Well, everybody, here it is at last-the last chapter. I can't believe I started this story five months ago, thinking it was only going to be three or four chapters of fluffy family Christmas fic, and it somehow morphed into all this.
I've gathered that not everyone liked the last chapter much. I never intended to suggest that Donna had spent the last few years doing nothing but look after her children, or that she plans her life and eating habits around keeping her husband happy. I've made some changes to her dialogue in that chapter in response to the criticism; I hope she now comes across the way I intended her to, as a confident woman who is comfortable in her own skin and happy in her relationships with her husband and her kids, but not in any way subservient to them.
A note on the Maxwells. I'm not sentimental enough to believe that people like Max and Sabrina could suddenly become wonderful parents, or would never do anything unpleasant or illegal again. But on the other hand, even people who are prone to general nastiness can sometimes show a better side, and these two are no exception. I thought the extreme circumstances here might make it possible to get a glimpse of that in both of them, but I'm not trying to suggest that either one of them has undergone a radical character transformation. Please don't read that into what I've written!
Oh, and one other thing: Some of you might notice that I've borrowed Josh's Secret Service code name from someone else's story. I wish I could remember whose; I thought it was one of Marguerite's, but I haven't been able to track it down. All I remember is someone saying that the Service gave Josh a new code name after Rosslyn. That name seemed more appropriate than anything else I could think of for my post-"Maine Thing" Josh, and I guess my version of the Service thought so, too, since they were willing to flex their usual practice and assign it to him while giving the rest of his family names that start with a different letter. There is some precedent for that. And they do all have the same initial sound.
All my gratitude to those of you who've stuck with me through the ups and downs and changes of direction as this story has unfolded. If there's anything you've enjoyed at all in it, I'd really appreciate your taking the time to let me know.
Lighthouse Christmas 31
"What a pair," Andie said, when the Maxwells had been sent down to their cabin. "They should be charged with child endangerment."
"I'm sure they will be," Josh said. "Joe said he'd be filing the paperwork tomorrow. And calling in Child Protective Services, and everything else. His sergeant didn't feel it was necessary to get anyone onto it tonight, since the nanny's still around and the immediate danger is over."
"But will charging them really be the best thing for the child?" Donna asked. "He'll go into foster care. And you know what that means."
"It won't go that far," Josh said. "It's a first offense. They'll get a good lawyer; they won't do jail time or lose their child over it."
"They'll probably get community service," Ainsley suggested. "And mandatory parenting classes. That's what I'd go for, if I were the judge."
"They could certainly use those," Sam said. "And a good course in fair employment practices, too."
"Not to mention immigration law," Toby pointed out. They had all heard by now what Sabrina had said about Mariana, in front of the Secret Service and the police. "There'll be some charges relating to that, too, I imagine-knowingly employing an illegal immigrant. And not paying federal payroll taxes for her."
"And a few other charges as well," Josh added. "Ron Butterfield told me the agents who were looking for Noah this afternoon found papers showing the man's up to his neck in the MacInstalker Group. We can't use them as evidence, since we didn't have a warrant for them, but I'm sure the Feds won't have any trouble tracking him down from the other end. There'll be some big fines there, for sure. Maybe even prison, if he's been stupid enough."
"But there won't be any charges for Mariana, surely?" Donna said, anxiously, going back to the earlier subject. "That would be dreadful."
"No, we'll make sure of that," Sam assured her. "She may be covered under sanctuary ordinances here in the Cove; she certainly is in New York, where she lives most of the year."
"I got her to talk to me a little," Donna said. "She was brought here as a child. Her father left not long after; her mother died when she was in high school. She was an honors student at Brooklyn Latin, but she didn't go to college because she was too scared of anyone finding out what her situation was. She doesn't have a social security number, of course, or anything, really, except her high school diploma. She ought to have a university degree; she's obviously very bright. She could be doing so much more than looking after that family's baby so its own mother can fritter away her time shopping and going out to lunches with her friends."
"I think," Josh said, with the beginnings of a smile, "that Mariana's is just the story we've been looking for to help push our immigration bill through. Brought here as a child. High intelligence and potential, demonstrated by school performance. High moral character, demonstrated by selfless rescue of baby from burning building-not to mention obvious devoted care of the child before that."
"She must be responsible for the character of her own child, too," Donna added. "Cat's a treasure. Climbing up that wall to try to save that couple, after the way they'd treated her-"
"Academically brilliant, too, from everything Noah's had to say."
"And a target of racial hatred," Toby put in. "Joe said that man tried to shoot her this afternoon, too, didn't he?"
"I want to do something for them!" Donna burst out. "I'd like to bring them to Washington and get Cat into Noah's school. The fees wouldn't matter; there are good bursaries available, and it would be such a help for him as well as her to have a friend there working at the same level. And I want Mariana to work for me in the East Wing, if you can get that bill passed so she can. We could work out something so she could go to college part-time, too. Betty says she'd love to."
