Chapter 7

Remington shrugged on his coat then held up Laura's for her to slip her arms into. The ballet had been the perfect respite in the midst of a difficult evening.

The Nutcracker had long been a tradition of Remington and hers, having attended the ballet every holiday season since his arrival in her life in '82. The first year he'd appeared in her life, he'd secured the tickets for no other reason than an excuse to spend time with her.

She'd made two startling revelations during the few months that they'd lived together. First, all the years that he'd wheedled his way into spending more time with her, had elbowed his way into a case just to be near her, it wasn't about the challenge she'd presented to his aspirations for a physical relationship, at all. The man who'd flitted through life, moving from place-to-place, having meaningless encounters with women across the globe… the man who need nowhere, nothing and no one… was a remarkably lonely man. In her presence he'd found something that calmed him, that made him feel at peace… that made him feel like he'd finally found his place in the world. It wasn't long after that first revelation that she acknowledged the second: He wasn't the only person who'd found where he belonged. In him she'd found that person, the one person would be there for her without question, willingly lending her shoulder or support, should she need him - No matter how angry they were with one another, no matter the status of their on-again-off-again romance.

She'd finally admitted that somewhere in the recesses of her mind, or maybe her heart, she'd always known: Something in each of them, completed part of the other. Maybe that's why, when he'd presented her with tickets to the Nutcracker after their disastrous trip to Cannes, that despite the hiatus she'd called on their personal relationship, it was one invitation she hadn't resisted or challenged. The Nutcracker… with him… had become a large part of what made the Christmas season feel like Christmas.

"Have I told you how stunning you are this evening, Miss Holt?" he murmured next to her ear now, as he slid her coat over her shoulders. Smiling, she tilted her head to the side, her head touching his in a subtle display of affection.

"Yes, I believe you have," she answered in a quiet voice as she straightened then reached for the buttons on her coat, "A couple of times even."

"Then it must be true," he spoke near her ear again, before laying a hand on the small of her back and escorting her to the theater's doors. Stepping outside, they joined Abigail and Donald.

"I sent Frances back to the hotel," Abigail informed the couple. "It's been a long day for children, especially little Laurie Beth. She's exhausted."

She's not the only one, Laura thought to herself, turning her head to people watch and checking out of the conversation. Second only to the performance itself, one of her favorite parts of attending the ballet was observing people in their formal garb. There was just something about tuxedos and gowns that transformed the people wearing them. People seemed more confident, to stand more proudly, to smile more often… to shine. Even Donald, who she'd now seen precisely two times in a tux, carried himself with a prouder bearing… and looked very handsome, if she did say so—

"Huh," she mused, not realizing she'd done so aloud.

"What is it, Laura?" Remington wondered, hoping fervently that something that might develop into a case hadn't caught her attention. She looked at him as though surprised he'd spoken to her.

"What?" His question caught up with her thoughts. "Oh, the carriage. It reminds me of a scene you'd find on a Christmas card," she shared. The snow white carriage was trimmed in red and featured plush, red velvet seats. The coachman had taken care to decorate boot of his seat with poinsettias and holiday greenery and the white draft horse's harness, bellyband, breeching and breeching strap were all trimmed in red.

"Mmm, yes, it does at that," he agreed, appreciating the scene himself. She laid a soft hand on his upper arm.

"We should consider taking a carriage tour before we leave the city, if we can find the time," she suggested.

"A wonderful idea, Laura," Abigail commented. "I think I'll just go ask him for a card and about his rates." Laura gave herself a mental kick in the shin and groaned aloud for having given her mother yet another opportunity to create a command family performance. Crossing her arms, she turned her head and gave Remington a thunderous scowl.

"I don't care how many brownie points you think it will win you with my mother," she warned, in an undertone, "I am not going on what should be a romantic ride through the park with my mother along." He parted his lips to answer and found himself staring down at a single finger pressed upon them, and an auburn haired, temperamental sprite with fire in her eyes looking up at him. "And if I hear one more time 'It's family, Laura,' you may find yourself sleeping in that empty room next to Mother's tonight." He laughed low in his throat.

"Wouldn't think of it," he dismissed, "Although we might wish to consider having Donald and Frances join us."

"Nah, not us. I'm allergic to the darned things," Donald declined, "My eyes would be watering and I'd be sneezing for a week." He grinned at Remington and Laura. "Now if Frances and Abigail want to take the children, I'm all for it. I could use a few hours of downtime."

