Chapter 29: Giraffe in a Green Tutu

Thursday, September 15, 2005.

When Neal returned from France, he found himself once more shapeshifting between worlds. Sara's apartment was a safe refuge, existing in a universe to itself. She didn't pressure him about what occurred in Europe. She understood there were aspects to the op which were off-limits. Instead they focused on their private lives and ignored the rest.

But when he kissed her goodbye that Wednesday morning, he had to morph back into Neal Caffrey, grad student. Bianka was waiting for him at his first seminar. Conning her was a delicate dance of pretending to be infatuated without going too far. Neal was glad he'd secured Peter's approval to alert Richard and Aidan. The musketeers were called back to duty. Now that the university was in session, Richard was once more occupying the studio to Neal's left. When Neal arrived on Wednesday, he found Richard had scribbled "AFO" at the top of Neal's whiteboard, a reminder of their vow to be All for One just like last autumn. As if to reinforce the message, he popped into Neal's studio several times that evening to prevent any Hungarian fireworks from erupting.

Aidan's answer to the challenge was predictable. He gleefully volunteered to call a last-minute fencing practice whenever Neal needed a save. Their first competition was scheduled for the following Saturday, and Neal had missed out on the training sessions the previous weekend. Aidan had already requested he attend a practice session on Friday evening. A date with Bianka would have to wait till the following evening.

By Thursday Neal was fully recovered from jet lag and any lingering effects of the drug Adler had given him. He was sorely tempted to cancel the appointment with Christie. He wasn't running a fever. He felt fine. Perhaps that night with Sara was the cure he'd been seeking. She was constantly in the back of his mind, continuing to work her magic.

It was a quiet day at work since it was a travel day for the other team members, so Neal kept the appointment. When he described to Christie what he'd experienced, she was inclined to write it off as drug-related. He'd been so sure it was Astrena, but as the memory faded, so did the certainty. After submitting to more blood work, Neal was free to prepare for his evening.

He'd invited Sara to his favorite restaurant, La Palette, a bistro on the Upper East Side near the Met. The owner, Chef Jacques Legault, was a good friend.

When Neal and Sara decided to start dating, they formed a pact to gradually disclose some of their secrets to each other. La Palette made the ideal venue. It already held a secret for Peter.

Contemporary art covered all the walls of the bistro. Jacques had painted a couple of them, but most were works by struggling artists. In exchange for borrowing their art, Jacques gave them a discount on their tabs. One of Neal's paintings was installed there permanently. At the time he'd donated it, publicity was the last thing he wanted. He'd left it unsigned and Jacques knew not to divulge his name. So far Peter hadn't guessed which painting was Neal's, and it had become a game for him to discover it on his own.

This was Sara's first time to visit the bistro. Neal introduced her to Jacques simply as Alicia. Would Henry be so devious as to question Jacques? Neal considered it a distinct possibility. Since Ydrus also could be monitoring his movements, they both wore their wigs. Neal had alerted Jacques about his disguised appearance in advance and made the reservation under the name of Matthew. Jacques was familiar with Neal's work for the FBI and hadn't questioned the need for subterfuge.

Neal had reserved one of the secluded alcoves for their use. The bottle of Chablis Grand Cru was already chilling at the table.

"To Matthew and Alicia," Sara said, clinking glasses with him. "Jacques appeared to enjoy the deception. Does he know about your job?"

He smiled acknowledgment. "Jacques owns the building. He rents out the apartments on the upper floors to artists, offering them a bargain rate. After the days with Adler, I sometimes crashed here. Once in a while literally."

"Then he's familiar with your former career path?" Sara asked, raising a brow.

"Yeah. He's friends with Mozzie, too." In his younger years, Jacques had been a counterfeiter and forger in Europe. He'd served time in France. When he was released, he opened a country restaurant in Burgundy. Some years later he met his future wife who was an American banker. When they married, he immigrated to New York and opened the bistro. His wife passed away several years ago.

When their entrées of coquilles St. Jacques had been served. Sara broached the topic du jour. "We agreed to start with recent history, and for me that's Bryan."

