Time Frame: Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, 1984 (second season), which fell between Playing Possum (12/10/84) and The Three Faces of Emily (12/31/84).

Disclaimer: Warner Bros. and Shoot the Moon still own the characters, no matter how much I wish they were mine. The story is all mine.

Author's Notes: This story was originally posted on 12/23/2002 as part of Dix's "12 Days of Christmas" fanfic series. Italics indicate flashback/flashforward sections.

Warnings: None

Thanks: This fic wouldn't exist without Dix's not-so-subtle "by the way, I still have two slots open for Christmas fics" email, so the first thank you goes to her for reminding me that I do, on occasion, write.  To dotty and Shelly, who were with me from day one of the monsterpiece, thanks a million! To my entire A-one beta team, who always come through in the clutch, I don't know what I'd do without you. Y'all really are the best.

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The Ghosts of Christmas

"Good morning, Lee. Merry Christmas!"

Lee grunted at Amanda's cheery greeting, opting to keep his nose buried in the daily report instead of looking at her. He knew she'd be all rosy-cheeked from the cold and sparkly-eyed from the excitement of the season. Nobody he knew was more enthusiastic about Christmas than Amanda. Since the week before Thanksgiving, he'd been hearing all about her gift buying, meal preparations, decorating, family plans, and whatever else went on in the King household during the holidays, and he'd had enough. The only bright spot about it being Christmas Eve was that she'd stop gushing about the 'spirit of the season.' That thought perked him up considerably, so he took the chance of lifting his eyes above the edge of the printout to look across his desk at her. Narrowing his eyes at the brightly wrapped package in her hands, he suspiciously asked, "What's that?"

She smiled, and he noted how her eyes twinkled even more. "It's your Christmas present, of course."

"Amanda . . . "

"I know, I know," she continued before he could protest. "You told me not to get you anything, but I saw this, and it was just perfect for you, and there was only one left, and I know it's something you'd never buy for yourself, so . . . " she paused for a breath as she set the long, thin package on his desk. "Merry Christmas, Lee."

"Really, Amanda, you shouldn't have. You should be spending money on your family, not me." Seeing her crestfallen look, he quickly added, "But I'm glad you did." Flashing her a thousand-watt smile, he set down the computer printout and reached for the gift and was pleased to be rewarded with a smile in return. He wondered if she knew how her face lit up when she smiled. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I hope you like it."

Lee nodded and slipped the box into his desk drawer. "I'm sure I will. I suppose you have a thousand things to do today, and I need to get back to this report, so . . ." he gently tried to encourage her to go about her business so he could get back to his. His brow furrowed when she didn't leave. Instead, she was chewing on her lower lip and staring at his desktop, where she was drawing small circles with the tip of her index finger. It was a sure sign that she wasn't finished with him but didn't know how to say whatever it was that she wanted to say. He breathed a heavy sigh and asked, with more than a little irritation, "What is it?"

"I know you aren't much for Christmas tradition," she began.

"Here we go." Sighing heavily in frustration, he began to rub his forehead in anticipation of the headache he was sure she was going to create.

Continuing as if he hadn't said anything, Amanda scolded, "Champagne, guacamole dip and football isn't exactly the best way to spend Christmas. It's not a solitary holiday; it's a time for family and friends, and you shouldn't be alone."

"Bah, humbug!" Lee exclaimed. "What's wrong with being alone? I've been alone for years, and I'm doing just fine." Her raised eyebrow told him she didn't believe that for a second. Defensively, he grumbled, "I like being alone. I like sitting on my couch in my sweats watching football. I like not having to get dressed up to go somewhere to make polite conversation about Biff's new watch or Suzie's new necklace or Junior's sudden decision to not believe in Santa Claus this year and how concerned Biff and Suzie are about Junior's loss of innocence." He glared at Amanda. "It's all so artificial."

"You only say that because you haven't had a real Christmas in so long. You've forgotten how nice it can be."

Warning bells began to go off in his head. " 'Nice'? Amanda, I don't do 'nice.' "

"Oh, Lee, you could do 'nice,' you just don't let yourself do 'nice.' This is a perfect opportunity for you. Our family dinner . . ."

"No, no, no. Don't do it. Don't ask me." He shook his head vehemently.

" . . . will be at six tomorrow tonight. If you come by early, you can watch the football game with Phillip. He's an avid fan."

Lee closed his eyes and shook his head again. Under his breath, he muttered, "I told her not to ask, but she asked." Looking up at Amanda, he said, "No. I don't want to be part of some King family traditional Christmas. I'm sure it's just like a Currier and Ives print, but it's not me. I'm a loner, remember?"

"But, Lee—"

"No, Amanda. Case closed." He deliberately picked up the daily report and studiously began to read it, effectively dismissing her. Her sigh of resignation failed to cause him to look at her, and he breathed his own sigh—of relief—when her high-heeled footsteps faded into the noise of the bullpen. 'Christmas with that crowd? What was she thinking?'

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Lee shut the cabinet with more force than was necessary. "Where the hell is that champagne bucket?" A search of every cupboard in his kitchen, the cabinet under the bar, and even the hall closet, had proven fruitless, and his irritation had grown exponentially with each unsuccessful attempt to locate the silver bucket.

Brows furrowed, he glanced around his apartment. "The last time I used it was . . ." He smiled and snapped his fingers. "Antoinette." His long legs took him to the bedroom in a few strides where he knelt to rummage around under the bed, grinning when he finally had his hands on the elusive item. As he examined the bucket, he chuckled in memory. "Antoinette's version of 'kick the bucket' was definitely boisterous, but you don't look any worse for wear."

He pushed himself to his feet and returned to the kitchen, placing the bucket on the counter next to the refrigerator. Reaching into a bag from his favorite wine shop, he retrieved a bottle of Dom Perignon '73 and set it into the bucket. "There. A little bit of ice tomorrow morning, and you'll be perfectly chilled by kickoff," he said to the bottle as he patted its foil-covered cork.

Upending a grocery bag, Lee dumped the remaining items—two large bags of corn chips and the ingredients for his homemade guacamole dip—onto the counter. He crumpled the bag and, with a hook shot that "Dr. J." would have envied, tossed it at the garbage can in the corner of the kitchen, where it bounced gently off the wall and miraculously landed on top of the close-to-overflowing trash. Pumping his fist, he exclaimed, "Two points!"

