Crimson Rain. Meg O'Brien

she did in college, Paul thought. The cold, misty air had softened the few lines around her eyes, which were bright with anticipation. She’s like a kid about Christmas. How could I have forgotten that?

      They began the rounds of the tree farms in Snohomish, where the traffic was thinner and they could enjoy the drive. Since it was two days before Christmas, a lot of the better trees had been taken long ago. Gina insisted they make the tree shopping spree as much fun as possible, singing songs in the car as they always had, to pass the time. She seemed not to notice that Paul and Rachel were more quiet than usual. Their search spread farther and farther away from the city, until, finally, they came across a farm that hadn’t been too stripped. It was their fourth try, and Gina and Rachel stood together in the mud amongst rows of Douglas firs, shivering.

      “What do you think of this one?” Gina asked.

      “Too skinny,” Rachel complained. “I like this one better.” She stood holding a branch of a wide nine-footer.

      “That won’t even fit through the door!” Gina said, smiling.

      Paul was three rows over when he called out, “Hey, look at this!” They trudged valiantly over the rutted ground, expecting to reject this one as they had the past five.

      “I love it!” Rachel said when she saw the tall, perfectly shaped fir. She cocked her head to the side and smiled. “No holes, no broken limbs. You always were the best at picking them out, Dad.”

      “Oh, I don’t know. It’s only taken me—” Paul pushed back his jacket sleeve and looked at his watch “—two hours and four tree lots this time.” But he smiled, grateful that she seemed to be getting into the spirit of things. Maybe this day would turn out all right after all.

      Finding the “perfect” Christmas tree had been a tradition ever since he could remember. There had been times over the years when he’d thought about leaving Gina, when it had seemed as if there was so little left of their relationship it hardly made sense to go on. Even the bad Christmas Eve memories, however, couldn’t spoil the fact that there was something solid and safe about doing things like this together, and knowing they would be doing them year after year.

      When it came right down to it, there hadn’t been any good reason to break up his marriage. Gina might have distanced herself from him, but she still maintained a surface relationship, keeping up the house, being there for Rachel. He’d never even thought of straying…not until Lacey came into his life, offering boundless energy when he was weary, and light at a time when his very existence seemed to grow darker every year.

      “Earth to Dad!” Rachel was saying. “Hello?”

      Paul came back to the matter at hand. “So you really like this one? Should I start cutting?”

      “Absolutely,” Rachel said. “Okay with you, Mom?”

      “Cut away,” Gina replied, blowing into her hands for warmth. “And fast. Let’s get the heck out of here!”

      “Darn it,” Rachel said, “I told you to wear gloves. But not to worry.” She put an arm around her mom as Paul began to saw through the trunk of the fir. “We’ll be at the tearoom soon. You can warm up there.”

      The tree fell, and Rachel cried, “Attaboy, Dad! You’d put Paul Bunyan to shame!”

      Paul grunted. Looking at Gina and his daughter, at the smiles on their faces and the way they both rose to the occasion when good spirits were called for, he could only think: I wish I were a Paul Bunyan, a giant possessed of superhuman powers. Maybe then I could figure out a way to fix this moment in time forever.

      After dragging the tree into the house and changing clothes, they drove down the hill to the tearoom. In an old Victorian house with several differently decorated rooms, it was warm and toasty from a huge fireplace in the large front room. Taped chamber music was soft and soothing, and the scents of cinnamon, apples and other holiday treats stimulated the appetite and brought back memories of traditional Christmases Paul had enjoyed as a child.

      This, too, was a tradition that Paul, Gina and Rachel had followed. First the cutting of the tree—from a lot where trees were specifically grown for Christmas, to ease Rachel’s concern over the destruction of the forests—and then tea, to warm themselves up.

      Over the subdued murmur of voices and the gentle clinking of bone china cups against saucers, Paul looked at his wife and daughter. Rachel’s cheeks were still pink from the cold, and the bright pink scarf she wore mirrored them. Her eyes shone in the candlelight. Without warning, a memory rushed in: Angela, and the way her eyes had been so like Rachel’s in color, that clear, lovely hazel, yet always with a flicker of mischief in them.

      Rachel was wrong in thinking he’d had some sort of contact with Angela. Yet her instincts were right. Everything about this season combined to form a gunnysack of immense proportions that he seemed destined, always, to carry on his back. He knew that if he opened that sack, more bad memories than he’d ever be able to live with would spill out.

      It was one of the reasons, he admitted to himself, that he’d become involved with Lacey. In September, the stores had already been bringing out the Christmas toys and decorations. They were everywhere, and Paul had begun to dread the coming holiday even more than usual this year. There were times when he felt certain his life was over, and other times when he wished it were.

      This past summer, he and Gina had barely seen each other for weeks on end. She was working on a house up on Camano Island, more than an hour away, and she often came home late. Finally he had stopped going home after work, and had begun to have dinner in the city. His favorite place was the Gordon Biersch Brewery Restaurant, because there were always plenty of people there—young people, active and happy, or at least seemingly happy as they laughed and drank together after their day’s work. Sitting in a bar drinking wasn’t Paul’s idea of a rousing good time, but having dinner at the bar and watching everyone around him enjoy themselves made him feel less lonely.

      He hadn’t started out with the thought that he might meet someone. At least, not consciously. He told himself he was merely passing the time. Then one night, a young blond woman at the other end of the bar began to make eye contact with him. At first, he was embarrassed. He hadn’t been with anyone but Gina since they’d met in college. On this particular night, however, Paul found himself wanting someone to talk to. That was all, he swore to himself—just talk.

      So when the woman smiled at him the third or fourth time their eyes met, instead of looking quickly away as she’d done at first, Paul took that as an invitation to move to the stool beside her and join her for a drink.

      It had been awkward at first. Paul found himself at a loss for words. Funny, he thought. All this time I’ve been wanting someone to talk to, and now I don’t know what to say.

      But the woman made it easy for him.

      “Hi, I’m Lacey,” she said softly, holding out a hand. “May I buy you a drink?”

      Paul smiled and shook her hand. “I thought the man was supposed to buy the woman a drink.”

      Lacey laughed and tossed her head, shaking back the lush blond hair that fell over her face on one side. Her eyes were a deep, deep green, so deep that when Paul looked into them he felt like a teenager striving for just the right poetic phrase. What he came up with was clichéd, he knew, but he honestly did feel as if he were falling into the depths of some long-forgotten, ancient sea. As for her complexion, it was creamy and flawless, except for a small half-moon scar at the corner of her right eye. She had covered it with makeup, making it less noticeable, but when she turned into the light from behind the bar, it stood out in sharp relief.

      Paul was glad she had a flaw. Without it, he might have been intimidated by her beauty.

      “What old-fashioned world did you come from,” Lacey teased, “thinking the man has to buy the drink?” Nodding to the bartender, she pointed a finger at his nearly empty drink glass. “Don’t tell me. You’re married, and you haven’t dated in years. And you don’t want to get involved. Well, that’s perfect, because I don’t