fingers over the top, then carefully eased the lid off and set it aside. There were only a handful of things within—and just as he had feared, the sight of them brought a thousand memories flooding back.
There was the postcard of the Matterhorn that Vass had sent him when he was six and Vass was nine. Vass had been with their father in Switzerland. “It’s s’cool,” he had written. “You and me will climb it someday.”
They hadn’t, of course. But when Vass came home, they’d begun climbing the cliffs by their island home with eager purpose. Just as they’d earnestly practiced tying ship’s knots in the two feet of line that lay in the box, as well.
“Learn to tie the knots and I’ll teach you to sail,” their father had said.
Now Alex drew the piece of line out of the box and his fingers moved automatically to make a Spanish bowline, a clove hitch, a figure eight while in his mind’s eye he saw the summer days they’d spent on the water, the three of them. He remembered the heat and the sun and the wind—and the stories and the laughter that came with them.
He picked a small reddish-brown pottery shard out next, rubbing his thumb over its worn contours and remembering Vass finding it and saying he was going to grow up and be an archaeologist like Indiana Jones. And there were two very well-used Star Wars figures—Luke and Han, of course—they’d played with for years. There was a painstaking drawing of the Battlestar Galactica that Vass had drawn while he was in the hospital, and a far more precise elegant one that Alex had drawn at the same time because, after all, he was the one who was going to be the architect, not Vass.
And then there was a single silver Porsche Matchbox car.
Alex had faced all the other bits of memorabilia with a tight jaw, a strained smile, blinking eyes.
But the silver Porsche felt like a dagger to his heart.
They had fought over the silver Porsche, he and Vass. It had been his brother’s, but Vass had been indifferent until Alex wanted it. And they had fought—actually came to blows—and Vass had punched him in the stomach and he had given Vass a bloody nose.
He stared at the small car now, picked it up and ran his hands over the lines of its frame. Then he closed his fingers around it until he felt the cold metal bite into his hand. He wanted to feel it. Needed the pain.
It hadn’t been Vass’s first bloody nose. He’d had several that summer. But this one they hadn’t been able to stop. Not until they’d taken him to the doctor. And then there had been murmurs of concern. His mother’s worry. His father’s pacing. More doctor visits. A flight to Athens to see a specialist. A hospital. Tests.
A diagnosis. Leukemia.
Because of a bloody nose. A bloody nose that was Alex’s fault.
It wasn’t, of course. He knew that now. But at the time, he was not yet nine years old. He hadn’t known—and no one had bothered to reassure him. They’d all been far too worried about Vass. He had been worried, too.
But he’d swallowed his worry and his guilt because there hadn’t been time for it, there hadn’t been room for it. His parents hadn’t even seen it.
When Vass had come home from the hospital the first time, Alex had been scared to go into his room, afraid he might do more damage.
But Vass had said scornfully, “You can’t give somebody leukemia. You’re not that powerful, brat.” Then he’d grinned, Vass’s old wonderful “I can do anything” grin, and Alex had had his brother back.
Then he’d believed Vass would recover. Then he’d hoped for the best. Two and a half years later, there was no best.
The last time he’d been in Vass’s hospital room, Vass had said, “Keep the Porsche. It’s yours.”
“I don’t want it,” Alex had protested, tears streaming down his face.
Now slowly, painfully, he unbent his fingers, and stared at the little car. He rubbed his fingers over it, remembering Vass doing the same thing. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw Vass’s frail body and thin pale face, and he let the pain wash over him.
But other memories came, too. Along with the pain, he remembered the good times, the joy, the sharing and laughter. And he knew you couldn’t have one without the other.
For years he’d put the Porsche and the memories in a box and tucked them away, unable to face them.
You don’t love anyone. You don’t want to. Daisy’s words echoed in his mind. He heard them again, along with her parting shot: You ‘re offering far, far less.
Alex knew what he had to do.
He just hoped to God he could do it.
“‘S Christmas!” Charlie jiggled Daisy’s shoulder, waking her, peering wide-eyed into her sleep-gritted ones. “An’ Santa came!”
The pure joy of youth and belief beamed at her. She rolled over and shoved herself to a sitting position, then reached out to pull him into a fierce hug. “Of course he did. Were you worried?”
Charlie gave her a quick, hard, fierce hug in return, then wriggled out of her grasp, his head shaking to and fro. “Nah. I knew he’d come.” He held out a hand to her and Daisy let him pull her to her feet.
“I did, too,” she confided, snagging her bathrobe as he dragged her toward the living room, toward the Christmas tree which was already lit with small bright multicolored lights, because obviously Charlie had been there first, poking around.
But he hadn’t opened any gifts. He had waited for her. Now he looked at her expectantly.
And deliberately, mustering all the joy she could manage, Daisy put her game face on. “Let me put the coffee on. Then we’ll see what Santa brought.”
There was no time to brood on Christmas morning. There were gifts to unwrap and ooh-and-aah over. Santa made a just-turned-five-year-old boy very happy. There was a set of Legos and some action figures, three new books, a soccer ball, and a floor mat with the outline of streets and buildings—a city to drive his cars around in. Daisy’s mother had sent him a build-it-yourself racetrack for his little cars and a stash of art supplies for rainy days.
Charlie was thrilled. He wanted to play with all of it now. Daisy wanted to let him. But Cal was coming to get Charlie at noon. His parents were already here from Cooperstown and were looking forward to spending the day with Cal and their grandson. All of Cal’s siblings and their families were coming, too.
“They’d be happy to see you, too,” Cal had assured Daisy last week when they’d discussed plans. “You don’t have to be alone.”
But Daisy had shaken her head. “I’ll be all right. I’ve booked a photo shoot.” She had done it deliberately, agreeing to a plea from one of her old college classmates that she do a four-generation family shoot on Christmas afternoon.
“They’re all only here for the day,” Josie had apologized when she’d asked. “I know it’s probably impossible being Christmas and all … but just in case …”
“Sounds great,” Daisy had said firmly. It would keep her from sitting at home alone and miserable. “It’ll be fun.” She’d