"I wonder," C.J. said, slowly, "if a certain director we know wouldn't want to make another movie."
Everyone stared at her. Josh's dimples flashed out.
"What an idea," he said. "The Crabapple Cove Chamber of Commerce will probably give you free clams and lobster for the rest of time, if you can bring that off. I might even give you a few myself-it would get us the bill for sure, if we can't get everything we want through this time. And it could set that woman and her daughter up for a whole new start on life."
"I think," C.J. said with a grin, "that I could probably find the time to make some calls-as long as WW3 doesn't break out tomorrow. You've got me on a pretty hectic schedule at State these days, you know."
"You've got to get used to the pace. I'm grooming you to run yourself in seven years' time."
C.J. raised her eyebrows and looked at him quizzically.
"Oh, no," Danny moaned. "No, no, no."
"That's what I said," Josh pointed out. "But none of you wanted to let me off the hook."
"Why not Sam?" C.J. asked. "He's younger than I am."
"No," Sam said firmly. "Not me. Definitely not."
"That's what I said," Josh murmured. "But about that bill. I know we were aiming at February, but I'm thinking we should go for it as soon as Congress is back in session again. This story is the missing piece we've been looking for. Anyone disagree?"
He looked around the circle. Sam, Toby, and Danny all shook their heads.
"Right. You know what to do. Now, about that statement we've got to make about what happened with Noah this afternoon. . . ."
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Donna left Josh talking to his staff and started to round up the children for bed.
"Don't go into our room," Josh called out, as she moved towards the stairs.
"Why ever not?"
"Surprise." He turned back to business. Donna shook her head and smiled, wondering what on earth he could have planned.
Since their husbands were deep in discussion, Ainsley and Andie joined her in getting the air-mattresses blown up and the children organized for tooth-brushing and pajamas. Then they came back downstairs, where the strategy session seemed to have come to an end.
"We need music!" C.J. called out. Sid took his violin out of its case, tucked it under his chin, and after a few strokes of the bow to test the tone, started in with "Deck the Halls." Everyone sang along. Soon they were all begging for their favorites.
Josh's mother sat in her corner, listening to the cheerful, off-key voices and knitting quietly. She was grateful for them. Like her son and daughter-in-law, she'd had a bad hour or two that afternoon before Noah had been found. And hearing Cat and Betty and Mariana talking about the fire at the Maxwells' house had stirred up the old memories that would never really leave her, though time had softened their edges, as it always does.
But Noah was safe-that was the main thing. And those other children, Cat and Tyler, were safe, too. The day had not, after all, ended in tragedy. For that, she was more relieved than she could say.
She came to the last row of the little sock she'd been working on, and cast off. Then she let her hands rest as she watched her son talking and laughing and singing with his friends and children. She saw him reach out a hand and slip it around his wife's waist, pulling her closer to him; saw her daughter-in-law drop a kiss on his head before adding her voice again to the chorus of "Good King Wenceslas." And she smiled.
It wasn't the family she had pictured him with once, but that didn't matter to her anymore. He was happy: that was all she cared about. If his father were here, he'd be happy for his son, too-she was sure of that. Happy, and so proud.
Three weeks ago Josh had taken out the menorah that his grandparents had sent out of Poland to England with their small son before the war. She had watched with his wife and children as he said the blessings-she'd had to prompt him when he stumbled over some of the words-and lit the shamash and the first candle. He had set it in the window of his office-the Oval Office-in the White House, and they had all sung Ma'oz Tzur. And then they had gone back to the Residence and lit other menorahs for other windows there, and the children had played dreidel and opened their first gifts.
Ruth Lyman's father would have pointed out that Hanukkah was not a significant holiday. But she felt that even he could not have helped being moved by the significance of his grandson's act in that place. And if Josh's marriage to what her father would certainly have called a shiksa would have angered him, she no longer cared. Josh was her child. She had come close to losing him too many times, but he had lived. And he was happy. That was the only thing that mattered to her at all.
"Okay, everyone," Donna called out. "It's stocking time!"
Noah watched her handing out the stockings anxiously. Ainsley and Andie had brought their children's-Toby's family, like Josh's, was bicultural about holiday traditions. But something was missing.
"Cat doesn't have one," he whispered, when his mother finally asked him what was wrong.
"We can use one of my socks," she suggested. "Or Daddy's-they're bigger."
"That's not the same."
"I'm sure Cat won't mind. Or Santa, either."
"Can you-" He hesitated.
"Can I what?"
He bit his lip and shook his head.
"Nothing."
Donna was puzzled for only a moment.
"It's all right," she whispered, so Sally wouldn't hear. "I'll find something to put in it."
Sally looked over. With a younger sibling's acute sensitivity to conversations they're being left out of, she demanded, "What are you talking about?"
