Merry Christmas! This was my Secret Santa present for the lovely Klarinette49! And thank you SO MUCH to her and alliluna for organizing the 2016 Secret Santa exchange (and for being such wonderful fangirls of The Center of My Heart)!

While this story can stand alone, this is the same Matthew and Mary as in my story Baby 101.

Matthew stepped quickly, moving with the revolving door, the brass and glass ushering him out of the dark and into bright light and glitter. The warmth of the bustling store enveloped him, such a contrast to the cold, crisp winter air outside. Unbuttoning his topcoat, he didn't pause, weaving his way through the crowd of Christmas shoppers. He didn't have long for this errand, if he was going to make it to the first of two parties he was expected at tonight.

He navigated his way around shoppers and down aisles, carols blaring from the store's very excellent sound system, deepening the melancholy that he'd carried all day but had kept at bay by working hard and late.

He had always loved Christmas carols, so it shouldn't have hurt so to hear Good King Wenceslas, The First Noël, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Silent Night, Whatever Tender Melody, but it did, because of course, it was exactly two years ago today, the eve of Christmas Eve, when, in a back hall at the party they were attending, carols blaring on that sound system, they had crashed and burned and agreed that their "show had flopped," so clever of her to put it that way, to try to make it better, when nothing could make it better.

The music changed from carols to Christmas songs: Baby it's cold outside, and all I want for Christmas— chestnuts roasting by the open fire—is you, the cheery romance of the lyrics underscoring for him the emptiness in his life, an emptiness he'd tried to fill, and thought he had, but hadn't.

Of course, women's accessories would be across the store from where he'd come in. He waited patiently (at least outwardly) as an elderly woman stopped to set her shopping bags down and readjust her grip, blocking traffic on both sides of the narrow aisle.

"Something for that special woman in your life?"

His head jerked around as an attractive store clerk waved a perfume-drenched strip of paper under his nose.

Matthew shook his head. Of course, it would be that scent. "No thank you," he murmured to the clerk, memories flooding back. He gave himself a mental shake and pushed it all down.

He finally made his way to a large round table displaying women's leather gloves and started searching the brown ones, frowning at the large assortment, but not finding the exact hue he wanted. Of course, it would be difficult, because he hadn't picked them out the first time; she had.

He looked up and around, hoping to find a different selection on another table, and of course, there she was. It took him a moment to believe that she was really, truly standing there, not just his wishing she were. Their eyes met, and his heart started to pound. For an instant, her face showed every moment they had shared, then it settled into a careful smile, although her eyes . . . her eyes were dark and soft. She came around the table, as he moved to meet her

"Hello, Mary."

"It's good to see you, Matthew. It's been a while—can it really be over a year? You're looking well."

"You've cut your hair," he blurted, almost disbelievingly. He had so loved her long, chestnut glory. "I'm sorry," he apologized with a small laugh. "It suits you."

She laughed as well, and reached up, running her fingers through her tousled, chin-length bob. "Well, it suited my mood at the time, which was wanting a change. I do like it, but the jury's out whether I keep it."

"Ah."

She looked down at the glove display. "Looking for something for Lavinia?"

He swallowed and shook his head. "No."

"Well, good. Gloves aren't a very romantic gift."

"Actually, Lavinia and I are no longer engaged."

"Oh," she frowned. "I didn't know. I'm sorry." When he said nothing, she asked, "Should I be sorry?"

He looked away for a moment, then back at her, shaking his head again. "You can be sorry that I've hurt her, but not sorry that I realized it was mistake before I would have hurt her even more." Not sorry that I finally realized all I was doing was trying to forget you.

She nodded, and they were silent.

"Well," Matthew exhaled. "Maybe you can help me. I'm trying to replace those dark brown gloves we"—God, how strange it was to say that—"gave Mother for her birthday. They were her absolute favorites, but she's lost them, and I had a sudden inspiration for one last Christmas present for her. I can't find the right color, though; perhaps they don't make it anymore, but I thought since we bought them here, that—."

He stopped, as Mary reached down and picked up a pair, handing them to him with a smirk.

Matthew frowned. "Those aren't brown, they're black."

Mary shook her head and rolled her eyes. "We went through this the first time."

He snorted. "Yes, we did." He had insisted that she'd picked out black gloves, until his mother opened the present and exclaimed at how perfect the shade of brown was, it would go with everything.

"They're the darkest brown they can be without being black." She took up a pair of black gloves. "You see the difference." A statement, not a question.

