The Milton Tribune was a modest operation. Only about ten people touched it before it hit doorsteps in the morning, and that included the paperboy. The job interview that Margaret had been concerned about wasn't an interview at all. It was instead a guided tour by the owner's youngest son ending at her new desk. It seemed that Dave Henderson owed Mrs. Thornton a favor and was keen to repay it.

For the first day, Margaret did nothing but proofreading and picking up lunch for the office. After that, she shadowed Matt Henderson, the oldest of Dave's three sons. The patriarch was all but retired and his boys were poised to take over whenever he decided to clean out his office. In less than a week, they decided that Margaret's greatest asset was her sight, and made her their lead photographer.

It was a weekly publication that focused mainly on the local news. The work was easy enough, but time consuming. Margaret went to high school basketball games and community plays. She sat in the kitchen of Milton's oldest resident and captured her look of pride when talking about her great-grandchildren. A week before Christmas, She went to the official lighting ceremony in the town square and snapped pictures of families adding ornaments to the thirty foot tree.

That was the next time Margaret saw John and the chill between them had nothing to do with the temperature. Both thought the other was still mad about their last conversation; although, only one of them was wrong. They exchanged a few forced pleasantries before she spotted Bess in the crowd. After a relieved goodbye, she made a beeline for her friend without a backward glance.

"Bess!" she yelled, as happy to see her as she was to have an escape from John and his furrowed brows.

"Maggie!" she replied, releasing the arm of the older man she was with to pull Margaret into a warm hug. "I thought you forgot about me," she added.

"I know. I'm so sorry!" Margaret exclaimed. "I started work last week and I've been completely swamped."

"You got the job? That's great!" At that point the man next to her coughed uncomfortably. "Oh, this is my dad, Nick. Dad, this is Maggie, the girl who—"

"The girl who smashed up your leg," he finished gruffly.

"I fell, Dad. It was nobody's fault," Bess soothed.

"And, what if you'd broken your real leg? You need to be more careful."

"You worry too much," she countered, hooking his arm again. "Don't mind him, Maggie." She must have noticed her friend's discomfort. "Can you come and have some hot cider with us or are you on the clock?"

"It's still a half an hour before the big moment. I think I can take a break." The three started to make their way toward a little stand where a local church was selling hot drinks to raise money for a youth ski trip. "My treat," Margaret insisted.

"We can afford our own cider," Nick said proudly.

"I never said you couldn't," Margaret replied calmly. She paid for all three and left a dollar in the donation jar.

"Fine." He took a sip of the steaming liquid then pulled a flask from his jacket and poured a healthy shot into his cup. "I don't want you to think we're some charity case. My girls might not have anything fancy, but we'll get by."

"Dad, drop it. Can't you see you're making her feel awkward?" Bess interjected. "Mary's probably waiting for us. Why don't you go on ahead? I'll stay here with Maggie."

Although Margaret had never met Mary, she had heard quite a lot about her. She was Bess's younger sister and she worked as an orderly at the hospital. This was a constant source of guilt for Bess. She was concerned that her sister was forced to grow up too fast on account of her illness. The girl had forgone college in favor of the job at the hospital to help pay for Bess's medical expenses.

"I get the feeling that your dad doesn't like me," Margaret said once they were alone.

"No, he just gets grumpy around Christmastime," Bess explained. "Come January, it'll be ten years since my mom left us. The anniversary always puts him on edge." She seemed so matter-of-fact about such a personal tragedy that her companion was speechless. "And, I suppose it didn't help that we saw you with John Thornton…"

"Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation. Dad calls him the Bulldog."

"Yes, the resemblance in uncanny," Margaret joked. "Does your dad work for him or something?"

"No, he drives truck for Slickson Shipping, but their main client is Malborough Electrics." The two found an empty bench at the far end of the square and sat down. "Blue collar, white collar… everybody's taking sides lately."

Margaret wanted to ask more about it, but she could tell by Bess's tone that she was already tired of the subject. They chatted on about lighter subjects until they finished their cider.

"Who's that?" Bess asked when Margaret waved to a woman on the opposite side of the gaudily decorated pavilion.

"That's my mom."

"Is that your brother with her?"

"No!" Margaret answered a little too eagerly. "I'm an only child," she added clumsily. The family had decided that since nobody here knew about Fred it would be easier and safer if they pretended he didn't exist. "That's Dixon, my mom's aide."

Theo Dixon had the kind of silhouette that you didn't want to meet in a dark alley. He was tall enough that he needed to dip his head slightly under most doorways with massive rounded shoulders and hands the size of snow shovels. Not the sort of man you would expect to find in the field of personal care.