That was probably the most painful episode she could have picked. "Was he your Kate?" Neal asked.

She smiled ruefully. "I don't think so. It would have been easier to excuse if he had been. You were in love with Kate. Looking back, I don't think I ever was with Bryan. I was more smitten with what he represented."

"Bryan may be the best example of the rotten timing we seem to excel at. When you met him, I was still getting over Kate and not ready for another relationship."

"I sensed that as well, but it didn't stop me from being attracted to you. When Henry introduced us in that Manhattan hotel room, you had an air of mystery which made me want to learn more about you. And it wasn't just because you were suffering the aftereffects from being drugged," she quickly added.

He winced. "I regret we didn't meet under better circumstances. That wasn't my finest hour. Don't tell me you found my loopiness appealing?"

"You weren't loopy. You were in pain. I wished I could help." She paused to take a bite. "Later, as we got to know each other through our volunteer work at the runaway shelter, I was even more attracted. But that's when my own walls started coming up. Were you too good to be true? There was so little I knew about your past. Where had you acquired the skills that made Peter want to recruit you as a consultant? You knew so much about art and the world of white-collar crimes but you never referenced how you'd gained your experience. That aura of mystery became troubling."

Sara's honesty was a revelation. He'd no idea that was the way she felt, but it was understandable. "My past was a closed book to you."

"I shouldn't have held that against you. I didn't bring up my past either. But I worried how reliable you'd be. You didn't know how you were going to pay for grad school. You mentioned stealing a painting as an option. You were joking, of course, but there was a glint in your eyes which made me wonder if you were actually contemplating it."

"And it scared you?"

She nodded. "Not the theft so much as not being able to pin down who you really were. You were like quicksilver. I knew you were a con artist. At the time I thought you were as good as Henry. Now I know you're better."

"May I quote you?"

"Sure. After juggling Bianka and the U-boat con, you're completely justified in wearing the crown. Anyway, with Bryan, I felt on firmer ground." She stopped to smile ruefully. "I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I honestly believed he was the personification of the skilled insurance investigator I wanted to be. There were some early signals which should have alerted me to go slow, but I dismissed them. I was sure I was right and let my brain overrule my heart. You were an unknown. Bryan was steady and reliable." She hesitated for a moment and added quietly, "I've had experience with being abandoned."

Neal's heart went out to her as he reached over to clasp her hand. "Would you like to talk about it?"

She nodded and cleared her throat. "I think you'll understand better what I saw in Bryan. My dad walked out on my mom and me a few months after Emily ran away."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen. Dad blamed Mom for not being alert to the signals that Emily was unhappy. She'd always been his favorite." Sara hesitated for a moment, her mouth tightening. "Once I overheard them fighting—I can still hear the arguments in my head. He lashed out at Mom for being an unfit mother. She defended herself, accusing him of doting on Emily while ignoring me."

Sara must have wondered how much she was to blame for her parents' problems. Neal could relate. He'd experienced similar thoughts about his mother.

"Finally, he just took off. It was like he was ashamed of us. Mom eventually filed for divorce and he didn't contest it. I heard he eventually remarried. He's never tried to contact me, and I haven't made any attempt either." She scanned his face, perhaps to assess his reaction. He hoped she read only sympathy.

"He was in advertising, and I gather quite good at his job," she continued. "I suppose I should feel grateful. He didn't prolong the divorce and Mom didn't raise any issues. He paid for child support and probably considered he'd done his best by us."

"So you saw in Bryan someone who wouldn't hurt you like your father had," Neal prompted.

She nodded. "How wrong can a person be? I didn't go to grad school, but Bryan gave me a master's class in growing up."

Neal felt closer to Sara than ever before. He wasn't ready to discuss his childhood but he knew now that she'd understand. "I wish there were a way to make the memories less painful."

She shrugged. "They're part of who I am, but sharing them with you helps to dispel some of those lingering ghosts."

"Thanks for letting me know. Under the circumstances, it's natural that you would have been wary of me."

"It wasn't your past," Sara said. "It was not knowing what was in your past. I think if we're honest with each other, we can face anything." It was as if she realized his own struggles.