With a smile of satisfaction about his small triumph over garbage, he opened the refrigerator to forage for something to eat for dinner. Grimacing at the meager offerings—three slices of two-day-old loaded pizza, still in the delivery box, half a carton of fried rice, and two containers of unknown origin—he found himself wondering what Amanda was preparing for Christmas Eve dinner. "What was it she said?" His features scrunched as he tried to recall her words. Mimicking her cheerful rambling, he quoted, " 'We always have turkey on Thanksgiving, goose for Christmas, and ham for New Year's, so Mother decided to make Yankee Pot Roast tonight.' " Staring at his nearly empty refrigerator, he sighed. "Yankee Pot Roast would definitely taste good right now. If I suddenly appeared on her doorstep at dinner time . . ."

Straightening suddenly, he yanked the pizza box from the shelf and slammed the door. "What am I thinking? I am not gonna go over there like some charity case, especially when Amanda knows damn well I'm against dinner there tomorrow. I'd rather be tortured by the KGB!"

Unbidden, more of Amanda's words came to him as he walked into the living room. "It's not a solitary holiday; it's a time for family and friends, and you shouldn't be alone."

With a derisive snort, he forcefully dropped the box onto the coffee table and strode to the wet bar. "What does she know about it, anyway? People who've never been alone just don't appreciate alone," he muttered as he opened the freezer of the small refrigerator under the wet bar and retrieved an ice cube tray. He dropped the last ice cube from the tray into his glass and plunked the tray into the sink, then poured himself a scotch from the crystal decanter that had once belonged to his parents. Replacing the stopper, he fingered the glass for a moment, his eyes softening. "Being with people isn't all it's cracked up to be," he whispered.

He tossed back the scotch in one gulp and poured himself another, sipping it as he crossed the room to turn on the television. Flipping through the channels, he grew agitated. " It's a Wonderful Life, White Christmas, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Isn't there anything on besides sappy Christmas movies?" The second glass of scotch disappeared in a swallow. Finally, he settled on a local station that was airing a political news show.

Lee returned to the wet bar to refill his glass before settling onto the couch. After toeing off his shoes, he stretched his legs across the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. He pulled the pizza box onto his lap, took out a piece and sunk his teeth into the slice. Sighing with contentment, he closed his eyes as he chewed. 'Doesn't get much better than this,' he thought. He took a sip of his third scotch and smiled. 'Scotch and cold pizza may just replace champagne and guacamole dip!'

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Startled by a slight noise, Lee awoke, immediately aware that someone was in the room with him. Carefully, he reached for his gun while he listened intently to determine where the person was. Detecting a small 'clink' near the wet bar, the distinctive sound of crystal against crystal, he rolled off the couch, coming effortlessly to his feet to train his pistol at the intruder.

"You're slipping, Scarecrow. I've been here for almost two minutes already. The scotch is still first-rate, though." The shadowy figure turned slightly and Lee felt rather than saw the man point his chin at the gun that was leveled at him. "You might as well put that away. It won't do any good."

Something about the man's voice caused the hair on the back of Lee's neck to stand on end. Although the memory of it was vague, it unsettled him. With his free hand, Lee fumbled for the end table lamp while keeping the gun trained at the shadowy figure standing across the room. "If you don't mind, I'll decide if I need it or not."

"Some things never change. You're still the most suspicious guy I've ever known." The man chuckled. "Still keep a spare gun in the magazine rack in the john, just in case someone catches you with your pants down?"

Lee stiffened, and his hand stilled on the lamp switch. Only one other person had known about that, but he was dead. Long dead. Lee had seen him die with his own eyes. But that voice . . . yes, it was his voice. And the laugh was as familiar to Lee as his own. Feeling more than a little uncertain, Lee pushed the switch and gasped as he looked into the eyes of his friend. "Eric?" he whispered in stunned surprise, the gun wavering in his outstretched hand.

Eric walked toward his former partner. "Surprised to see me, huh? I guess you would be, with me being dead and all."

The words snapped Lee out of his state of shock, and his gun arm once more became steady. "Stop right there. I don't know who you are or why you're pretending to be Eric, but it's not gonna work. Whatever game you're playing, I'm not falling for it."

"It's no game, buddy," he said as he continued to cross the living room, paying no heed to the gun. "I've been sent to talk to you."

Lee snorted in disgust. "Yeah, sure you were. If I believe that, what're you gonna do next, sell me some oceanfront property in Montana?" As Eric moved into the glow of the lamp, Lee swallowed hard when he realized he was looking straight through the man, not at him. "Nice touch with the ghostly specter effects, though. Where'd you hide the cameras?"

"Now, that's more like the Scarecrow I remember," Eric said with a grin. Waving his arm around the apartment, he noted, "This whole set-up is pretty much what I expected—still the classic bachelor pad. I'll bet there's nothing much in the fridge but leftover Chinese food and a few beers." Spotting the champagne bucket on the coffee table, he added, "And I see you're preparing for your annual Christmas 'eat and drink myself into a stupor in front of the tube' event." Shaking his head, he commented, "It's pretty sad, Lee."

Lee's eyes flashed dangerously. "Why is everyone suddenly so interested in my lifestyle? It was good enough last year and the year before that. Hell, it's been damn good for plenty of years, and I don't need you or Aman . . ." he stopped short, suddenly afraid that speaking her name out loud might conjure her up, too, and the last thing he needed was a tag-team of people telling him how to run his own life. "Everyone can just get their noses out of my personal life."

"Everyone?" Eric's eyebrows went up a notch. "Sounds like someone has been doing my job for me. Can't be making much progress, though, or I wouldn't be here to warn you."

"Warn me? Give me a break."

A sound of irritation came from somewhere inside the ghostly apparition. "Listen, my friend, this is no joke, and I don't have much time left to get through to you. You've been on a path to destruction for a long time, and nobody knows that path better than I do. We're cut from the same mold, and you're acting just like I did before . . . Let's just say that you're heading in the same direction I went. If you don't get your act together . . ."

Incredulous, Lee sarcastically asked, "You're trying to tell me you're my Jacob Marley? So, where's your chain, huh?"

After taking a deep breath, Eric looked directly into his friend's eyes and softly replied, "You, of all people, should know that not all chains are visible."

A stab of cold fear shot through Lee at those words. Immediately, he knew that the image before him really was Eric, not some trick, and his former partner was burdened with something beyond anything Lee could comprehend.

Nodding as if he realized Lee finally understood, Eric gently said, "I'm trying to keep you from suffering the same fate, buddy, and I don't have much time." He glanced at the living room clock just as it began to strike midnight. With each chime, Eric's already transparent body began to fade. Hurriedly, he explained, "You know how the story goes. The ghosts of Christmas past, present and future will all visit you tonight between now and daybreak. They prefer to visit on consecutive nights, but they've been pretty busy this year, so they'll be here at 1, 2 and 3." He took a step back from Lee, his body quickly disappearing into nothingness. "Listen to them, Lee. Your future depends on it. I don't want you to end up like I have."