"Mom says there's lots of cookies and milk for Santa," Noah improvised quickly. Donna gave him a squeeze of gratitude for letting his little sister continue in her delusions for another year.
The two grandmothers, who were sitting by the fire talking to Betty, both looked up and smiled.
"Give me one more minute, and I'll have this finished," Donna's mother said, holding up a gaily-striped stocking that had 'Catalina' worked into it. She'd started it earlier as a decoration, but had changed the name and her plans for it almost as soon as Cat and Mariana walked in the door.
"I've done a little one for the baby," Ruth added, passing the sock to Donna. "You can't have gifts for all the others and leave him out," she added, almost defensively. "I'm sure we can find something to put in it."
"I stopped by my church on the way over," Betty said, in low tones to avoid being overheard by the children, "and picked up some things for Cat and Tyler from their tree."
"You three," Donna said. "You're like the three Fates, sitting here knitting in the corner and making sure everything works out well."
"The Moirai," her mother-in-law said, contemplatively. "Clotho, perhaps-but she was a spinner, not a knitter or a weaver. Not Lachesis or Atropos, please; they were dreadful."
"You're much nicer than they were," Donna agreed, giving each of the women a hug. Gagnon appeared with a plateful of cookies and a tall glass of milk for Santa, and Sally insisted on getting carrots for the reindeer.
Then they all trooped upstairs one last time and were tucked into bed-the older ones in Noah's room, and the younger in Sally's.
Donna fussed a bit over Cat, making sure she was warm enough in her sleeping bag and her arm was comfortably cushioned with an extra pillow.
"Mo-om," Noah protested, when she tried to do the same for him.
"Oh, all right then," his mother laughed at him. "Be cold all night, if you want to be!"
"I'm cozy," he admitted.
"Well, goodnight, all of you, then."
A chorus of goodnights followed her out the door. There was some whispering and giggling for a while, but Noah and Cat were so tired that they fell asleep almost at once.
Sally-perhaps because she'd napped that afternoon-was the last to drop off. She lay awake for what felt like a long time after even Mindy and Daisy had gone quiet, listening to the wind outside, and all the rattles and creaks and thuds as it beat against the old house.
At last she heard something that might have been sleigh bells, and something else she was sure must be footsteps on the roof above her. She turned over then, snuggled her face against her pillow, and fell asleep, smiling.
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Joe completed a final circuit of the lighthouse and decided it was time to go back inside. His head felt clearer: air and exercise always helped when he was feeling overwhelmed. He hadn't cut Reggie Morton into little pieces, that was the main thing. Probably wouldn't have, even if those Secret Service agents hadn't shown up when they did-though what he would have done, he still didn't know. Just thinking about the man made him feel physically ill. He couldn't fathom that kind of evil, that would deliberately target a child. Or a man, for that matter, just because he was different from you. . . .
He still didn't know what to say to Marie, but he figured he'd come up with something if he had to. Maybe. Or not. There wasn't much he could do about that, one way or the other; he was pretty sure he could stomp around the lighthouse all night and it wouldn't really help much in that direction. If he hid out here in the storm any longer, though, someone would be sure to notice and start asking questions. He couldn't stand that. And anyway, hiding was a coward's trick. It was time to go in.
He shook the snow off himself in the shed, took his boots off, and padded in through the kitchen in stocking feet.
"Joe!" Gagnon hailed him. "Have you eaten?"
He nodded.
"Not enough," Gagnon said, in persuasive tones. "I'm sure you couldn't have eaten enough."
"You look cold, dear." Marie's mother's voice was full of its usual warm concern. "Come and have some coffee and dessert."
"No, thanks, Mrs. Gagnon. I'm fine."
Marie, curled up in the kitchen window-seat, watched him as he crossed the dining room and stood in the hallway, listening to his grandfather playing "Silent Night." Her father, who had been watching both of them, came and sat beside her. He put his arm around her, and pulled her gently to him.
"Doesn't he mind?" she asked him.
"Who? Joe?"
She shook her head.
"No, not him. The President."
"What should he mind?"
"That song. And all the others Sid has been playing, all the Christmas songs and carols."
"No, he doesn't mind."
"How do you know?"
"I've known him a long time."
"But-tonight, of all nights! When someone just tried to shoot his son!"
"He minds that. He minds that very much indeed. Do you doubt it?"
Marie shook her head.
"No, of course not. But-I don't understand. That man tried to shoot Noah because it's Christmas. Because the President's Jewish, and the man didn't like that. All this talk about a War on Christmas, and blaming it on people like the Lymans. How could the President not mind our singing carols tonight?"
"Sweetheart," Gagnon said, "I think he and his wife learned long ago that the only thing that matters, the only true part of any religion or profession or celebration or any other thing at all, is love. And the more you love, and the more you let yourself see in others only that which needs love or deserves love, and the more you try your hardest to meet that need for love-the wider you can spread your arms, the more people of every stripe and nationality and faith and flaw you can bring into their circle-the better off everyone will be."