"We've both made bad choices in our mentors," Neal said, topping off their glasses with wine. "I'll save my early disasters for another time. Instead I'd like to explain how I turned the page. You mentioned you couldn't understand how I wound up being a consultant for the FBI, and it has to rank as one of the more unlikely fairy tales you'll ever hear."

He proceeded to explain how his and Peter's paths had unexpectedly intersected in St. Louis. Playing a hunch, Neal reached out to the agent and challenged him to make him a job offer. His gamble paid off when Peter took him up on it and convinced Hughes to give him a chance. When a musician needed their help, they'd stayed a few extra days in St. Louis and solved their first case together.

"The next day, Peter and I flew back to New York. I spent the day with a team of agents reviewing crimes I'd committed. After receiving immunity for the ones I'd owned up to, I signed the contract papers."

"Starting off a new job by admitting to your past misdeeds must not have been very pleasant."

"They didn't make it easy," Neal agreed. "The other agents were suspicious of my motives. In their eyes, I was a criminal. Persuading them I could be trusted would be a challenge."

"I know you don't now, but initially did you have any doubts you'd made the right decision?"

He didn't answer for a moment as he reflected on his first day at the Bureau. He'd flown to St. Louis under an alias. He didn't have an opportunity to acquire legal papers before the return flight. He assumed Peter understood. That was a mistake. His future boss had taken advantage of him flying under an assumed name to have him arrested at the New York airport. Peter claimed the arrest would be useful for undercover work, but he later admitted it was also a heavy-handed way of teaching him a lesson.

The awkward situation was made worse when during the interrogation, one of the agents sprained Neal's wrist. Peter found out about it hours later and was clearly angry the incident had occurred. At the end of the day, he told Neal to report to work in a week. Had he wondered if Neal would have second thoughts and run? He didn't seem to.

Back then, Peter didn't know him very well.

Federal Building. December 8, 2003. Monday evening.

At the end of the grueling day, Peter requested Jones escort Neal down to the lobby of the FBI Building. They stopped off at the interrogation room for Neal to collect his duffel bag. Agents would have had ample opportunity to search it while he met with Peter. He intended to check it for bugs in the taxi.

Jones didn't say much during the elevator ride but offered to carry his bag. Neal could have managed but appreciated the gesture. He'd known he'd face resentment, but he hadn't expected it to come so swiftly. Nothing like showing up under arrest for his first day at work—not that he'd technically been hired when Peter decided to pull a fast one. But his future boss seemed blind to the optics.

Jones hung around till Neal was able to hail a taxi. It was after seven before Peter finally released him, and the peak rush hour was over. A small silver lining—taxis were easier to come by.

"Keep the wrist iced and elevated," Jones cautioned when he slung Neal's bag into the taxi for him. "You want it X-rayed?"

"It's just a sprain." Neal knew the drill. He'd had similar injuries before. He supposed he should feel lucky that it was his left wrist. He wasn't about to waste money on seeing a doctor. Resources were tight these days.

He had a place to flop for a couple of nights. An artist friend of his had a studio above La Palette. Eduardo let Neal crash at his place when he was gone, but he was due back on Wednesday.

During the taxi ride to the Upper East Side, Neal had a long time to mull over what had gone wrong. He'd gone out of his way to upgrade Peter's ticket to first class for the flight to New York while he rode in the cattle car. And what thanks did he get? Placed in handcuffs at the airport? The sting of that would take a while to get over.

But far worse was the reality check it forced him to confront. This was a man Neal thought he could trust, a man who truly deserved to be a father figure. Peter was fair. His ethics were above reproach. That's what Neal had believed for months. And in St. Louis, Peter had fully lived up to his expectations. He'd offered Neal a chance to turn his life around and go legit. Had Neal's instincts been wrong? Was he on the cusp of making yet another mistake?

He'd gone through a string of ill-advised mentors. Placing his trust in Henry's father had been a near-catastrophic failure. Keller was no better. He'd stuck with Klaus the longest, but he turned out to have a darker side too. When Neal returned to New York, he thought Adler would make an excellent teacher. Wrong again.