"Eric, wait!" Lee called, but it was too late. His friend had vanished into thin air on the twelfth stroke of the clock.

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"Eric? Don't leave!" Lee shouted as he woke. Sitting upright on the couch, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm in his chest, he frantically looked around the room for his friend.

Disoriented and slightly panicked, he forced himself to sit still and wait for his breathing to return to normal. Slowly, his eyes focused on the television, where a black and white movie was flickering on the screen. Squinting at the images, he searched his memory for the title. "A Christmas Carol?" Noting the empty scotch glass and pizza box on the coffee table, Lee put the pieces together and scowled. "Alcohol, pizza and falling asleep to that movie—no wonder I was dreaming about Eric. Ghosts. Right."

Still, he couldn't stop himself from stealing a glance at the clock. His mouth went dry when he saw that it was twelve fifty-nine, and he shuddered at the thought that the Ghost of Christmas Past was due in less than a minute. Cursing himself for entertaining the thought for even a split-second, Lee launched himself off the couch and snatched the empty glass from the table.

The muscle in his jaw worked furiously as he strode to the wet bar. "Believing in ghosts? What the hell is wrong with me tonight?" He glowered at the empty ice cube tray in the sink, cursing himself again, this time for forgetting to refill the tray earlier. Angrily, he sloshed water into the tray and shoved it into the freezer. Then he half-filled the glass with scotch and stomped into the kitchen for ice.

His hand paused on the freezer door as the clock struck one. With his breath caught in his throat, he swung his head toward the living room, half-expecting some ghostly specter to appear in the doorway.

After a few moments, when no ghost materialized, Lee released his breath in a rush. He shook his head, wondering why he was so jittery from a dream. Pulling open the freezer, he extracted an ice cube from a tray and plunked it into the glass, where it landed in the scotch with a satisfying 'plop.' As he closed the freezer door, he took a small sip of the liquid, murmuring a sound of appreciation as it slid down his throat.

He turned to return to the living room and came to an immediate halt, the glass slipping from his hand and shattering into hundreds of pieces at his feet.

"That's a waste of good scotch, if you ask me."

"Now, Matthew," Jennifer Stetson gently laid her hand on her husband's arm. "The boy has had a bit of a shock."

Matthew turned his head and smiled at his wife. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Still," he shook his head and sighed at the mess on the floor, "it really is a waste."

Lee took a tentative step toward his parents. Shakily, he questioned, "Mom? Dad? No, it can't be." He closed his eyes and covered them with his hands, his fingertips massaging his forehead. "I'm dreaming. When I wake up, I'll be on the couch, and you'll be gone." Slowly, he lowered his hands, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes only to find the nearly transparent images of his parents a mere foot from him. "This can't be happening."

Jennifer's eyes showed her concern. "Surely you were informed of our planned visit?"

Lee choked back the urge to respond with a flippant, "Don't call me Shirley," and instead harrumphed, "Oh, yeah, I was told about a visit, all right."

His mother clucked her tongue, accurately interpreting Lee's skepticism. "And you didn't believe it."

"Why would I?" he belligerently asked. "And even if I did, why would I have expected you, of all people?" He turned his back on them, suddenly overcome with conflicting emotions of joy and anger. Chest heaving, he closed his eyes and began the deep-breathing exercises he'd learned many years ago.

"Aren't you pleased to see us, son?" Matthew's eyes, so like Lee's, clouded with doubt. "I knew I should have insisted that someone else be sent, but . . ." he raked his left hand through his hair and sighed. "Your mother so wanted to see you—"

"We both wanted to see you," Jennifer corrected, directing a chastising glance at Matthew. "Lee, we had to see you. You need help, and as your parents, we should be the ones to give it." She moved forward to stand next to their son, her ghostly hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Although Lee could feel no pressure, he sensed her touch and shivered at the contact. His voice was hard and flat. "Why now?"

Jennifer's pleading look in Matthew's direction brought her husband to stand next to her. As he placed his hand on Lee's other shoulder, he quietly stated, "Because we're needed now, son."

Lee swallowed hard around the huge lump that had formed in his throat. In a small voice, he said, "You were needed thirty years ago. Where were you then, huh?"

Matthew and Jennifer exchanged a look. At Matthew's almost imperceptible nod, his wife explained, "Lee, we know you have many questions, and you do have the right to ask them, and you do deserve answers, but not now. We were sent here for a very specific purpose, and we don't have much time."

"Woulda had more time if you'd been on time," Lee muttered.

A smile tugged at the corners of Matthew's lips. "Now, that sounds more like the Lee I know."

"He sounds much like someone else I know," Jennifer commented with a mock sigh of irritation. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Smiling softly at her husband and son, eyes misty, she noted, "You two are so very alike. So very alike." Her expression suddenly became serious. "And that's precisely why we're here." Chin up and mouth set in a grim line, she nodded at Matthew and wrapped her arms around Lee. "We'd best be on with it. Hold tight, Lee."

"On with what? What . . ." The remainder of Lee's question was lost in a whoosh of air as Matthew waved his arm and the trio was immediately transported from Lee's kitchen to the family room of a small house. Matthew and Jennifer stood silently behind their son, waiting for him to recognize their surroundings.

Lee's brow furrowed as he scrutinized the room. It was familiar, yet unfamiliar, like a distant memory that he couldn't quite grasp. With his fingertip, he traced the floral pattern on the wall and tried to clear his mind to allow the memory to surface.

"Lee! Lee, you come right back here with that!"

Startled at the sound of his mother's voice coming from another room of the house, Lee swung around to face her. "What's going on here? Where the hell are we?"

Jennifer pointed to the doorway leading from the living room into a hall. "Watch."

A few moments later, a four year-old Lee burst into the room carrying a small, wooden box, a trail of red, white, silver, gold and green Christmas ribbon streaming behind him.

Following close on his heels was a young Jennifer Stetson. "Lee Stetson, what did I just tell you? Take your father's Christmas present back into the bedroom this instant!"

Lee skidded to a stop and turned to face his mother, his arms folded defiantly against his chest, the tangle of ribbon wound colorfully around his neck, arms and feet. "No! I want to do the ribbon!"

Hands on her hips, Jennifer glared at her son as she slowly backed him into the corner. "No one will be able to 'do the ribbon' with you all tied up in it."

"What's all the ruckus?" Matthew poked his head into the room and raised his eyebrows at the sight of his ribbon-bedecked son. "Well, well, what have we here?" he asked as he crossed the room to crouch in front of Lee. Tapping the box his son held pressed tight against his chest, Matthew grinned over his shoulder at Jennifer. "Nice wrapping."

Eyes twinkling, Jennifer smiled. "Thank you, but I'm afraid the honors go to Lee for the rather . . . unique wrapping."

