire in their lungs each time they breathed, and Gabriella's face was tingling by the time they got to St. Andrew's. It was a small church, but it looked as though the entire parish had come and brought friends. It was filled to the rafters. And Gabbie felt a rush of familiar feelings as she slipped into a pew beside him. The incense was strong, the candles were lit everywhere, and there was the smell of pine boughs from the altar. It was like coming home for her, and she was overwhelmed by a wave of grief and nostalgia. She stayed on her knees most of the time, and once when Steve looked at her, he saw that she was crying. He didn't want to bother her, but he put a gentle hand on her shoulder just to let her know he was there, and then took it away so she didn't feel he had intruded on her.

The hymns were particularly beautiful that night, and she knew all of them. The entire congregation sang “Silent Night,” and they both cried when the choir sang “Ave Maria.” They both had tender memories. He had lost his dad, and his mother was sick, and he couldn't be with her.

And afterward Gabriella went to one of the side altars, and lit three candles to the Blessed Virgin, one for Mother Gregoria, one for Joe, and the third one for their baby. She prayed for all three of their souls, and she was very quiet when they left St. Andrew's. Steve waited awhile to say anything to her, and then he commented on how hard it was to be far from home and lose people you loved. She took a deep breath, said nothing, and then nodded.

“I get the impression this may not have been an easy year for you either,” he said to her. It had been impossible to ignore the fact that she was crying, although he didn't say anything about it.

“It wasn't,” she admitted, as they walked home side by side.

He was careful not to touch her, although in church she had felt the gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder while she was crying. “I lost two people I loved very much this year… and there's a third one I can't see anymore. It was a very hard time for me when I moved to Mrs. Boslicki's.” She was trying to tell him that she understood what a hard time he was having.

“She's been very nice to me,” Steve said gratefully. “The poor thing spends half her day taking my phone calls.”