After being swindled by Adler, Neal vowed never to be hoodwinked again. With Peter, he was convinced he was finally on the right track.

Today provided a glimpse of what his future life would be like. He'd work among agents who viewed him with open hostility. Was the airport stunt a portent of worse to come? Perhaps he should be grateful for the reality check. He now had the chance to cut his losses and run before getting in any deeper.

When Neal arrived at La Palette, the bistro was bustling with the evening crowd even though Monday was usually a slow night. He paused at the entrance, his stomach growling at the delicious aromas. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast early that morning in St. Louis. The granola bar Jones gave him a couple of hours ago didn't count. Peter didn't appear to think it was necessary to give meals to innocent victims who'd been unjustifiably arrested. Even convicts in prison had rights.

Neal continued to grump as he headed up the side stairs to the studio. His wrist throbbed, adding to his misery. Some start to his new life. His old one was looking better by the moment. He dumped his bag in the room serving as a combination living room and bedroom and checked the refrigerator. Nothing to eat. That figured. He'd expected to be gone a week and had cleaned it out in case Eduardo returned early. No ice in the small freezer compartment either. He groaned and sprawled on the couch.

After spending several more minutes wallowing in a rehash of the wreckage for the day, he felt somewhat better. Looking on the bright side, he wasn't under arrest. The Bureau had given him immunity. He had a job—if he wanted it—next week.

He glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock. The kitchen should be winding down. He could prevail on Jacques for some food. When Mozzie texted he was coming by, Neal replied he'd be in the kitchen.

The special that night was boeuf Bourguignon. When Neal went downstairs, there were only a few patrons lingering over coffee and dessert. The kitchen staff had already started the final cleanup.

Jacques took one look at Neal and asked, "Rough day, mon ami?"

Neal didn't attempt to disguise it. "My introduction to a new life didn't go as planned."

"Have you eaten?"

Neal shook his head.

"That, at least, is easily remedied." Jacques directed him to sit at the salad worktable. While Neal pulled up a stool, Jacques ladled out a big plate of stew and set out a basket of French bread along with an open bottle of the house Burgundy. "I'll return after seeing to the front," he promised.

Neal switched his brain to off mode and listened to the gossip. He knew everyone in the kitchen. He'd often volunteered his services when they were understaffed. It was good to be back with friends.

After a few minutes, Jacques took a seat next to him. He refilled Neal's glass and poured one for himself. "Now tell me about this new job."

Neal explained the circumstances, focusing on the encounter in St. Louis.

"So you're going straight? Félicitations!"

Neal didn't say anything. Jacques should have asked for his opinion yesterday. He reached for the breadbasket with his left hand and winced. The Bureau's welcome gift was mocking him.

Jacques frowned at the discoloration. "And that? How did it happen?"

"The FBI's interrogation technique has room for improvement."

"Did you see anyone about it?"

"No need."

"Let me take a look."

Neal reluctantly held out his wrist for Jacques to examine.

With practiced ease, Jacques shoved back the sleeve and began kneading Neal's wrist as if it were pastry.

"Ouch! So this is what bread dough feels like."

Jacques gave a small smile. "This is my foolproof method of checking for breaks, and you don't have one. My prescription is more wine and food . . . after I wrap it and apply ice. I keep emergency medical supplies in my office for cooking mishaps."

Once his wrist was on ice and his stomach full, Neal felt those dark clouds begin to dissipate. Jacques insisted on scrounging two slices of apple tartine for them. He brought over the cheese board then requested the full account of what occurred at the Bureau.

Afterward, Jacques said, "You may not feel like a celebration now but your new job is worthy of one."

Was it? Neal was no longer convinced.

"What did the suits do to you?" Neal turned to see Mozzie had entered the kitchen and was staring at his wrist with dismay. "They didn't waste any time to show their true colors. I smell a lawsuit. Your wrist could be broken. They've deprived you of your livelihood—"

"Calm down, Mozz. It's not that bad."

Jacques frowned disapprovingly. "Don't agitate the soufflé. Have some wine."

An unnecessary offer. Mozzie was already helping himself. Neal was forced to review the events of the day yet again.