"Well, then," he winked at her, "I think we should get to do the unwrapping, don't you?"

"Absolutely," she replied as she joined her husband on the floor in front of Lee. "After you."

With a small shake of his head, Matthew said, "Together."

Lee's eyes grew wide as his parents closed in on him, his squeals of protest quickly turning into squeals of joy as Matthew and Jennifer tickled him out of his ribbons.

Lee smiled as the scene in front of him continued to play. "I remember this. Later, you," he turned to his mother, "let me tie ribbons on Dad's present, and after dinner, we put up the Christmas tree. Dad let me 'help' with the lights." He began to chuckle. "I'm sure I was just in the way, but I thought I knew exactly what I was doing." Staring once again at the happy threesome tickling each other in the living room, he added, "And we all sang Christmas carols. I'd forgotten all about it."

Jennifer nodded and smiled at Matthew. "It's time to press on."

"Wait! Can't we stay here a few minutes longer?" Lee asked.

"I'm afraid not, son. The hour grows short, and we have other stops to make."

Before Lee could protest, Matthew once again waved his arm, and the three found themselves in another living room.

"C'mon, Lee, why don't you help me with the tree?" Captain Robert Clayton set a box of Christmas lights on the floor and knelt in front of a sullen-faced Lee. "I know Christmas is already half over, and you've already opened all your presents, but we should do the tree up right. Just because we transferred here last week, and I had to spend the last forty-eight hours on duty, doesn't mean we can't have some Christmas spirit in the place. What d'ya say?"

The seven year-old shook his head. "Don't wanna."

"You sure about that? Your dad always said you were a pro at stringing lights."

"I said I don't want to!"

"Okay, okay, you don't have to. I just thought . . . Well, never mind what I thought." He sighed and stood, automatically straightening his uniform as he rose. "I'll take care of the tree."

As the Captain worked to unknot the lights, he surreptitiously watched Lee out of the corner of his eye. "You know, this was the one thing I couldn't wait for each year—seeing the lights on the tree. That's when I knew it was Christmas. Well," he smiled, "it was really the presents under the tree that made it all real, but a tree isn't a Christmas tree until it has lights on it. Right?"

"Hmmph."

"With your attitude, it's a wonder Santa didn't leave you a pile of coal in your stocking this year."

Lee sneered at his uncle. "Santa? I'm too old to believe in Santa."

"Oh, you are, are you? I guess that package he left for you over in the corner can go right to the mission, then. The kids there are sure to believe in the jolly old elf."

"A package for me?" Lee casually leaned to one side to peer around his uncle, obviously curious but unwilling to be overt about it. "You already gave me a bunch of stuff."

Captain Clayton allowed himself a small smile when he saw that he'd finally captured Lee's interest. "Sure, I gave you some things, but that over there," he jerked his thumb at the tall, crudely-wrapped box in the corner, "was on the doorstep when I got home. The tag says, 'To: Lee From: Santa.' Maybe the move gave him a little trouble finding you this year, but he managed to deliver. He always does."

The boy eyed the package. "It's kinda big," he noted. "I wonder what it is."

"Only one way to find out—open it!"

When Lee remained seated, his uncle walked across the room to pick up the box. Balancing it on his forearms, he joked, "It's not too heavy, and it doesn't rattle, so I guess it's not a box of rocks." Lee rolled his eyes, and Robert shrugged. "So, I'm not Bob Hope. You've always known that." He set the box onto Lee's lap. "C'mon, let's see what Santa brought you."

After a slight hesitation, Lee tore off the paper and, for a brief moment, forgot to hide his lack of interest in anything to do with Christmas or the Captain. "Wow!" he exclaimed. Grinning from ear to ear, he ripped through the box to get to the treasure inside. As his hand closed over the gift, however, it was as if his balloon of enthusiasm had been deflated. With an air of indifference, he looked up at his uncle and said, "This is nice."

"I had wanted that Daniel Boone rifle more than anything, but I never once told him that, and I never let on how much I loved it. He really did try; I was just too blind to see it," Lee said with surprise. "Maybe Amanda was right about me being too hard on him all these years."

"You should pay more attention to Amanda, son." Matthew smiled at Lee's incredulous expression. "Oh, we know all about Amanda. I know you think she's a nuisance, meddling in your life, but she's really concerned about you. The woman has a good head on her shoulders, and a whole bundle of life experience you can't begin to imagine. You could learn a lot from her." Matthew winked at Jennifer. "Trust me. I speak from experience."

Jennifer's eyes seemed to glow as she gazed at Matthew. Without taking her eyes from her husband's face, she clasped his hand. "Everyone's experiences have merit, Lee. Never forget that."

As Lee silently observed the exchange between his parents, he began to remember the incredible love that had been a part of his childhood. It was something that had died in him the day he'd learned of his parents' accident, and he never thought he'd feel it again.

"It didn't die, Lee, you just buried it."

Lee narrowed his eyes at his mother, unnerved by her spoken response to his thoughts. "How . . ."

"It doesn't matter 'how,' just that I know," she answered with a smile. "Are you ready for our last stop?"

Silently, Lee nodded, and Matthew again worked his ghostly magic to transport them to another place and time. The living room they were in was fully decorated for the holidays, but there was an eerie feeling of emptiness in the space. Lee frowned as he looked around the room and tried to place it. Although strands of Christmas lights were strung everywhere—on furniture, over doorways, around the windows, as well as on the tree—the only illumination was a small circle of light from a tiny lamp on a table near the door. He spotted a calendar that was hanging on the entryway wall. Seeing the date sent a stab of panic through him, and he shook his head. "No, no, no, no, no. Not here. Why did you bring me here?" He turned to his parents, raw pain in his eyes. "Why would you do this to me?"

Jennifer's expression of pain mirrored that of her son's. "I'm sorry, Lee, but this is where it all began. You have to see it." Gently, she grasped his shoulders and forced him to watch the scene that had taken place on Christmas Eve, 1975.

"Lee! Lee! Open up!" The shouting was accompanied by aggressive pounding on the apartment door. "Lee! Answer me!"

A large lump on the couch moved, and Lee's head appeared from beneath an accent pillow. "Go away!" he bellowed then moaned as the words thundered about in his head like a herd of cattle. Groaning, he rolled over to reach for a glass on the coffee table. "Damn," he cursed when he found the glass empty. With effort, he managed to gain his feet. Clutching the glass, he stumbled toward the kitchen, but was stopped halfway there when his front door opened. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded of the man blocking his path.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," Paul answered. He slammed the door behind him, and Lee winced at the noise. "Still drowning your sorrows, I see."