"The off-ramp conundrum?" Remington suggested. Donald appeared as baffled as Laura by the remark.

"The off-ramp conundrum?" she wondered. Remington waved a hand at the air.

"Just a reference to a conversation Donald and I had back in '85 while touring the city in the back of a Bright-Age Cosmetics delivery truck."

"Oh, the off-ramp conundrum," Donald laughed aloud as that conversation clicked in his head. "Yeah, that about sums it up. Togetherness is one thing. Five people crammed in two small rooms with your mother-in-law right next door for ten-days is… a lot of togetherness and with Frances and Abigail determined to drag us all over the city…" he left the thought unfinished, wearily. "You have it made, Remington." Remington chuckled at Donald's assessment.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he mused, drily, rubbing at his chin and glancing over his shoulder in Abigail's direction.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Laura demanded to know, taking offense at the implication she might be making this trip less than pleasant for him. Hadn't they just spent an entire day catering to his desire to admire various film locations across the city?

"Remington, be a dear and flag us down a cab," Abigail called to him, when she saw him looking in her direction. Sometimes salvation came from the most unexpected of places, and he gladly took the opportunity to escape Laura's umbrage.

"Of course. Right away." Donald's eyes moved between Laura's outraged expression and Remington's retreating back, then back to Laura.

"Aw, he didn't mean anything by that," Donald assured. Laura's chin tipped up a notch and she crossed her arms, stubbornly, turning her head to regard Remington as he lifted a hand towards an available hack.

"I wouldn't be so sure," she groused as they walked together toward the curb and joined Remington as the taxi cab came to a halt.

"Everything's all set," Abigail announced when she joined the trio, then turned to address Laura and Remington as he opened the back door to the cab. "The driver assured me he can take you back to the hotel through the park and have you there before midnight with no problem." Laura's hand paused as it was reaching for the hand Remington had offered to assist her into the cab.

"The park? The hotel? Mother, what are you talking about? We'll be lucky to make it to St. Patrick's for midnight mass as it is. We don't have time to stop at the hotel," she exclaimed. Abigail cast an exasperated look towards her youngest daughter.

"Laura, there are days I would swear you don't listen to a thing I say," she huffed. "I thought I made it perfectly clear only a few minutes ago that, given the weather, I think it's best if we forgo attending midnight mass this year." Laura blinked a pair of times, trying to recall any such conversation. Standing out of Abigail's sight line, Remington correctly interpreted the look on Laura's face, and nodded his confirmation that the conversation had, indeed, taken place.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Laura sighed the apology, "It's been a long day." Taking Remington's hand, she began to get in the cab, only to have her mother stop her again.

"Laura, the carriage," Abigail said pointedly.

"What about the carriage?" Laura snapped. She'd finally reached her limit for the day and wanted nothing more than go back to the hotel, climb into bed and hide under the covers for the next week.

"It's waiting for you and Remington," Abigail replied with a disapproving frown for her daughter's tone. "I'm sure the two of you could use a little time alone after arranging dinner this evening and offering your guest room to France, Donald and the children." Laura looked from her mother to Remington then back to her mother again, waiting for the trap to be sprung. "Laura, the driver is on the clock," Abigail prodded. Laura looked to Remington again, who gave her a shrug as if to say 'I see no harm."

"Yes, Mother," she answer warily, but nonetheless linked her arm through the crooked elbow offered to her by Remington. She couldn't resist looking over her shoulder – twice – to see if Abigail was following to join them.

"Laura, relax," Remington urged in an undertone.

"I can't," she hissed. "Mother does nothing without an ulterior motive."

"Don't you think you're being a little—"

"What?!" she snapped. He held up his free hand in a symbol of surrender.

"Good evening, sir, ma'am. The Plaza by way of Central Park?" the coachman greeted, then verified.

"That sounds about right," Remington agreed, then gently nudged Laura whose eyes were peeled on her mother as she got into the back of the cab, not releasing her breath until Donald got in behind, closed the door and the taxi pulled away from the curb. "Laura?"

"Huh?" She turned to look at him, then with a small shake of her head, took his proffered hand and stepped up into the carriage. Once Remington joined them, the coachman offered them a pair of thick blankets, which Remington spread out over their laps.

"You're in for a rare treat," the coachman informed them as he climbed up into his seat. "A Christmas Eve sleigh ride through Central Park when it's blanketed in snow. We haven't had snow on Christmas eve since back in '66. If you'd like to stop anywhere, just give me a shout, otherwise, I'll leave you alone."