"Your choice in mentor has turned out to be a Jekyll and Hyde," Mozzie commented. "I warned you that suits cannot be trusted. First playing the good cop in St. Louis then the bad cop as soon as you return to New York? A classic maneuver. Are you sure you want to take a chance on him?"

Before Neal could reply, Jacques spoke up. "You shouldn't be so fast to condemn. This man, Peter, he allowed you to present your case in St. Louis. Many would have simply arrested you on the spot. And he didn't simply hear you out, he listened to you. I give him high marks for that. Peter is going out on a limb too. He may have felt pressure from his bosses to douse you with a bucket of cold water. If you run after he went to the effort of securing your immunity, it's not only your career that will suffer. He could face unpleasant repercussions as well." He glanced over at the kitchen staff. They were talking as they washed pots and not paying attention to them.

Jacques slid his stool closer to the table and lowered his voice. "You made the decision to enter a new world. No one forced you. I have some experience with new worlds too. Not just my life here, but prison. They all have their codes of conduct. Was it pleasant what you experienced? Of course not. But neither was prison, and what I endured was far more painful. You have the opportunity to keep prison out of your future. Don't make a snap decision that you'll regret."

Jacques had a point. Neal criticized Peter for not understanding the optics. Was he also guilty? Flying to New York under an alias? Pulling a fast one so Peter could fly first class? Was Peter so strait-laced, he couldn't bend the rules? Perhaps he also had second thoughts. He might already regret what he'd agreed to.

Jacques believed if Neal bolted, he might harm Peter's career. Perhaps Peter was concerned that Neal would damage his reputation if he stayed.

Mozzie eyed the cheese longingly and picked up a slice of French bread instead. "I've never served time. Neal won't have to either. Still, I'm willing to concede there are undeniable advantages to working with suits . . . if you can stomach your distaste. You'll be able to study their methods. You'll understand how their Gestapo brains work. That can pay rich dividends in the future." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "Think of it as a long con. One that you're free to stop at any time."

Jacques made an expressive Gallic shrug. "Mozzie's attitude may help to ease the transition. But from what you told me, they're not all thugs and cheats. One of the agents informed Peter what had happened. Do you think Peter lied when he said he hadn't ordered the injury?"

Neal shook his head. "No, I'm sure his anger was genuine."

Mozzie scowled as he glanced at Neal's wrist. "Burke may not have instigated it but he knows how to take advantage of it. You need to be careful around him. You opened yourself up to being exploited when you flew under an alias, and he seized it."

Mozzie was right. Peter had called an audible. Neal had gotten too relaxed around him. It wouldn't happen again. If he decided to work there, he'd have to be on his guard.

"You have a week before reporting for work," Mozzie said. "That leaves plenty of time for a job. I'm leaving for Montreal tomorrow. The crew would benefit from someone of your expertise, and the payout is attractive. Are you interested?"

Good question. Neal didn't have much in reserve. He'd have to find a place to live. Did he even have the funds for a security deposit? What was he going to do for a week? Go to Atlantic City? There weren't any poker tournaments scheduled. Hustle pool? His wrist injury would throw him off his game.

Neal hadn't decided what to do by the time he headed upstairs with a bucket of ice provided by Jacques. This was the first time Jacques had talked about life in prison, but Neal knew he'd served five long years. Neal had never worried about doing time. Keller had never been arrested. The authorities didn't even know who the Leopard was. Neal wouldn't be caught either. But if he ran, he'd be back on the Bureau's radar and have to flee overseas. No second chances Hughes had said. This was his make-or-break moment.

Henry had texted him in the afternoon. He knew about Neal's plans for the day and wanted to know what happened.

What could Neal possibly tell him? That he'd blown it? That Peter had blown it? That he'd misjudged Peter? Neal had been sick with a fever when he'd made a snap decision to reach out to the agent. Were his instincts right? Neal's thoughts were so muddled, he wasn't about to contact Henry.

He didn't get much sleep that night. When the wheels in his head finally stopped turning, it was early morning and he still hadn't decided whether to take Mozzie up on his offer.