He took both pairs and held them out, squinting, then shook his head. "No, but I believe you. Thanks, awfully, Mother will be thrilled." He looked around and waved a clerk over, not wanting to leave her.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'd like to purchase these—no, wait, these?" he checked with Mary, who nodded laughing. He handed over his card. "Could you box them, please, with a ribbon?"

"Certainly, sir." The clerk moved off, and Matthew turned back to Mary.

"Mother will be thrilled," he repeated. "She loved those gloves."

Mary smiled. "Your mother's well, I hope?"

"She is," he nodded. "Still volunteering at the women's shelter. And your family?"

"Also well, yes. Mum and Dad have been traveling a bit—they just got back from France. Sybil's pregnant again. And I think Edith and Bertie are finally going to tie the knot."

"Good, good," he nodded, again. He paused a beat. "And Richard?"

Mary pressed her lips together, then started pulling off the glove of her left hand. She held the hand up, smiling ruefully at his startled expression as he took in that she wore no engagement ring.

"I don't know what I was thinking. He always did set my teeth on edge, even from the start." She ran her fingers through her hair again.

Matthew stared at her, his heart beating fast and blood pounding in his head, his face growing warm.

The clerk came up to him. "Excuse me, sir," she said, then looked down at his card, "Mr. Crawley. We're out of the right-sized box. Someone's coming with more. I'm so sorry for the wait."

"Yes, fine, thank you." He turned back to Mary, loosening his scarf.

Mary's eyes widened, then she raised an eyebrow. "Now, that is an excellent tie," she said lightly.

"It is, indeed," he returned, smiling, but his throat was tight. "Of course, the person who picked it out has impeccable taste."

And suddenly, it was like a punch in the gut, it hurt so badly to see her, to remember what they had had and had lost. It was as if they had been cursed always to misunderstand and misconstrue the other, both of them so stubborn. Why hadn't they tried harder?

"Oh, God, Mary, I'm so, so sorry," he said huskily. "Do you know how sorry I am?"

"I am, too," she acknowledged with a small, pained smile.

"I—."

"Excuse me, sir," the clerk asked, coming back, "would you like the red ribbon or the gold?" She held out each for him to choose.

Matthew frowned and shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Gold," Mary said firmly.

Matthew looked from her to the clerk. "Yes, gold, definitely gold."

"I like the gold, too," said the clerk, smiling at Mary.

Matthew turned back. Her lips were pressed together, her eyes glistening. "Mary—."

She reached up, cupping his face, then kissed his cheek. "Happy Christmas, Matthew," she whispered, her breath hitching. "And such good luck in the New Year." Then she turned and walked quickly away.

He was, for a moment, stunned, frozen, then found his voice. "Mary! Mary, wait!" He started to move off to follow, when the clerk caught his arm.

"Sir, here's your card, if you would just sign."

"Yes, right, sorry." He moved quickly to the counter and scribbled his name, as he looked over his shoulder, watching Mary exit the store. He started after her.

"Sir, your gloves," the clerk cried, holding up the silver box tied with gold ribbon.

"I'll come back," he called.

He pushed out the door. The street had cleared a bit, and it had started to snow, a gentle, pretty snow, making the world shimmer. He looked frantically around and then finally spotted her at the far end of the block waiting to hail a cab.

He started to her, wending his way quickly between the shoppers and revelers. "Mary! Wait! Mary!"

She turned, her eyes wide, her lips parted in surprise.

Matthew ran up to her and stopped, panting. "I . . . I didn't get to wish you Happy Christmas. Happy Christmas, Mary. And all the best in the New Year."

"Thank you," she said softly.

They held each other's eyes in silence, then Matthew took a deep breath. "Mary, can we talk?"

"Yes," she breathed, and then she was in his arms, and he picked her up and spun her around.

And this time, they did try harder. Instead of misunderstanding and misconstruing, each learned to trust the other. They would always be stubborn, but they knew the difference, now, between what was important, and what wasn't.

One thing, though, they would always disagree about, neither ever giving ground, was who should get credit for what they both considered the best Christmas present either of them had ever chosen. Every Christmas, after opening presents—in later years, while they watched their children play—they would have the same argument.

"Darling, of course, it's you," Mary would insist with a kiss. "If you hadn't gone to buy the gloves . . ." And she'd roll her eyes, shaking her head. Really, it's so obvious.

"No, darling," he'd respond, tapping her nose, then pulling her in for a hug. "You get all the credit. If you hadn't stayed after we'd said, 'hello' . . . and you picked them out, after all. No, there wouldn't have been a present without you."

But Isobel would always maintain that she should have the credit. "After all," she'd say, smiling happily, "I'm the one who lost the gloves."

Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are like Christmas all over again!