They were both silent for a minute. Then,
"Is that why they asked those people to stay? The Maxwells? They're awful-always so arrogant and full of themselves and rude, and they left their baby alone in that house by himself without even thinking what could happen, and it did happen, almost. They're not kind. I couldn't think why the Lymans would want people like that here. But. . . ." Her voice trailed off, as if she was still trying to work it all out.
Her father nodded.
"No, the Maxwells are not very kind. But that's all the more reason why they need kindness, so they can learn what it's like. The First Lady sees that. And because he loves her, the President can see it, too."
"How do you know?"
He winked at her.
"Oh, I know. You cannot cook for someone-not truly cook, not as I cook-without knowing what is in their heart."
She laughed.
"Oh, Papa. You always bring everything back to cooking."
"And why not, my child? What could be more important than cooking? Done right, it feeds the body, supports the mind, frees the spirit, makes the heart rejoice. Done wrong. . . ."
His face darkened.
"And what are the dire results of cooking done wrong, Papa?" Her voice was teasing, but soft with love.
"Done wrong," he said grimly, "it gives us Maxwells and-what was that man's name, with the gun today? Morton? It gives us Maxwells and Mortons."
"Papa, you're being ridiculous. The Maxwells eat your cooking whenever they can. And I'm sure that sweet woman, Mariana, cooks for them beautifully the rest of the time."
"Ah, Marie," he said. "Go sit with your young man and make eyes at him, and stop trying to be more clever than your father."
"He's not my young man, Papa."
But she stood up, dropped a kiss on the top of her father's head, and went into the dining room, where she picked up the other, longer case that Betty had brought. Joe was in the dimly-lit hallway, sitting on the bottom stair. Wordlessly, Marie set the case down in front of him. Then she dropped to the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and tried to make out his face through the shadows.
"Play something," she said, softly.
"I don't want to."
"Please, Joe."
He looked at her and sighed, but opened the case and took the guitar out, resting it on his knee. For a minute he tested the strings, fiddling with the pegs to adjust the tuning. Then he put the instrument down again.
"I don't know what to play," he said.
"'What Child is This?'" It had always been one of her favorite carols.
"I don't want to play Christmas songs tonight. It doesn't seem right."
"Because of what happened? With that man, today?"
He swallowed, and nodded. She thought for a moment.
"Then play 'Greensleeves,'" she said, quite seriously.
He looked at her sideways and shook his head, but a minute later the guitar was in his hands. His fingers started to pick at the strings, and the familiar tune-the same as the carol he hadn't wanted to play- began to unfurl. Marie closed her eyes and listened, as she had so many times before. He didn't sing, but she knew both of them were hearing the words.
Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously,
When I have loved you so long, rejoicing in your company.
Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight.
Greensleeves was my heart of gold. . . ."
"I was only seventeen, Joe," she said, softly. "I wouldn't be that silly now."
His fingers slowed, then stopped. He looked up at her.
"I guess I didn't handle things so great, either."
"You were only seventeen, too. We're both older now."
"And that makes us wiser?"
"It ought to."
He smiled, but his eyes were serious.
"I've never stopped thinking about you."
"I've never stopped thinking about you, either, Joe."
She put her hand on his. This time he didn't shake it off, but opened his hand so hers could slip into it, then wrapped his fingers around hers tightly. She tipped her head against his knee. They sat like that for a long time.
Then suddenly he untangled his fingers, picked up the guitar, and struck a loud chord. A minute later he was singing.
"We are the champions, my friends!"
"Oh, no," she groaned.
"And we'll keep on fighting till the end!"
"Stop, Joe. Stop now!"
"We are the CHAMPIONS! We are the CHAMPIONS! . . ."
"What have I done?" Marie moaned, burying her face in her hands. But she couldn't quite keep her shoulders from shaking with laughter. Joe went on singing.
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In the living room, Donna's father looked up from the three-cornered game of gin he was playing with the two doctors, and said, "Goodness, that boy will wake all the children."
Donna smiled. "He's just happy."
"Well," her father said, gruffly, "I guess he's earned the right to that."
"He has," she said, softly. "He really has."
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When it was clear that, in spite of the noise Joe was making, no small feet were going to come patting back downstairs, the parents retrieved the bags they'd stashed in various corners, stuffed the stockings, and stacked their other gifts under and around the tree. The snow had let up a little, and the Secret Service reported from the front gate that the plow and sanding truck had gone by not long before, so Dr. and Mrs. Pierce and Betty, Mary, and Sid said their goodbyes and left. The Gagnons and Joe soon followed.
"Will I see you tomorrow, Joe?" Marie asked, as she was putting on her coat.
