Chapter 10

The sun rose proudly above the Manhattan skyline, chasing away the last of the storm clouds. The snowplows and salt trucks were out in force, clearing the streets and sidewalks with a long-practiced efficiency.

And in a certain quarter of the city, hundreds of children who might otherwise have not received anything whooped with joy that Santa had not forgotten them.

His duty done, Peter hightailed it back to the Village, back to the woman of his dreams.

He tapped on her window, not caring whether any reporter saw him or not.

"Mary Jane."

There was no answer.

On a hunch, Peter gave the window a gentle push. It moved upward, just as he had hoped. He quickly slid inside, his spider-sense remaining silent.

"MJ?" he called out.

The apartment was deserted. But, thankfully, the color scheme was restored, and the familiar furniture and pictures were once again in their proper places.

On the bed lay a pile of dry clothes on the bed, along with a hastily written note.

Tiger,

Meet me at the Lexington Avenue entrance to the Chrysler Building.

"God bless Mary Jane; she knows where I hang out." As he was spinning a new web sack for his civvies, the telephone rang. MJ's answering machine kicked in after only two rings.

"Hi, it's me. Sing your song at the beep."

"I've got to talk to her about changing that voice mail," Peter thought. "She's had it since high school."

"Mary Jane, it's Lou. Sorry to interrupt your holiday, but this can't wait. I just got off the phone with Freddie Wilson, the producer of Manhattan Memories . . ."

As soon as the message had ended, Peter was out the window again, a bolt of red and blue streaking through canyons of glass, steel, concrete, and snow. "Please be there, MJ," he prayed as he landed in an alley a few blocks from the rendezvous point. He changed clothes, stuffed his mask and gloves into his coat pockets, and hustled through the partially plowed snow. There streets were practically empty when he arrived at his destination.

A solitary figure was standing in front of the revolving door. She was wearing a black winter coat, a white beret-style hat, and a pink scarf, which left only a pair of green eyes visible. Her gloved hands were in her pockets, a testament to how cold it was.

"Mary Jane!"

"Peter!" She was in his arms, practically sobbing.

So was he. He held her tightly while she unwound her scarf and pressed her lips against his. The electric passion had returned, along with the emerald sparkle in her eyes.

"You got the part!" Peter gasped, practically out of breath.

"They dropped the case!" Mary Jane panted at the same time.

"What?"

They tried again, but wound up starting another simultaneous conversation.

"You go first."

"No, you."

"It's all over the news this morning . . . The people that Mr. Jameson was lining up against you . . . They called up eyewitness news . . . said they saw you on TV delivering toys . . . They changed their minds . . .There's no more lawsuit!" She was so excited that the words were tumbling over one another trying to get out of her mouth. "You don't have to go to court!"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes! That's why I went looking for you. I figured this is where you'd be, but I wasn't sure so I left the note, and . . ."

They hugged each other again.

"Now, what were you trying to tell me?"

"Your agent called. He said they canned the lead actress on Manhattan Memories. The producer insisted on putting you in the lead and told whoever was pushing the other one to stop interfering in casting decisions."

"You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not, I swear. The producer and the director wanted you from the get-go. You gotta call your agent right away."

"Oh my God! Peter, this is it. My first role on Broadway . . ." She embraced him again. "Let's get going."

"Wanna take the scenic route?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

"Come on, then," Peter said as he escorted his beautiful angel to the nearest alley. He did not even bother to change back into his costume. Instead, he relied on speed and stealth to stay off the radar.

"I forgot to tell you," Mary Jane informed Peter as they returned to the safety and comfort of Apartment 6F. "Aunt May called last night. She tried to reach you."

Peter suddenly remembered a very important engagement. "Christmas dinner! Oh my God, I forgot all about it . . . we're supposed to go over there this afternoon . . ."

"Calm down, Peter. I told her we'd be there."

"You did?"

"Tiger, there was no doubt in my mind whatsoever."

Peter breathed a sigh of relief. If there was one thing he looked forward to more than spending time with MJ, it was his aunt's roast turkey and homemade holiday fruitcake.

"Wow, Aunt May, that was fabulous," Peter exclaimed as he patted his stomach. "I'm stuffed like a goose."

"When was the last time you had a home-cooked meal, Peter?" Aunt May inquired with that lovingly stern demeanor that told her nephew how much she cared about him.

"The last time I was here."

There was infectious laughter all around.

"Don't worry, Aunt May," Mary Jane reassured her. "We'll fatten him up by next Christmas."

All of a sudden, Aunt May got up from the table and gestured for Peter to follow her into the bedroom.

"MJ, could you excuse Peter and me for a few minutes?"

Mary Jane figured that May needed to discuss a few matters pertaining to her husband's estate. "Sure, Aunt May, I'll clear the table and get dessert ready."

As soon as she closed the bedroom door behind them, Aunt May opened her closet and retrieved an old, dust-covered shoebox from the bottom. "Peter, the other day, I was going through some of Ben's things, and I found this." She opened the box and retrieved an old book. Its cover was made of white leather and it was embossed with gold lettering.

Peter's eyes widened as he read the title – Ben-Hur, A Tale of the Christ, by General Lew Wallace.

"This was your uncle's favorite book. He wanted to give it to you for your seventeenth birthday, but we couldn't remember where we put it."

She handed him the book. There was a hard lump inside, apparently just under the front cover. As he opened the book, a tiny brown envelope that had the words, "Chemical Bank" on the flap, slipped out and fell onto the bed. It was the type of envelope normally used to hold keys to safe deposit boxes.

"What's this?" Peter asked Aunt May.

"Open it and you'll find out, dear."

Peter turned the flap back and emptied the envelope's contents into his hand. His eyes once again went wide with surprise.

"These belonged to your parents. I think it's time to pass them on to you."

"Wow," Peter said as he put the objects back into the envelope and put it in his pocket. "You think it might be a message?"

"I can't really say," Aunt May replied. "But it's nice to think so. Oh, look." She glanced toward the still-open book. On the title page was a note in his uncle's handwriting, scrawled in pencil . . .

Peter,

No one can fail who gives of himself. Never forget that one person can always make a difference.

Uncle Ben

"Thank you," Peter whispered as microscopic tears appeared at the corners of his eyes.

AN: Well, everything has changed for Peter and all for the better. He can thank his uncle Ben for that. There's a short epilogue that follows, which will end this tale. Let us know what you think about this fic by leaving a review, but no flames.