Lakeshore Christmas. Сьюзен Виггс

He chased away the mournful noise by turning up the radio, which was playing Black Sabbath’s “Never Say Die.”

      For Eddie, music was more than just sound. It was a place he went, familiar and safe. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty of his childhood, music had been his retreat and solace. Over the years, his affinity had only deepened. When he was a teenager, it became a way to sort out the confusion, almost as calming as drinking a stolen six-pack from his parents’ fridge. Later, when he was a student at Juilliard, it was a form of expression that finally made sense to him, the perfect accompaniment to the wine he loved to drink before, during and after performances.

      He heard music in his head, all the time. It surprised him to realize this was not the case for other people. Maybe it was a form of insanity.

      Years later, when he reviewed the events of that night, he could never separate the sounds and images in his mind from those that had actually existed. He recalled a curious rhythmic beating noise, like the rotors of a helicopter, and a deepening of the already-dark sky. And then something—an animal? A tree limb?—crossing his path.

      Operating on pure reflex, he swerved to avoid it.

      Mission accomplished.

      But in the next moment, everything was ripped from his control. The van hit a patch of black ice and careened off the road, exploding through a snowbank and jolting down a steep slope. The brakes and steering were useless as he cut a swath through the churchyard. Everything in the van—sound equipment, CDs, gear, the empty champagne bottle—was swept up in a tempest.

      As the speeding vehicle smashed through the nativity scene and barreled toward the church, only one coherent thought slipped out. Please, God, don’t let me hurt anybody.

      “That night changed everything for me,” he told the people in the room. “And for that, I’m grateful. I’ll remind myself of this in the weeks to come. Because something tells me I’m going to face some challenges. I always do, this time of year.”

      “Thanks, Eddie,” the chorus murmured, and they went on to the next speaker.

      His life had really begun the night it had almost ended. That was when he finally had to admit that drinking wasn’t working for him. He’d had to transform himself entirely. Music was still his life, but now he worked behind the scenes, a composer and producer, and he also volunteered for an after-school music program for at-risk kids in Lower Manhattan. Life was good enough for him, under the radar like that.

      His ancient but still-in-effect contract with the production company had limited his earnings from the movie to a pittance. To this day, he had no idea why his parents had allowed it. That same contract called for him to participate materially in promotion of the movie—which meant he had to appear in DVD extras. Creating those segments earlier in the year had reminded him of the things he disliked about fame—knowing he wasn’t the person everyone saw and loved on screen. Having to hide who he really was.

      Being a composer kept him involved in music, though by choice, he was mostly anonymous, creating soundtracks and jingles to order. It freaked him out that people recognized him, and that interest was renewed thanks to the DVD. He only hoped it would blow over soon.

      The part of him that still loved to perform found satisfaction, as well. He visited Avalon frequently to play with a group of his friends in a band called Inner Child, and they had the occasional gig at local festivals or a neighborhood club. This year, he agreed to be the guest host for a local radio show, “Catskills Morning,” consisting of news, talk and music of his choice, five days a week. The regular host was on maternity leave.

      His life was a far cry from the orgy of fame and fortune he’d once pictured for himself. But it was a much better fit.

      The meeting ended as it always did, with the serenity prayer and a quick cleanup of the coffee service; then Eddie prepared to head home for the evening. He stopped at Wegmans and treated himself to his favorite take-out dinner—a pimento cheese sandwich, a big fat dill pickle, a bag of chips and a root beer soda. On the way out of the store, he encountered one of the earliest signs of the season—a Salvation Army bell ringer.

      The insistent clanging of the bell was both annoying and impossible to ignore. Scrounging a crumpled bill out from his pocket, he stuffed it into the painted red bucket.

      “Thanks,” said the bell ringer. He was young, just a boy, really. Something about him was familiar in a vague, distant way. The teenager reminded Eddie of some of his students, back in the city—hungry but proud. Maybe the kid had been in previous Christmas pageants. But no. Eddie was pretty sure he would remember that long, dark hair and soulful eyes, the slightly bemused smile.

      “I’m Eddie Haven,” Eddie said.

      He gave a nod. “Jabez Cantor.”

      “New around here?” Eddie asked.

      “Kind of. I’ve been away for a while. Just got back to town.”

      “Hey, same here.”

      Another kid came out of the store, staring down at a handheld game as he walked, oblivious to everything. By the time Eddie realized where he was headed, it was too late. Both he and Jabez said, “Watch out,” at the same time, but the kid had already crashed into the tripod holding up the collection bucket, knocking it to the ground with a clatter.

      “Sorry,” he said, stuffing the handheld into his pocket and dropping down on his knees to retrieve the spilled coins. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

      “It happens,” said Jabez, stooping down to help.

      Eddie pitched in, too, scooping coins from the pavement. He couldn’t help noticing the scars on Jabez’s hands. They had the taut shine of very old burns, imperfectly healed.

      An older guy with iron-gray hair and a long overcoat came toward them. “Cecil,” he said in a voice grating with disapproval, “what’s going on here?”

      “I knocked this thing over,” the boy named Cecil said. “Sorry, Grandpa.”

      The older guy looked exasperated. Cecil worked faster, trying to round up the spilled coins while Jabez reassembled the tripod. A couple of minutes later, everything was back in place. The grandfather strode away toward a sleek Maybach. The kid started after him, hesitated and dug a dollar bill from his pocket, stuffing it into the collection bucket. Jabez thanked him, but he probably didn’t hear as he rushed to catch up with his grandfather.

      Eddie studied the boy named Jabez, who was staring thoughtfully after them. Actually, a lot of people were staring at the Maybach, since you didn’t see a car like that every day, but Jabez seemed more focused on the older guy.

      “He looks familiar,” Jabez said.

      “Everything all right?” asked Eddie.

      “Sure,” said the boy.

      “You hungry?” Eddie held out the sack.

      “No, I’m good. Really. But thanks.”

      Eddie had learned not to push for too much information. That often resulted in a kid running off and disappearing for good. “You like doing volunteer work?”

      The kid indicated the Salvation Army bucket. “Guess so.”

      “Good. A group of us are going to be putting up a nativity scene Friday night—you know what that is?”

      The kid chuckled. “Yeah, I know what a nativity scene is.”

      “Just asking. Anyway, they could use more volunteers.” He scribbled the time and a place on his white deli bag, tore it off and handed it to Jabez. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

      Jabez took the slip of paper and put it into his breast pocket. “Maybe you will.”

      Four

      After her meeting with Eddie Haven, Maureen was convinced of at least two things. First, Eddie was going to be a big problem in the weeks to come.