"Appreciate it, mate," Remington called to him, as, with a quick snap of the reins, the coachman sent the carriage in motion.

It wasn't until they entered Central Park that Laura's tension left her body with a long, hearty sigh.

"I'm sorry," she offered a heartfelt apology. Laying her head against his shoulder she looked up at him through her lashes. "I don't think I can do this for another week," she confessed. Shifting, he wrapped his arm around her, and gave her a brief hug.

"After tomorrow morning, we've only two more events on that itinerary of hers until New Year's Eve. I'm sure we can think of any number of things to do in New York City alone. Hmmmm? You do still owe me a trip to the Empire State Building, after all." His token attempt at levity brightened her mood considerably. She tilted back her head and lifted her brows at her.

"Oh, I do, do I?" she challenged. "And here I thought today was a one day affair." A crooked smile softly lifted his lips, and he slipped a pair of fingers beneath her chin.

"I do believe you mean An Affair to Remember," he suggested with a hum in his voice. Leaning down, he kissed her with a tender ardor that left her blood humming and toes curling… and vanquished any thoughts of her mother from her mind. When their lips parted, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, then leaned back against his shoulder to look out over the park.

There was a hush in the air, the noise of the city muted by the thick copse of trees surrounding the park. Somewhere in the distance, carolers sang What Child is This." Beyond the clip-clopping of the horses shoes upon the ground, she couch hear the sound of the snow at it fell on icy branches of the large trees lining the lane, whose long, twisting, snow covered limbs created an icy canopy above them. The sparse light glinted off of benches and the low-slung fence lining the lane. The cool air nipped at her cheeks, while the man sat piled beneath blankets with her kept her warm.

"It really is very romantic," she appreciated. "If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if you'd staged the whole thing." He stiffened slightly next to her.

"What on earth would make you say that?" he wondered. She looked back at him and smiled.

"Well, you have to admit, it's a scene that could be straight out of one of your movies," she pointed out, logically. The idea amused her, inspiring her to expound upon it. "It's Christmas Eve in the big city. After days facing one peril after another, our hero and heroine take a romantic sleigh ride through a piece of Eden found in the midst of the chaotic city as the snow falls lightly around them." He playfully straightened his tie with a hand while pursing his lips at her.

"I don't even think I…" he lifted his brows at her "… could make it snow on command." She laughed quietly and patted a hand against his chest.

"I'm sure if you thought it would get you out of work, you'd find a way," she noted, wryly.

"Go on with your story," he urged. "It's actually quite good so far."

"Alright." She took a moment to reflect on some of his movies. "Ah. Carolers can be heard singing in the distance, and the hero, knowing the woman beside him believes Christmas is the best day of the year, orders the coachman to drive in the direction from where the singing came. She laughs at his antic, delighted that he's recalled her favorite day," she continued, speaking more dramatically as she went. "The sound of her laughter overwhelms him, and he leans in to give her a kiss, then overcome with his love for her he leaps…" she dramatically swept an arm toward the side of the vehicle "…out of the carriage. Jumping up onto the nearest bench he spreads his arms wide and—"

"You lost me at the leap," he deadpanned. She looked at him surprised.

"What do you mean? I thought it was a pretty good story!" she defended.

"Mmmmm," he hummed his disagreement. "With that leap it became far more Crosby than Bogart."

"So?!" she proclaimed.

"Well, you did say a scene straight out of one of my movies," he reminded her. "And so far as I know, there's not a single Crosby movie amongst my collection. I mean, honestly, Laura, can you imagine Bogart leaping from a carriage, prepared to break out into song?" he mocked. She smiled and waved to the carolers as the carriage drove past the group.

"I never said the hero was going to break out into song," she protested.

"I should hope not," he quickly replied. "The man couldn't sing worth a damn. Shortly after I arrived in LA, I was watching a biography on Bogart, and they played a brief clip of him singing. The first note was promising, then it all went quickly downhill from there. But singing aside, he jumps up on a bench and spreads open his arms? Reminds me of Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Not at all digni—" She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin.

"Fine. If you think you can do better, by all means…" she waved an arm in the air. A single brow quirked upwards, a sign that she'd tickled him with her tiff.

"I just might," he drawled with a defiant air.

"Go for it!" she dared, with a swipe of her hand this time.