Lee swayed slightly on his feet as he waved the glass in Paul's direction. "Better than remembering."

Paul made a sound of utter disgust. "Look at you. You're a mess. You're a disgrace to the Agency. I'm sorry I ever recommended you for the network."

"You're sorry?" Lee sneered. "You're sorry? I'm the one who's sorry. I never should have gotten mixed up with you. The Oz Network was gonna be the elite team, the cream of the crop, the 'bulletproof and invincible' agents. Isn't that how your recruiting pitch went? Well, Mister Wizard," he took a step forward and poked his index finger into Paul's chest, the glass dangling precariously from his fingers, "we weren't so bulletproof after all. Serdeych saw to that . . . with you leading us right into his trap." Lee violently jabbed his finger. "You got her killed!"

Through clenched teeth, Paul responded. "If I'd have known it was a trap, do you really think I would have ordered the raid? Do you really think I would have put all our lives at risk if I thought, even for a second, that Serdeych was waiting for us? You were there when Tin Man gave the all clear, so you know there was no reason to suspect an ambush." He grabbed Lee's wrist and pulled him close so they were standing nose to nose. "Can you honestly look me in the eye and accuse me of murdering Dorothy?" As suddenly as he had taken Lee's hand, he released it, making another sound of disgust when that slightest motion caused the more than six sheets to the wind Scarecrow to lose his balance. "Whatever you believe happened out there, Lee, do you think Dorothy would have wanted you to honor her memory this way?"

"Someone has to mourn her death," Lee snapped.

"Mourn, yes, but not crawl into a bottle of scotch and stay there for months." Paul walked to a nearby wall outlet and plugged in the cord to the lights that wove around the room. "I remember when Dorothy came to my apartment to drag me over here to put up all these decorations. I can still see her standing in my doorway with that determined look on her face she always got when her mind was made up and she was going to wear you down until you agreed with whatever it was she had on her mind. 'Paul, don't you think it's about time that Lee got some Christmas spirit?' she asked. I laughed at that, because it was only September. 'Nobody has any Christmas spirit before Halloween,' I told her, but she insisted that you were in desperate need of some. She said you'd had a conversation at dinner the night before where you said you hadn't celebrated Christmas in twenty years, and she found that shocking and sad. 'I dug out my fake tree and all the lights I could find. You and I are gonna decorate every square inch of his place so he can't help but get in the mood.'

"I thought she was nuts, but she was persuasive, so we wound up here – broke in while you were at the gym – and did all this." He waved his hand around the room. "When we finally turned on the lights, Dorothy stood right there," he pointed at a spot in front of the tree, "and said, 'Paul, if anything happens to me, make sure Lee celebrates Christmas. He needs to, more than he realizes.' " Paul turned to face his friend. "She made me promise, Lee."

"Yeah, well, you can say you tried." The younger agent lurched toward the tree and ripped the lights from it. Angrily, he turned and pulled down the strand that ran between him and his mentor, yanking the cord out of the outlet. "These are just more reminders that she's gone. Just another in a long string of people who have left me behind."

"I'm not done trying, my friend." With a sigh, Paul walked around the corner to the kitchen, where Lee could hear him opening and closing cupboards. "This is the worst stocked kitchen I've ever seen."

Mildly curious, Lee staggered to the kitchen doorway and lounged against the doorjamb. "Looking for something?"

"Coffee? Bread? Anything that doesn't have fur?" Peering at his friend over the top of the open refrigerator door, the senior agent asked, "Don't you have anything to eat in this place besides guacamole dip? And what about juice or even a can of soda? The only liquid I can find is a bottle of Dom Perignon."

"Champagne and guacamole dip. I think that'll be my new way to celebrate Christmas." Lee raised his glass and tipped it in Paul's direction. "Thanks, friend, for the new tradition."

Lee closed his eyes to block out the rest of the scene, which he now remembered had concluded with him taking a swing at Paul and Paul saying "I don't really want to do this, but it's for your own good" as his right cross laid Lee out cold on the living room floor. "Get me out of here," he ordered in a harsh whisper.

"As you wish, Lee," Jennifer agreed. "Before we go, though, your father and I want to tell you how much we love you and how proud we are of you."

"And we know you'll do what's necessary to get back on the right path," Matthew added. "Don't forget what we've shown you."

Opening his eyes, he stared at them in confusion. "You're talking like you're leaving. You can't be leaving, not already. We haven't talked, you haven't told me . . ."

Jennifer caressed her son's cheek. "Hush, Lee. There's nothing more we can tell you. Everything else, you have to figure out for yourself." She reached for Matthew's hand then leaned forward to place a kiss on Lee's forehead. "Don't forget," she whispered, and then they were gone.

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Standing amidst the shattered remains of his glass, Lee blinked and tried to make sense of what he had just experienced. 'Could I have fallen asleep on my feet?' he wondered. "I'm still dreaming," he said aloud, "that's the only explanation." Nodding his head emphatically, he repeated, "The only explanation." He reached for a roll of paper towels and crouched to begin cleaning up the broken glass.

As the clock chimed two, his hand slowed. With a mingle of trepidation and hope, he looked up at the doorway, silently wondering if he would be able to see his parents again, even for a few moments. "What am I thinking? They were a figment of my imagination, or a dream, or something." He rocked back on his heels, glass-filled paper towel in hand and thought for a moment. "Amanda. This is all her fault, putting all those ideas about a 'nice' Christmas in my head, making me think about past Christmases." He stood and walked to the garbage can. Forcefully, he shoved the overflowing trash down into the can far enough to allow him to dispose of the broken glass. "Ghosts," he murmured. "I just need some sleep."

He stepped gingerly across the floor, in case he'd missed any small shards of glass. Entering the living room, he realized he'd forgotten to turn off the television, so he headed across the room to do that before going to bed. A knock on the door stopped him in his tracks, and he held his breath for a moment. "Get a grip," he chastised himself after releasing the air in a gush. "Ghosts don't knock."

Swinging open the door, he grinned when he saw who was on the other side. "Francine!" Lee pulled his friend into the apartment and enveloped her in a bear hug. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Wow! I haven't gotten that kind of response from you in years!" Francine exclaimed. "Hoping to start something tonight?"

"Francine," he warned.

"Just kidding, just kidding," she laughed as she stepped out of his embrace. "I know that ship sailed a long time ago." Looking up at her friend, she frowned. "You look like hell, Scarecrow."

"Gee, thanks. I can always count on you for a compliment," he sarcastically replied. He pushed the door shut with his heel and followed her into the living room. "Let me take your coat."

Francine shook her head. "No, that's all right. I can't stay long."