"You won't be able to keep me and my obnoxious Queen songs away."
"Where's Claire?" the girls' mother asked. "Claire?"
"Right here, Mom," the older girl said, coming down the stairs. Josh, who had come into the hallway to say goodbye, looked up and caught her eye. She nodded and smiled. His dimples flashed for a moment in return.
"Thanks for everything," he told the two girls as he ushered them out the door.
"We'd better be off, too," Danny said. "I imagine it'll be an early morning."
"You're the only two who can get away with sleeping in," Toby pointed out. "What time did you tell the kids they could come down, Donna?"
"Seven-thirty."
"Oh, my goodness," Andie said. "Can Sally really manage to wait that long?"
"She'll have to. It's her punishment for her part in Noah's lies and schemes this afternoon-no earlier start to Christmas morning!"
"We'll be here by seven-thirty, then."
"Us too," Ainsley and Sam agreed.
"Don't wait for Danny and me," C.J. said, yawning.
"What? Don't you want to spend every minute of Christmas morning in the bosom of your family, surrounded by all your darling little honorary nieces and nephews while they squeal and yell and send paper flying everywhere?" Josh asked, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise.
"I've got to preserve my sanity if you still want me to negotiate that deal with Iran next week. . . ."
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When their guests had all been transported to their cabins, and their parents had retired for the night to their own rooms, Josh and Donna sat by their fireside a while longer, talking.
"You were right," Donna said, soberly. "We should have told Noah much more from the start about why he mustn't try to get away from his agents. And I should have explained to him why I couldn't take him into the village to see Santa today. I couldn't bear to. I didn't want him to know that there were people who want to kill you. Or who might try to kill him, or Sally, or me."
"You didn't want to scare him."
"No. But it was more than that. I didn't want him to know that there was evil like that in the world. That people could be like that, hating each other and wanting to hurt each other for such stupid reasons-or at all, really. But he needed to know. I should have seen that."
"It wasn't your fault, Donna. Noah knew quite well that he wasn't supposed to leave this property without both his agents beside him all the time. And he knew why-maybe not all the details, but enough to know he shouldn't do it. He did it anyway. He would have done it whether you'd told him about these War on Christmas crazies or not. He was pretty set on getting into the village to see his friend today; I don't think anything you said would have stopped him."
"But why? Why couldn't he just have told me what he wanted? We could have had her here in a minute. I've never said no to a playdate before; could he really have thought I would now?"
Josh shook his head.
"He just liked the challenge of it. In his mind, he'd planned on meeting her in the village and going for hot chocolate and gingerbread, so that's what he was going to make happen, no matter what. And he likes secrets-probably because they're challenging to keep. They give him something to exercise his mind on. He doesn't get enough of that, even in that supposedly-so-great school of his. We're going to have to rethink that one, by the way; see if we can't find something that will do more for him. But I don't think he'll try anything like this again. I spelled out to him in exhaustive detail everything he'd done wrong, and what it could have led to."
"Oh, dear," Donna said, anxiously. "We don't want to crush his spirit. Just-"
"Just give it a few very necessary limits and direction. Don't worry; I didn't crush him. You don't honestly think I would, do you?"
"No, of course not. It's just that he's such a little boy still in some ways."
"And such a mature one in others."
"That's the trouble, isn't it? There's a name for it: asynchronous development. When a child's intelligence is way ahead of his age group, but his emotions haven't necessarily caught up. It's supposed to be the biggest problem for very smart children, because they don't fit the usual categories; adults either expect too little from them, or too much."
Josh's mouth twisted a little.
"Yeah," he said. Donna slipped her hand over his and squeezed it.
It was what had happened to him, she knew. Her mother-in-law had told her once that he'd been so bright and so good at covering things up for their sakes that they hadn't done nearly enough to help him after his sister died, because they hadn't understood how much it went on affecting him ("we thought he'd forget, because he was just a child," she'd said) or that he really wasn't as all right as his intelligence made him seem. By the time they'd begun to realize it, he was a grown man and the damage had been done.
She hoped they were doing a better job of keeping communications open with Noah. But still, he was very like his father in many ways. She'd have to make sure she didn't let herself slip into making easy assumptions about him-what he was able to do, or what he was able to feel, either.
"He's so like you," she said. "I suppose that's how you knew what he'd done."
"Partly. But what I really knew first was what Sally had done."
"Yes, how did you figure that out, anyway?"
"Partly because of what the agents said they'd been doing. I knew Noah doesn't like sharing a sled with Sally. And I've told him more than once that if they ever do share, he should be the one on top, to keep her from falling off. One of my friends' sisters was hurt that way, going down a steep hill on her brother's back when she wasn't big enough to hold on well. Noah's usually careful with Sally, even if she does drive him crazy; I was pretty sure he wouldn't have forgotten that."
"You said that was part of it. What else was there?"