"I think I will. Let's see…" A few ticks of the secondhand on his watch passed as he scanned the scenery around them. "Ah, yes… In the distance ahead our… hero and heroine…" he flipped hand in her direction, offering her credit for those roles "…see a halo of light beyond the shadows of the wooded lane on which they traveled. Curiosity piqued, they instruct the coachman to drive straight on. In only a few of the horse's strides, our hero and hero could see the outlines of domed lamps glowing under the night sky in the area beyond." She mentally gave him points for drawing out in words the scene coming into focus before them.

"Go on," she encouraged, settling back in against him.

"Alright," he agreed as the first notes of a cello could be heard from the distance beyond, giving him inspiration. "As they draw closer to the light, the first strands of Pachelbel's Canon in D Major fill the air. The high notes of a violin merge with the mellow notes of the cello, then another violin and viola join. And, as the melody fills the frost bitten air—"

"Pachelbel's Canon in D Minor, Mr. Steele? I'm impressed," she complimented, for it was exactly the song that was coming from somewhere in front of them.

"As unconventional as it might have been, please do try to remember my training in the arts, literature, language and etiquette far surpassed even that of the most well-heeled Eton lad's," he scolded, lightly. "This little piece of Pachelbel's may suit our movie, but I have a particular fondness for Chopin's Prelude in E Minor." A smile tickled her lips, as she wondered if he was about to slip up and share a tiny morsel of his past with her.

"Oh?" she carefully feigned polite interest rather than avid curiosity, "Why's that?" She wanted to wipe the smug grin right off his face: He'd caught her fishing.

"A story for another day," he dismissed. Her smile faltered then disappeared.

"Of course it is," she answered in what he bemusedly dubbed a sulk. He'd never admitted to standing beneath her window on the eve he'd gifted her piano, listening as strains of Chopin's Prelude in E Minor trickled through the windows of her loft into the night air beyond… and he wasn't about to do so now.

"And, as the melody fills the frost bitten air," he continued his story, "The heroine catches her first sight of the quartet. The skirts of their long red gowns rustle in the wind as their fingers danced and their bows skimmed over the strings of their instruments." Oh, he's good, she admitted, admiring the quartet of women dressed in red gowns and seated on white chairs, with white music stands trimmed in holly before them.

"Go on."

"The carriage comes to a sudden halt." As if on command, the coachman signaled his horse to come to rest and the carriage stilled. "Captivated by picturesque scene of Bethesda Fountain centered in the small courtyard before them, several seconds pass before our heroine realizes a man dressed in tux and tails is approaching their carriage from the other side." Surprised by the sudden turn this very promising romance seemed to be taking, she turned to frown at him.

"Of course there would be a man," she groused. "Even in the stories we write ourselves, the hero and heroine get interrupted." He barked a laugh at the reminder of how many times the two of them had been interrupted during an amorous interlude by bullets flying, phones ringing, and Mildred barging in.

"Now, where was I?" he questioned. "Ah, yes," he waved his hand. "A man dressed in tux and tails is approaching their carriage from the other side. The insatiably curious woman leans forward slightly to get a better view." Remington swung open the low hanging door and stepped out of the carriage as he spoke. "Suddenly, our hero descends from the carriage to collect what it is the man has brought to him…" Laura scooted over to where Remington had been sitting and sat up a little straighter as she watched him walk to the man. What is he doing? Who is this guy? she wondered.

"Remington, what's—"

"Our hero turns around, then delivers to his lady love six roses-" She took the flowers from him automatically, then suddenly seemed to surprised to find them held in an arm.

"What's going on here?" she persisted. "Who is that—" Her words were cut off when she found a single finger laid upon her lips to silence her.

"…And he tells her: 'A rose for each year we've spent together, since kismet saw to it our paths would cross.'" The look she saw in his blue eyes in the instant before his lips touched hers, made her body twitch and her mind race. Before she could grasp and hold onto a single thought, he took the flowers and set them on the bench across from her, then took her hand and helped her down from the coach. She went more out of habit than anything.

"Mr. Steele, what are you—"

Her words stumbled to a stop, her brain hiccupping when he reached into his pocket while dropping down on a knee.

"What are you—"

And there, in Central Park, with a quartet playing and horse drawn carriage nearby, as snow fell and music was lifted into the night skies, the former thief who became Remington Steele, opened the lid of the velvet jeweler's box he held in hand…

And did what was once the unthinkable.

"Laura Holt, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

A/N: It did not snow on Christmas Eve in 1987. A little artistic licensing to enhance the story :)