He headed to a bakery on Third Avenue for breakfast, hoping the fresh air would clear his head. It was so easy to slip back into thief mode. What had happened in St. Louis seemed more surreal by the moment. He had the signed contract from the FBI as proof, but was it worth taking the risk?

He wished he could see Kate, but she still wasn't answering his messages. He could spend the week going around to art galleries. It would be useful leg work for future jobs, but it wouldn't help pay the bills. Had Peter ordered his agents to tail him? Neal knew he hadn't been followed yesterday evening. He had several aliases he hadn't confessed to . . .

His phone buzzed as he was waiting in line at the bakery.

"What did you decide?" Mozzie asked.

"No to Montreal. I haven't decided about the other."

Mozzie didn't seem surprised. "I had breakfast with Billy Feng at the Aloha Emporium. He mentioned he has a cousin who's opening up a restaurant. It's called the Hunan Pavilion and is on Amsterdam Avenue close to Columbia University. The cousin wants a mural painted. Billy wondered if you'd be interested. The pay won't compare to Montreal, of course."

Neal liked Billy and his daughter Maggie. Mozzie had introduced them several months ago when Neal moved to New York. Billy was a cat burglar who'd retired at the top of his game. He'd used the funds he'd acquired to buy a brownstone in Morningside Heights near Columbia and opened a Hawaiian-themed shop on the ground floor.

Neal agreed to talk with him later that morning. His wrist shouldn't be a factor, and he hadn't had a chance to paint much for months. He'd thought about visiting museums during his week off, but this was even better.

When he arrived at the Emporium, Billy was busy with a customer. Neal wove his way through the racks of Hawaiian shirts and sarongs to Maggie's florist alcove. Her counter was covered with tropical flower arrangements.

"Just the person I wanted to see!" she exclaimed when she spotted him. "I'm swamped with orders. Can you help?"

Neal had assisted Maggie before. He liked the Asian-style arrangements she made, and she praised him for his artistic eye. An added plus was the Kona coffee she kept him supplied with as he worked. He plunked down on a stool next to her. Maggie was rushing to complete a batch of orders for the local hospital, New York-Presbyterian. She also had an appointment with their PR person about arrangements for a donors' banquet.

Billy stopped by after finishing with the customer. He'd spoken with his cousin, the restaurant owner, and he wouldn't be available till the afternoon.

"That's excellent news for me," Maggie declared. "You can help with deliveries at the hospital. We'll have carts for the flowers so the work won't be hard on your wrist."

"You'll be doing us a favor," Billy added, his broad face crinkling into a smile.

It was actually the opposite, but it was nice of him to phrase it that way. Billy pulled over an extra stool and joined them in the alcove, adding labels to the completed arrangements.

"Mozzie explained you're considering a career change," he said, twisting a tag into place.

Neal nodded. "How did you decide the time was right to leave?"

"For me, it was an easy decision. My wife had died. Maggie was in high school. I wanted to give her a more stable life."

Billy had been in his early forties when he turned legit. He'd made a fortune. He could afford to walk away. Was Neal rushing things? It would make much more sense to wait till he'd built up his bank account. He'd sunk everything he had into Adler's fund, not realizing it was a Ponzi scheme. Billy echoed Jacques's advice to not make a rash decision. But wasn't that what he'd done in St. Louis?

He and Maggie left for the hospital midday. The flowers were for patients in the cancer center. She had to race for her appointment while he delivered the bouquets. Many of the patients were kids. Neal stopped to chat with them. He could perform a few card tricks with his right hand.

On his way to check on Maggie, he spotted a storage door ajar. It reminded him of the Hospital Game he liked to play. Was someone else playing hide-and-seek? After scanning the hallway to verify no one was close by, he slipped silently inside. He was just in time to catch a glimpse of a little face and a small leg retreating behind a storage cabinet. She was wearing a Christmas bow on her shaved head.

Neal suspected someone was looking for her. He decided to invent a new game.

Ignoring the mini-fugitive, he began to sing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" in a low voice as he scanned the shelves. "On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a giraffe in a green tutu." He disregarded the sniggers coming from behind the cabinet and continued to sing about two polka-dot tigers.