Josh smiled.
"Well, mostly it was the way Sally wouldn't talk to you afterwards. I knew just what she must be feeling. It sucks to be the younger kid, always trailing around after the bigger one, getting roped into their schemes. You'll do anything to get them to take you seriously, and when it works you feel like you've just grown up and learned how to fly. But when something goes wrong, and the grown-ups start asking questions, and you know your hero is never going to speak to you again if you spill the beans on them-well, you get what Sally was doing."
Donna nodded.
"But oh, Josh-if Joe hadn't been there. If he hadn't gone hunting this afternoon. If he hadn't gone there. If he hadn't come back when he did, or hadn't seen that truck, or stopped to look for it, or gone up that trail and found that man. If he'd been just a second later-"
She shivered convulsively. He put his arm around her and pulled her to him.
"I know," he said. "I know."
They both sat and watched the fire burning down. Then Josh shifted a little, taking his arm away from her shoulders. He picked a stray bit of his mother's knitting wool off the couch and started fiddling with it, pulling the fibres apart.
"Are you angry with me?" he asked quietly, after a minute.
"Why would I be angry with you?"
"You know why."
"Because you ran for President?"
He nodded. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them.
"Josh," she said slowly, still looking into the fire. "We've been over this and over this. You being President wasn't what either of us really wanted. But the Party asked you, and you asked me, and I said yes. I can't back down from that now. You asked me; I agreed. And as long as you and Noah and Sally are all right, I will never, ever blame you for it."
Josh sucked in his breath a little, knowing something more was coming. Donna heard him and faltered for a moment, then kept going. They had promised nine years ago that they would always be honest with each other; she knew a lie would make him more unhappy than even the most uncomfortable truth.
"But I can't promise you that I'll be able to stick to that if something happens to one of our children, or to you, because you're the President. If that happened, I wouldn't be able to stop myself-I'd blame you, and Sam, and Toby, and Jed Bartlet, and Leo, and everyone else in the Party, and everyone in the country who voted for you, and probably everyone who didn't vote for you because there weren't enough of them, and maybe the Queen and the Pope and the Dalai Lama, too, just because. And myself-I'd blame myself most of all, for having said yes, because I know that if I'd said no, you wouldn't have done it."
She turned to look at him then. He kept his eyes on the embers glowing in the fireplace.
"But whatever I'd say," she went on, "whatever I'd think, it would only be because I'd gone crazy-crazy-from grief, and I wouldn't be able to stop myself or make myself think sanely about anything any more. It wouldn't really be me talking anymore; it would just be a crazy person who looked like me. But Noah's all right, and Sally's all right, and you're all right, so I'm not crazy right now, I'm still me-and so no, I don't blame you for what could have happened today but didn't."
"Thank you," Josh said quietly, his eyes still on the fire.
"And besides," she added, "we both know that you could have a different job and we could be living in the nicest, safest, suburb in the world, and something awful might happen to Noah or Sally anyway. All kinds of terrible things happen to children every day, all over the country, all over the world. But they're a lot less likely to happen with you in charge than anyone else I can think of, so really, I'd probably be blaming you for not running, if you hadn't."
He looked at her then, and smiled.
"Thanks," he said again.
"Thank you for the party," she said, softly. "It really helped to cheer me up."
"Good. I thought it might."
"Is that why you did it?"
"It helped me, too."
"It was wonderful. Everyone we love most was there-except the Bartlets, of course, or Leo."
"I'm not sure I'd put the Maxwells in that category."
"Well, no. You don't mind their staying tonight, though, do you? I suppose we'll have to give them breakfast, too, but then we can send them on their way."
"I thought you wanted to make the woman your next project?"
"I'd like to keep in touch with her. I really think I could help her a little. But I'm not expecting her to turn into my-what is it Sally says? my Best Friend Forever.
"God help us if she does."
"That job's taken, anyway. I've already got a best friend forever."
She tipped her head onto his shoulder. He smiled down at her and squeezed her hand.
"I do, too," he said, softly. "The very best friend anyone could have."
"You do understand why I wanted the Maxwells to stay tonight, don't you?"
"Because you're the nicest person in the world, and you like helping people."
"You're terribly deceived about me, you know. I'm not the nicest person in the world at all, and if they'd caught me on some other day, I might have said all kinds of nasty things to them and turned them out in the cold. But I couldn't do that today."
"Because it's Christmas?"
She shook her head.
"Not really," she said softly. "I do love Christmas, you know that. And this time of year does remind me to try to be a better person, to be more patient, more kind and loving-"
"You couldn't be a better person. You're already the best at all those things, in spades."
She smiled, but shook her head.
"You know I'm not. But it isn't really because it's Christmas that I wanted to be nice to the Maxwells today."
"Why, then?"
"Don't you know?"
"No. Tell me."