"You're sure? I could use a friend here tonight. I'm afraid of who else . . ." Lee mentally cursed himself for almost telling her about the ghosts. She was the last person he wanted to confide something quite so . . . disturbing to—good friend or not.

Francine arched an eyebrow. " 'Who else' what? Are you expecting company you don't want? An old girlfriend, perhaps?" She smirked. "No, wait. The husband of an old girlfriend."

"Very funny. It's nothing like that. It's . . . well . . ." he sighed and began to pace. "I've just been having some strange dreams tonight, and I really don't know what to make of them. They're so real, but not real." He stopped in front of her. "Know what I mean?"

"Mmm-hmm. Real, but not real. I know exactly what you mean." She nodded sagely. " It's like you're dreaming that you're awake, but you're also dreaming that you're dreaming, and when you wake up, you still think you're dreaming."

"Huh? Francine, you're beginning to sound like Amanda."

"Am I? Hmm. I guess I shouldn't have spent the afternoon helping her hand out cookies. You know, she's pretty handy to have around at this time of year. Those sugar cookies she makes are divine. And those brownies . . ."

"Francine!"

"What? Oh, I'm sorry. You know me and chocolate. At Christmas, everyone else can have their visions of sugarplums. Give me a good fudge brownie vision, and I'll be set until New Year's."

The telltale 'I've had about enough' tic in Lee's jaw began to twitch. "The dream, Francine," he ground out through clenched teeth. "What were you going to say about the dream?"

"Oh, that. Why don't I just show you?" She slipped her gloved hand into his. "Hold on tight, now!"

Moments later, a flustered Lee stood next to Francine outside Billy Melrose's house.

"This time travel stuff is hell on a hairdo," the blonde muttered as she fussed with her hair, "but it beats downtown D.C. holiday traffic."

"You just transported me from my living room to Billy's patio and you're worried about your hair? What the hell . . ." he trailed off as it sunk in what had occurred. "You are the Ghost of Christmas Present? That's impossible."

Francine tipped her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "And just why is it impossible? Do you think I'm incapable of the job, or do you think it's man's work or some such nonsense like that?"

"No, of course not," he quickly defended himself. "It's nothing against your skills as a . . . a . . . ghost," he paused to shake his head slightly at that, still not able to completely wrap his mind around the fact that he seemed to be comfortable talking with what appeared to be a ghost. "It's just that . . . well . . . For one thing, you're not dead. Aren't ghosts supposed to be dead people? And for another, you gotta admit, Francine, that, next to me, you're the most anti-holiday person I know."

She placed her hand on her chest and gasped. "Whatever gave you those ideas? Christmas ghosts aren't exactly ghosts in the classic sense of the word. It turns out that 'Scrooges' tend to take the ghosts' message more seriously when it comes from a familiar face—dead or alive. And, for your information, I like the holidays as much as the next person . . . as long as the next person isn't you."

"Okay, I get the ghost thing—sorta—but c'mon, Francine," he scoffed, "you spend every year with only one goal in mind—avoiding Beaman's roaming hands at the office party."

"Lee, do you have any idea how I spend my holidays?"

"You work," Lee stated. At Francine's slight frown, he asked, "Don't you?"

"No, Lee, I don't. Every year, you volunteer to work through the holidays, which gives me the time I need to go home and visit my mother. It's the only time every year that I know I can get away and spend time with her."

Lee shook his head in disbelief. "I never knew that."

"I think the point is that you never cared enough to know."

"Francine, I'm sorry. I should have known. I should have asked. I should—"

"You should be quiet and pay attention to what's going on in there." Francine inclined her head toward the house. "That's why we're here."

Together, the twosome turned to watch through the window as Billy and Jeannie Melrose entered their living room.

"I tried—three times—but I couldn't change his mind." Billy sighed a deep sigh that seemed to come from his toes. "He insisted on being put on the duty roster again this year, and he refused to come to dinner."

Jeannie laid a comforting hand on her husband's shoulder. "You've done what you could, dear. He's just not ready."

"He's ready. He just doesn't know he's ready," Billy insisted. "When Amanda said she was going to invite him to dinner, I thought she might have a chance of getting through to him, but he turned her down flat, too." He sighed again and settled heavily onto the sofa.

Settling down next to him, Jeannie patted his knee. "There's always next year."

"I'm not so sure about that. Lee's less reckless than he was right after Eric's death, but he's still taking too many chances, and he won't listen to a word any of us say about being more cautious. Pairing him with Amanda has helped some. She's still learning, but she has good instincts, and she's a lot less impulsive than he is. And, as miraculous as it sounds, she actually gets him to slow down and listen to her before he rushes headlong into the unknown." He pounded his fist on the arm of the sofa in frustration. "But he's still rushing headlong into the unknown." Billy closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cushions. "I'm afraid if he doesn't start listening to all of us who are so concerned about him, he won't make it to next Christmas."

Sympathetically, Jeannie rested her head on Billy's shoulder. "He will, dear. You'll make sure he does, just like you always do. And next year, he'll come to dinner."

Francine shook her head. "Every year it's the same thing. Billy asks you to dinner, and you say no. Look what it's doing to him."

"I had no idea . . . I mean, I thought he was just asking because he felt he should ask, not because—"

"He's worried about you."

Lee spun on his heel to glare at his fellow agent. "Why?" he demanded. "What have I done lately that's so reckless, huh?"

"Let's see," Francine began to tick off items on her gloved fingers. "There was turning your back on a known KGB agent who would have shot you in the back if Amanda hadn't taken the bullets out of her gun, getting yourself locked in a freezer, having a fellow agent get the drop on you outside a bar, almost being killed by a former Agency janitor, and my personal favorite—dangling from a helicopter." With a saccharine smile and a tone dripping with sarcasm, she asked, "Shall I go on?"

Defensively, Lee retorted, "That wasn't recklessness. Every one of those things was done in the line of duty, or have you forgotten it's our job to protect national security?"

"Funny, nobody else winds up as bird bait while protecting national security. These kinds of things are uniquely Scarecrow. Your trademark, so to speak." The blonde tilted her head toward the window. "Billy is right to be worried about your penchant for being a daredevil, but it's not just that. He's worried—we're all worried—about your lack of interest in making a life for yourself outside of the Agency."

A lump formed in Lee's throat. He couldn't deny that he liked life on the edge, and the danger of his job made him feel alive. He also couldn't deny that the Agency was his life and he hadn't even tried to form any long-lasting attachments outside of the office. All of his closest friends were somehow associated with the Agency, and everyone else he knew fell into the casual acquaintance category. "I used to have a life," he whispered as he watched the Melrose's cuddle together and gaze at their Christmas tree, "but I don't know what happened to it."