"Tigers don't have polka dots!" The little girl in printed hospital pajamas jumped out from behind the cabinet. She couldn't be more than seven years old. Pointing proudly to the tigers on her top, she said, "See. They have stripes."

"Are you sure? They look like polka dots to me."

"You need glasses. And sheet music too. There aren't any giraffes in the song."

"There are in mine. Don't you like giraffes? They make me want to dance." He began to shuffle his feet in a silly dance.

With a giggle, she joined in. They danced their way out of the closet and next to a bench in the hallway where the hospital staff could see her.

By the time they'd finished the song with due allowance for dancing ducks, frolicking frogs, giggling gophers, and silly skunks they'd become best friends. The girl's name was Amy and she was a patient in the leukemia ward.

"Were you hiding?" Neal asked.

She nodded shyly.

"I've hidden out a lot in hospitals, too," he confided. "I bet you have a good reason."

"I heard the doctor talking with Mommy. They want to begin a new procedure. It's gonna make me sick."

No wonder she wanted to hide. Not the recommended way to spend the holidays.

"Good thing you won't go through it alone. You have those tigers to help."

"They're not real!"

"They look pretty lively to me."

She frowned, plainly not persuaded.

Neal tried again. "Did you know you can hide in plain sight?"

Her eyes grew wide. "You can? How?"

"First you need to take whatever scares you and mash it into a big wad of nothing." He used his hands to form a big clump of air and was pleased to see her imitate him. "Then you toss it away." He flung out his arm and so did she.

He swiped his hands back and forth, and she copied him. "Now that we've gotten rid of it, we want to make sure it can't sneak back in. That's where we call on our secret friends."

Her face fell. "I don't think I have one," she said in a small voice.

"Everyone does. It could be a rabbit or a cat—"

"Or a hamster? We have a couple of hamsters at home. What's yours?"

On the spur of the moment, Neal thought of a stuffed animal he'd loved as a child. "A puppy. In order to make it your secret friend, you have to think about it really hard"—he screwed up his face and she copied him—"then you stuff it inside you." They both thumped their chests. "Now this is the key part. Whenever you want your secret friend to come out, all you have to do is wiggle your index finger. Your secret friend will pop out and be there with you. You can hide behind them whenever you feel scared, but no one else can see them. Everyone will think you're very brave."

A nurse ran up to them shortly afterward.

"Amy, we've been looking for you everywhere! The music is about to start." She turned to Neal. "Are you one of the carolers?"

Amy nodded before he could reply. "His songs are funny!" She grabbed his hand and tugged at him to follow her down the hall.

The nurse walked with them and whispered, "You're a miracle worker. We haven't been able to get her to smile for days."

Neal stopped to drop a note off for Maggie explaining where he was and joined a group of singers and patients in a lounge for families. It was equipped with a piano, a TV, and an array of games. Neal played some of the songs on the piano with his right hand. The kids liked the fact that his wrist was wrapped, and he let them color on it. There were several budding artists among the group.

By the time Maggie arrived, he'd already promised to come back.

That hospital trip turned out to be a positive omen. In the afternoon, he and Billy went to see Billy's cousin, Jianyun Feng. The new restaurant owner was determined to make his restaurant a luxurious recreation of a Chinese garden pavilion and Neal was happy to do his part. There was a long wall that cried out to be painted. Neal suggested two dragons. One would carry a flaming pearl in its claw and the other would chase it.

Notes: The flashback in this chapter has a special significance for me. Daydreaming about what Neal did during the week before he reported for work at the FBI is what got me started writing White Collar fanfics. I was especially happy to include references to Neal and Peter's initial meeting in Caffrey Conversation, their first case in Choirboy Caffrey, the Hospital Game (which first appeared in By the Book), and of course, Henry, who has become one of the most beloved members of Caffrey Conversation. So much fanfic goodness from the gifted Penna Nomen! She inspired me to write fanfics and she's probably sparked many daydreams for you as well. I wrote about the flashback scene for the blog. The post is called "Launch Point."