"Because it's today, of course! The day you made me happier than I ever thought was possible. Happier than anyone else in the whole world, happier than anyone has any right to be. And because you made me so happy today, nine years ago, and because you make me so happy now, I just want everyone else to be happy, too."
Josh put his hand under her chin and tipped it up.
"You've got it all wrong," he said, his voice a little choked. "You couldn't have been happier than I was, nine years ago. Or than I am now."
"I love you so much, Josh."
"I love you too, sweetheart. So, so much more than I know how to say. But if you'll come upstairs with me now, I'll try to find a way to show you."
He took her by the hand and led her up the stairs. Then he pushed the door to their room open a little and stood back to let her go in first.
Her face lit up. The whole room had been transformed. From wall to wall the ceiling was a canopy of green leaves jeweled with clusters of white berries; tubs of cedar branches and white pine screened the walls and filled the air with fragrance. More greenery twined up the posters of their bed and nestled around scores of white candles set out in hurricane lanterns and glass jars on the window-sills and dresser-tops. Someone had lit them already; their orange flames burned brightly in the cool, dim room, sending shadows dancing as Donna stepped inside.
"Oh, Josh!"
"Do you like it?"
"Like it? I love it! It's magical!"
"Like you," he said, closing the door quietly behind them before burying his face in her hair and kissing the top of her ear.
"However did you do it?"
"Gagnon." He switched sides, and kissed the other one.
"How?"
"I'd had him buy all this stuff already, so when we changed plans I asked him to bring it with him tonight. His girls put it up."
"It's wonderful!"
"It was supposed to be for our dinner at the inn."
"This is much better."
"The stuff on the ceiling is mistletoe, you know."
"I thought it might be."
"You know what that means, don't you?"
"You have to kiss me under it. Which you seem to be doing already."
He had started kissing his way down the line of her jaw. He paused, and lifted his face for a moment.
"It means I get to kiss you under every bit of it. To kiss every bit of you under every bit of it. And I've hardly started at all. There's a lot more kissing to do-here," he kissed the tip of her chin, "and here"-he moved her forward a step and dropped another kiss on the side of her neck, "and here-"
"Every bit of me, under every bit of mistletoe?"
"That's right."
"You've got it all wrong, Josh. I'm sure it means I get to kiss every bit of you under every bit of mistletoe. And that's going to take a while, so you'd better let me get started."
"It was my idea. I get to go first."
"It's my anniversary present. I get to go first. Ooo! That tickled."
"Shhh. You don't want to wake the children, do you?"
"This is going to take a while, isn't it?"
"All night, if I have anything to say about it. Maybe all morning, too."
"You know Sally's going to wake us up at seven-thirty, don't you?"
"Nine-thirty. I put her clock back a couple of hours. Noah's, too."
"Seriously?"
"I'm always serious."
"Rarely."
"Always when it comes to you. With the kids, not so much."
"It's no wonder Noah's such a schemer."
"I'll keep ahead of him. Now stop arguing with me, woman, and let me get back to kissing you. We've got a lot of serious business to take care of before nine-thirty tomorrow. I should probably have put those clocks back three hours. Or maybe four. . . ."
000000
Max Maxwell got very little sleep that night. Josh Lyman had thrown him out a challenge, and one thing Max had never done in his life was walk away from another man's challenge. There was no way he was going to look the President in the face the next morning and admit that he had failed at something the man had said he'd done countless times himself.
Besides, there had been something quite threatening about Lyman. All affability on the surface, but Max hadn't missed the steel underneath. There'd been the mentions of investigations, the strong suggestion that Max was already in deep waters and had better watch every step he took in the future-that Lyman was watching and would somehow know if he put as a much as a toe wrong. Even when his wife had talked about not disturbing the nanny's sleep and Sabrina needing help with the baby-there'd been something in the set of Lyman's shoulders and the curl of his lips, something in his tone when he'd mentioned men looking after women and children, that had sent a chill through Max, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He'd been left with the unpleasant feeling that if he did not look after his son that night-if he ignored the boy, if he called for Mariana, even if he just left the child care to his wife-the President would somehow know about it and there would be repercussions he wouldn't like.
Part of his mind wanted to believe that was illogical-that the President couldn't possibly know what happened in his guest cottage in the middle of the night. But a bigger part wasn't so sure. Who knew what bugs and cameras might be hidden in a cabin on the President's estate? It was quite likely, really, Max thought, that things would be set up to let someone keep an eye and ear on foreign visitors, maybe even on domestic ones, too. It wasn't something he wanted to take a chance on. Josh Lyman really had struck him as someone it would be unwise to cross.
So when Tyler woke and started to cry, Max grunted at Sabrina that he'd take care of it. He got out of bed, picked the boy up, and took him into the next room, where he laid him down on the floor and set about changing his diaper. He'd never done anything like it before, but he managed it all quite effectively. He usually was effective when he decided to do something. A lot of what he wanted to do wasn't particularly nice for anyone but himself, but few of his acquaintances would have questioned his competence in doing it.