However, in the light of day, he was a massive teddy bear. He had a dazzling smile that transformed his face and his eyes shrank to crescent slits every time he laughed. He was the first and last person they interviewed for the job; Maria hired him on the spot. The two were as thick as thieves from then on and with his encouragement she was doing much better.

Her meals and medication were now taken on a schedule more precise than the departures at JFK. Neither was put off for a minute, no matter how Maria protested. Dixon, as he insisted they call him, was resolute in these matters, as well as her physical therapy. In that he took on the attitude of a Marine Corps drill sergeant.

Despite complaints about the potential masterpieces he interfered with, Maria loved him. She was free to grumble and gripe about anything she liked without eliciting the pained expressions from her daughter and husband that always silenced her. He alternated between sympathy to soothe her and indifference to motivate her. In addition, Dixon was fiercely loyal. It didn't matter to him who was signing his paychecks. He would rather be fired than betray Maria's confidence.

While this irritated both Margaret and Richard, they couldn't argue with his results. She had not recovered the full mobility she'd had in Helstone, but she was walking more than she had since they arrived in Milton. Even though she was using her wheelchair tonight, the fact that she had ventured out at all was quite a victory for Dixon.

"Is it weird having some strange guy living with you?" Bess asked. The real reason for Richard's insistence on a spare bedroom was for a live-in aide. He had never intended for a hulking stranger to move in across the hall from his young daughter.

"Not really." After years of living with Fred, Margaret was already used to locking doors and putting the toilet seat down. "He has more skincare products than I do," she added with a laugh. "It is strange though, having someone else look after my mom. I feel like a bad daughter."

"Don't," Bess replied simply. "I know from experience, there are some burdens you don't want to put on family. Trust me on this."

"If it were just the physical stuff, I don't think it would bother me so much."

"What do you mean?"

"They talk. They have secrets and inside jokes," Margaret explained sadly. "All these years, I thought she didn't like to talk about her MS, but it turns out that she just doesn't like to talk about it with me."

"Of course she doesn't," Bess said kindly. "You're her daughter. She still wants you to think she's invincible and that the world is fair and just," she continued, reaching out to clasp her friend's hand. "She wants you to be young and enjoy life, not be a nursemaid to your ailing mother."

Turning away from Margaret, she spotted her dad entering the square with Mary in tow. "Take a look at my sister," she pointed her out. "She's nineteen years old and she works like a dog." Bess looked back at Margaret with immense sadness. "She should be in college, making friends and meeting boys, only worried about midterms and finding someone to buy her beer. I'd give anything for that."

"Bess…"

"She never complains, you know?" As Nick and Mary neared, her face brightened into a smile. She introduced her sister to Margaret and no one could have guessed that her mood was anything other than festive.

After taking a few shots of her new friends, Margaret got back to work. She captured the moment when the Mayor's granddaughter threw the switch and got the tree, in all its splendor, from a few different angles. She decided to call it a night when the crowd started to thin.

Back at home, the kitchen light was the only one still on. Margaret found Dixon chopping vegetables at the counter with Bing Crosby playing softly on the radio. Considering her conversation with Bess, she couldn't help but look at the situation from a new perspective. She took a deep breath and let go of any jealousy she might still hold against Dixon.

"John left that for you," he nodded toward an envelope on the table without slowing his progress.

"Can I help you with anything?" she asked as she tore into the sturdy paper.

"No, I'm almost done," he replied normally but the change in her attitude was noted. "What is it? Love letter?"

"Shut up," she said dryly. "It's an invitation to some charity thing," she answered, still scanning the card.

"I know. Your parents got one too," Dixon grinned. "Plus, the Thornton's Charity Ball is the best New Year's Eve party in town." He finished chopping and started transferring carrots to the crockpot by the handful. He then added a cup of white wine before replacing the lid and adjusting the dial. "What's the theme this year?" He poured the rest of the bottle into his measuring cup and sipped it serenely.

"Murder mystery," Margaret said in disbelief. "1950's cocktail attire, silent auction, dancing…" she skimmed, "and a prize for solving the crime."

"That's cool. Usually it's just a raffle for the grand prize," he commented and started washing up.

"It's Clue." It might have been a coincidence, but Margaret was sure that this had something to do with the 'Colonel Mustard' comment John had overheard last week. Turning the invitation over confirmed it.

Thanks for the idea. –John, was scrawled on a yellow post-it stuck to the back of the card.

"I thought you said it wasn't a love letter," Dixon said, noticing her smirk. He turned back to the sink and missed the scathing look she sent him. Margaret was used to the constant insinuations about her and John by then. She'd figured out early on that protesting did very little to mitigate the rumors, but her patience was wearing thin.

"Goodnight, Dixon," she managed despite a clenched jaw.