"We can't get into that right now, Lee." Francine pushed back the cuff of her coat sleeve and impatiently tapped her watch. "We're on a schedule, and we're running late for our next stop." She took his hand, and a few moments later, they were standing in a spot very familiar to Lee—outside of Amanda's house, looking in through the French doors.

"Well, the dishes are finally done," Dotty announced as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "Do you want any, dear?"

"Hmm? What?" Amanda took one more glance out the French doors before walking toward the kitchen to see what 'any' her mother meant. Sliding on a comic book as she skirted the coffee table, she continued on to the base of the stairs to shout, "Fellas! If you don't come pick up your comic books, I'm putting them straight into the trash!" With a smile and shake of her head, she looked at her mother. "I swear, I say that every night." Noting the coffee carafe in Dotty's hand, she said, "Oh, coffee. Yeah, I'd love a cup."

Inclining her head toward the doors as she poured coffee for Amanda, Dotty asked, "What out there has your attention today?"

Amanda took the proffered mug and quickly turned around to make her way to the couch, where she sank into the seat furthest from the kitchen. "Nothing, Mother."

"Nothing? You haven't been more than a couple steps from a door or window all day." Lips pursed, Dotty sat on the opposite end of the couch. Sending a sidelong, speculative glance in Amanda's direction, she said, "It's almost as if you're expecting someone."

"Not really, but I thought one of my co-workers might come to Christmas dinner. I'm not surprised he didn't come. He said he wouldn't, but . . . " she trailed off and shrugged.

"But you hoped he would."

Wrapping both hands around the mug as if to draw warmth from it, Amanda asked, "Mother, how do you get someone to understand the importance of friends and family at this time of year? I mean, it's important all year, but it's especially important at Christmas. Without the . . ." she paused when Phillip and Jamie clattered down the stairs and jumped into the living room from the hallway landing. Instinctively, both women tightened their grips on their coffee mugs.

"Hey, Grandma! That video game you gave us is totally gnarly!" Jamie exclaimed as he nimbly stepped over the discarded comic book and plopped onto the couch between Dotty and Amanda. "It has two players, so Phillip can't hog it."

"I don't hog the video game, dog breath." Phillip picked up the comic book and tossed it at his brother. "I'm just better than you, so my turn takes longer."

Jamie neatly caught the book and threw it back at Phillip, who deflected it right into Dotty's lap. "You do, too, and you are not better than me!"

"Boys," Amanda sighed, "as a Christmas present to me, could we please have no more name-calling or fighting?" Catching the skeptical look that passed between her sons, she smiled. "How about just for the rest of the night, do you think you could at least manage for that long?"

"That depends. How many hours are left?" Phillip asked, then clutched his stomach in a dramatic show of fake pain when his grandmother swatted him with the rolled up comic book. "Okay, okay, we'll behave. Right, squ . . . Jamie?"

"Yeah, okay," Jamie agreed. "I'll be good if he will."

Amanda set her mug on the coffee table, hooked her left arm around Jamie's shoulder and stretched out her right arm to Phillip. Pulling them both into a bear hug, she kissed them each in turn. "Thank you, fellas. That's the best gift you could give me. Now," she said as she released them, "while you pick up all the comic books and put them away, your grandmother and I will see what we can scrounge up for dessert."

Hopefully, Phillip asked, "Peppermint stick ice cream?"

"Well, there may be some of that in the freezer. And maybe even some chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream," Dotty answered as she stood. "Of course, there might not be any of that to be found if there's still a mess in here by the time I get to the kitchen."

"Oh, boy!" Phillip shouted and immediately dropped to the floor to collect magazines.

Jamie leapt off the couch to help his brother. "Yeah, ice cream, cake, and pie! I love Christmas!" He stopped for a second, then turned to his mother. "I mean, I don't love Christmas just for the stuff and the dessert. I love it because we're all here. Together." Then, he dropped to his knees to retrieve one of the comic books from under the chair. "How did this get under here?"

"Darling," Dotty gently squeezed Amanda's shoulder and waited until her daughter turned her head to look up at her. "I think that is what you need to tell your . . . friend."

"I think you're right, Mother." As Dotty walked into the kitchen, Amanda looked out the French doors and said under her breath, "If only he'd listen."

Lee took an involuntary step into the shadows.

"She can't see or hear you, Lee," Francine assured him.

"Are you sure? It's like . . ."

"Like what?" she prodded.

He took a deep breath to try and ease the tightening in his chest that had occurred as he watched the warm family scene. "Like she knows I'm here. Like she knew I'd be here."

Francine shook her head. "Amanda doesn't know you're here. This is just a typical Christmas night in suburbia for her. It's what she wanted you to be a part of when she invited you to dinner—what she knows you've been missing for many years."

Lee looked wistfully at the joy the boys were showing toward the simple pleasure of having three desserts placed in front of them. "I don't fit in that picture."

"You could, Lee, if you'd give it a chance. What's the harm in having dinner with friends on Christmas?"

"Too risky," he murmured, more to himself than to the woman standing next to him.

With a sigh, Francine took one last look at the happy family inside the house. "Time to go, Lee."

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Lee barely had time to register that he was standing in the entryway to his apartment when the clock struck three a.m. Before the last chime, he sensed another presence in the room.

"Who's there?" he called.

Receiving no answer, he cautiously stepped into the living room, his eyes sweeping the area for intruders. He stopped short when he spotted Billy standing near the television. "Billy," he blew out a breath in relief. "Why didn't you answer me?"

The older man turned and stared at Lee, a stare that made the younger agent decidedly uncomfortable.

"Uh, Billy, what brings you here at this hour?" Realizing his choice of words, Lee groaned. "Great. You're my three a.m. visitor?"

Billy nodded.

"Cat got your tongue? No, wait, don't tell me—Christmas Future doesn't speak, right?"

Billy nodded again and reached out his hand.

With a resigned shake of his head, Lee took his friend's hand. "Might as well get this show on the road."

In Amanda's living room, Lee was shaken to see her sitting on the couch, clutching a throw pillow to her chest and crying. He knelt in front of her, willing her to hear him through whatever magic was preventing them from communicating. "Amanda, it's me, Lee. What is it? What's wrong?" Concerned, he turned to Billy. "What's going on here? Amanda only cries when something really bad has happened."

Billy put his finger to his lips then pointed to the door just as the doorbell rang.

Lee rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Just watch."

Amanda wiped her eyes then opened the door to admit Billy and Francine. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you. Please come in. Would you like some coffee?" she asked as she led them into the living room. "I made a fresh pot, but I haven't had any, I just needed something to keep myself busy. I also made some banana nut bread and . . ."

Billy grasped her elbow. "Amanda. Stop."

Tears pooled in her eyes again as she looked into the kind eyes of her section chief. "I'm sorry."