Sometime around four a.m., though, as he walked up and down the living room floor with his sobbing son on his shoulder, patting his back and trying to quiet him, Max had a revelation: this small, moist, warm, miserable thing was his. It belonged to him-he felt that in a visceral way he had never experienced before. And he wanted to stop its crying, not just because the wails were unpleasant to listen to and were going to keep him awake all night if they didn't stop, but because they meant that something was wrong with this little thing that was his. And because it was his, that meant that he, Max, needed to find out what was wrong and make things right again.
He lifted Tyler off his shoulder and held the boy up in front of him.
"What is it, little man?" he said. "Tell Dada what's wrong."
Tyler opened his mouth and howled. Max, staring into the wide red maw, saw something that looked like a blister.
"Do that again, kid," he said. Tyler obliged, his cries louder than ever. Max went and washed his hands. Then he wrapped an arm around the boy, gripped his chin with one hand and his upper jaw with the other, and-doing his best to avoid the existing teeth-kept his son's mouth open while he stuck a finger in. Tyler squirmed and struggled to get free. Max held onto him more tightly and felt around until he found the sore place he'd seen.
He pressed down firmly. Something warm and wet gushed onto his hand, followed by the hard edge of the tooth that had come through at last. Tyler made a sound somewhere between a gurgle and a squeak, and stopped struggling.
Max took his hand out of the baby's mouth. His finger was covered in blood, but Tyler smiled up at him.
"Mahmah," he said, happily.
"Say Dada."
"MahmahCattyEffieBinkit!"
The pain seemed to have stopped. Max felt a considerable sense of accomplishment.
"Say Dada, kid. Dada. Dada. Got it?"
"MahmahCattyEffieBinkitMama."
The boy sounded delighted. Max scowled.
"Look, kid, I'm the one that helped you. Nobody else figured out what was making you cry, but your Dada did, and I got blood all over my shirt now from doing it. So you better learn who I am. I'm your Dada, see? Say it, it's not that hard: Dada. Dada. Dada."
"Dada."
Max beamed.
"That's it. You're a clever one, aren't you? You take after me, for sure. Now, you and I are going to sit here and see what's on TV. You'd like a hockey game, I bet, or maybe some football. Let's hope the President hasn't blocked FoxSports; he's a Democrat, you know. Now you, you're gonna be a good little Republican like your Dada, aren't you?"
Outside, the snow was beginning to fall heavily again. The wind whistled around the cottage and beat great gusts of it against its windows. Max and Sabrina didn't notice. She was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion in the bedroom. He was watching that afternoon's football game with his son.
000000
The wind whistled around the lighthouse and the keeper's cottage, too. It moaned in the chimney and rattled the windows in their frames-but nobody noticed there, either. They were all too busy with other things.
In the two smallest rooms upstairs, buried under piles of flannel sheets and woolen blankets and down-stuffed sleeping bags and comforters, the children-even the day's three adventurers, whose parents had worried about nightmares-were all soundly asleep. Not even a vision of sugar plums danced in their heads.
In the bigger room beside them and the small one off the living room downstairs, their grandparents, worn out from the all the emotion of the day, were sleeping deeply and peacefully too.
In the dim hallway at the foot of the stairs, Gressie the Labradoodle had decided to ignore her comfortable bed in the kitchen and establish herself somewhere where she could keep a better watch over things. She turned around three times and scratched the rug into a heap before throwing herself down across the door. Her eyes closed before her head thumped down on the floor. Her morning exertions on the toboggan slopes and her evening ones greeting and then keeping an eye on all the visitors to the lighthouse had tired her out so completely that she slept right through the night, with barely a twitch of her nose or a flutter of her paws to suggest that she was chasing rabbits in her dreams.
Up in the lighthouse tower and outdoors in the freezing cold, the Secret Service agents whose turn it was to be on duty were not sleeping, but very much awake. The ones unfortunate enough to be posted outside were buffeted by the wind and stung by the snow that blew into their eyes and faces, but they barely noticed it. Their whole attention was focused on their jobs, which had been re-defined earlier that evening by Ron Butterfield to include not only watching over the lighthouse and keeping potential evil-doers out of its grounds, but keeping Flashlight and Frolic firmly in. As Christmas Eve passed into Christmas Day, the agents hunched over their screens, stamped their feet while they stood at their posts, bent their shoulders against the wind as they walked their appointed stretches of the fence line. And every few minutes they called in their reports: "Frolic and Flashlight still inside." "Felicity and Phoenix still inside." "All clear." "All safe."
But as for what Josh and Donna were doing in their candle-lit room under all the mistletoe-that, I'm sure they would want me to say, is nobody's business but their own.
The End
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