He smiled gently at her. "There's no need to apologize. We all have different ways of dealing with grief."

She nodded in agreement and attempted a small smile. "I bake and ramble, what do you do?"

With a pat on her hand, Billy replied, "I eat and listen. Why don't you get us some of that coffee and delicious-smelling bread, and we'll talk." He gestured to Francine to take a seat on the couch, and he settled into the easy chair.

As she went about preparing the refreshments, Amanda said, "I'm glad you two came over. With Mother out shopping and the boys at school, the house was too quiet. With no noise, all I could do was think . . . and remember." Carrying a tray of filled mugs and plates of sliced bread, she entered the living room. "I've been trying hard not to remember."

Billy rose and took the tray from Amanda's shaking hands. "Here, let me get that. You sit before you fall down," he ordered. He set the tray on the coffee table, handed one of the steaming mugs of coffee to Francine and forced another into Amanda's hands. "Drink. Both of you. I know you could use it." Taking the third mug, he eased himself back into the chair.

Francine peered at Billy over the rim of her mug. "I could use a shot of something in mine. I think I'm still in shock."

"I don't think I'll ever have alcohol again," Amanda commented. "After seeing what it did to Lee this week . . ." she shuddered.

"If he'd only confided in one of us about his suspicions about Paul," Francine shook her head. "Maybe we could have prevented this."

"Once Lee made up his mind, I don't think any of us could have talked him out of going after Paul." Billy looked pointedly at Amanda, "Not even you, although I know you tried your best to get to the airstrip before he did something foolish." He sadly shook his head. "It's the end of the Oz Network."

Amanda stared off into space, her eyes once again filling with tears. "I was his last, best hope, and I let him down."

Suddenly feeling as if ice water were running through his veins, Lee began to shiver.

Dreading the answer, but unable to stop himself, Lee asked, "Where am I?"

In the blink of an eye, they were standing in a cemetery. Although he hadn't been there in years, Lee immediately recognized his parents' plots. Shakily, he moved forward, knelt next to the headstones and ran his fingers over the names carved into the granite. Looking over his shoulder at Billy, he said, "I don't understand. My parents have been gone for a long time. Why did you bring me here?"

Slowly, Billy turned sideways, and Lee saw the fresh plot. With trepidation, he stood and, after taking a deep breath, approached it to read the inscription in the marble stone, which he saw was set above a small carving of a scarecrow: "Lee Stetson, May 12, 1950 – Sept. 30, 1985"

"Oh, my God."

Back in his living room, Lee's knees threatened to buckle. He managed to reach the couch and land heavily on the cushions before his legs completely gave way. Hands locked behind his head, he put his head between his legs and fought the urge to be sick. Forcing himself to take slow, steady breaths, he managed to reduce the nausea and bring his heart rate back to a somewhat normal state. He lifted his head and saw that Billy was still there. "What do I do? How do I prevent it?"

Following Billy's gaze to the coffee table, Lee stared at the colorfully wrapped Christmas present Amanda had given him. Nodding, he whispered, "Yeah. I know what to do." He looked up to thank his friend, but Billy was gone.

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Lee stood outside Amanda's kitchen door, suddenly unsure of what to do. The bundle of convenience store gifts in his arms were feeling like lead weights, and he had the strange sensation that stepping into her house would be a bigger step than he originally imagined.

He set the gifts on the picnic table and walked around the corner to peer in the window over the kitchen sink. Looking into the house from there, he began to feel more comfortable, and he could almost physically feel the tension draining from his body. A smile formed on his lips when Amanda rounded the corner from the dining room, and he lifted his hand to rap on the window. In mid-air, he stopped, realizing that Dotty was close on her daughter's heels. Quickly, he ducked as low as he possibly could so that he couldn't be seen but was able observe the activity within the house.

"Mother, if you'll get the goose, I'll get the salad and potatoes."

"All right, darling," Dotty agreed and reached for the potholders that were on the counter. Pulling open the oven door, she breathed deeply, inhaling the tantalizing scent. "Mmm, this does smell good. I think this is my best goose ever."

Amanda chuckled. "You say that every year, Mother."

"And I mean it every year." She held the poultry out for her daughter to inspect. "Once you taste this, I dare you to tell me I'm wrong, I just dare you!"

Taking a deep whiff of the fragrant dish, Amanda smiled. "It does smell wonderful."

Lee's mouth began to water as he watched Amanda's mother transfer the bird from the roasting pan to a serving platter. He had to admit that it was a thousand times more appealing than the unidentifiable contents of the containers that were still in his refrigerator at home. His internal debate about whether or not to bite the bullet and knock on the door was halted by Dotty's next words.

"I thought you said you invited a friend from work to dinner."

"I did, but he said . . ." Amanda paused, and Lee felt a pang of guilt that she was forced to come up with something polite to tell her mother on his behalf. After what seemed like an eternity, she simply said, "He said he had other plans."

"Well, it is Christmas, dear. People do make plans."

"People do, but he didn't." Her spoon full of mashed potatoes stopped halfway between the pot on the stove and a serving bowl. Lee's guilt grew tenfold when her voice cracked as she explained, "He doesn't make plans at Christmas. Ever. He just spends the day alone, drinking champagne and watching football."

Dotty waved her carving knife in the air. "You're telling me that this friend of yours would rather do that than have my world-famous goose? Does he have rocks in his head? Nobody in his right mind would choose football over this incredible meal we've put together."

Lee couldn't help but smile at Dotty's logic. Put that way, it did seem pretty ridiculous that he was standing inches from the door, trying to think up excuses why he shouldn't join the West/King family dinner. 'Family dinner,' he reminded himself. 'That's why. I'd be out of place in there.'

"I know it's unbelievable, Mother, but some people have problems being around other people at the holidays." Amanda shrugged and finished filling the bowl of potatoes. "I'll just take him a plate of leftovers later tonight. Ready?"

"Ready!" Dotty answered. "Boys, you'd better be all washed up, because dinner's being served!" she called into the family room as she and Amanda made their way into the dining room.

With one last look of longing toward the dining room, Lee turned from the window and began his retreat. As he slipped out the back yard, he just missed Amanda opening the kitchen door.

"Don't worry about it, Phillip. Dishes can be replaced!" she called as she stepped into the back yard to deposit a broken dinner plate into the trash.

Spotting the stack of oddly wrapped presents on the picnic table, she looked over her shoulder before pulling the door shut behind her and examining the stack. She picked up the top gift and smiled to see her name printed in a familiar scrawl. Smiling, she whispered, "Well, that's progress." In the general direction of where Lee usually parked his Corvette, she added, "Merry Christmas, Lee."

The End