ForevaXena's FanFic . . .

I Found My Heart In San Francisco
(A Christmas Vignette)

by S X Meagher

Disclaimer: None that I can think of.  This is just a small flashback in the lives (or almost lives) of Jamie and Ryan. 

The tall, well-built young man slipped from bed just after dawn, his feet hitting the floor with a soft, dull, thud.  Oh man, what I wouldn’t give to be able to sleep in just one morning.  He ran his hand through his thick hair, pushing it from his eyes as he performed a few lazy stretches. 

Passing by the full-length mirror on his way to the shower, he gazed at himself for just a moment.  His blonde hair was getting a little long, he noticed.  I’ve got to find some time to get a haircut.  Yeah, he scoffed internally.  You’ve barely got time to breathe.  Maybe I could find a barber who needs legal representation...then I could squeeze a billable hour out of the downtime.

Billable hours--the curse of the young associate.  Even though he had only been with the firm since September, the pressure was already building.  It was clearly expected that even the first year associates would account for at least 800 hours even though they had only been employed since September, and the young man knew that he was going to be a little short.  He knew it wouldn’t be fatal, but he was still worried about it.

His peers felt the pressure as much as he did, of that, he was certain.  It was hard enough coming up with quality hours--clients didn’t like to pay for grunt-work, he knew.  But since he and the other new associates had only learned that they had passed the bar over Thanksgiving weekend, they had all been scrambling for hours since September, without being able to do much real work.  In effect, they had been highly paid law clerks, not yet lawyers.  Now that he was licensed, he could finally sink his teeth into some real work, and the case he was working on was going to give him the opportunity to prove himself.  Of course, he was the fourth lawyer attached to the case, far down on the food chain from the senior and junior partners and the fourth year associate that had been assigned to the case since the beginning.  He knew this was a chance to begin to make a name for himself, and he also knew that twelve hours of diligent work would make an impression on his superiors when they arrived back in the office on Monday.

He considered his peers for a moment, some of whom had been classmates at Stanford.  Yes, they were as fatigued and stressed as he was at work.  But none of them had taken the plunge as early as he had.  Keeping a young wife with a baby on the way happy had brought a level of stress to his life that he was wholly unfamiliar with.  When he added up the doctor’s appointments that he had diligently managed to attend with his wife, he knew that his shortfall of hours would be erased completely if not for those stolen moments.  He didn’t regret it--not at all.  Even though their parents had tried to talk them out of it, he was happy that they had married.  And the thrill of hearing that tiny heartbeat had been one of the high points of his life.  Learning just last week that Catherine carried a little girl still had him on a high whenever he had time to think about it--which was not very often.

Damn, I wish that I could just have a few days off to spend with Catherine and get excited about the baby.  At this rate, I’ll look more like Cat’s father than her husband by the time our little girl is born.  I might be 24, but I look 40, he grumbled to himself as he considered his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes, and the beginnings of deep-etched worry lines in his forehead.  I’ve gotta get some rest over the holiday.  As he proceeded into the bath he gave a short, wry laugh.  Yeah, one day will do it.  A whole day off for Christmas.  Bah humbug!

He remained in the shower much longer than usual, trying to steam some of the fatigue out of his body.  Cat was still sound asleep, as she had been when he finally dragged into the house last night--so tired that he didn’t remember anything after he passed the airport on 101.  I’ve gotta start driving with the windows open, he reminded himself.  Cat’s a little young to be a widow.

He regarded his young wife while he got dressed, thinking that she actually looked younger than she had when he met her, just over a year ago.  From the few chapters he had been able to read from her pregnancy books, he understood that the hormones flooding her body caused some of the changes.  Her skin, which he had loved from the first time he felt it, had actually grown softer, and smoother, making him wish that he could just slide against her all night long.  That, of course, wasn’t an option currently.  Who decided to pull that cruel joke? he asked himself.  Your wife looks more voluptuous, more appealing than you’ve ever seen her, and she’d rather take poison than have sex.  Somebody up there sure has a sick sense of humor, he decided, casting a quick glance to the sky, just in case anyone was listening. 

Catherine looked nearly as tired as he did, he had to admit.  Even though she went to bed early, and tended to sleep late, he knew that she spent much of the night tossing and turning to get comfortable.  She also required frequent trips to the bathroom throughout the night--seemingly every hour on the hour.  Only his fatigue allowed him to sleep through most of her nocturnal ramblings, even though he wished he could wake up enough to at least give her a little back rub.  It seemed like the only time she was fully awake was when he was fully asleep, and he worried about the strain his schedule was putting on his new marriage.  Nothing you can do about it now, Jim, he reminded himself.  The only way to make an impression on these guys is to work your tail off.  And if that means working 12 hours on Christmas Eve, then that’s what you’re going to do.  He shook his head in dismay as he spared another glance at his wife.  It can’t always be like this, Honey.  They have to let up on us soon...no one can be expected to work like this all of the time.

When he was dressed, he stood near Catherine’s side of the bed, wishing he could give her a kiss, but not wanting to wake her.  She looked so fragile and young, sleeping on her side with her knees drawn up, their baby growing in the swell of her belly, her breasts full and lush.  Only 19...she looks like a baby herself sometimes.  She’ll just be 20 when the baby comes, he thought as he gazed at her sleeping body.  That’s so young to be doing this--alone.  He knew that his contribution had been far less than either of them wished for.  But he had no options, he reminded himself.  He knew that Catherine would lose all respect for him if he contented himself with living off her money.  When they had visited her mother’s family in Newport the past summer he could nearly feel the animus she held for her cousins who whiled away their days spending the family fortune.  No, they had made their choices, and they were stuck with them now.  If he was going to practice law, he was going to be the best damned lawyer he could be.  There was no other way.

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

"Good morning, Señor Evans," Marta smiled when he walked into the kitchen.  "I heard that you were up, so I made some breakfast for you.  Will you have time to eat?"

He quickly looked at his watch, seeing the time tick slowly by, knowing he should leave, but also knowing that there would be absolutely nothing open near his downtown office building.  "I’d love to have a little breakfast, Marta," he agreed.  "I wish Catherine could join me, but she is still fast asleep."

"Yes, yes, she needs her rest.  I hear her walking the halls much of the night," she revealed.  "She has a hard time with her back, no?"

"Yes, she does," he agreed, wishing there was something he could do to ease her silent suffering.  Happening upon an idea he hopped up from his chair and pulled the yellow pages down from the cabinet.  "Marta, would you do me a very big favor?" he asked as he scanned down the list of businesses that he sought.  "Call some of these people and see if anyone will come to the house to give her a massage, will you?  Let them know that she’s pregnant, of course, and see if any of them seem like they’d care for her a little bit.  Do you know what I mean?"

He gazed at Marta with his sea-green eyes, trying to make her understand his wishes.  He didn’t just want any old masseuse to come in and beat on his poor wife.  What he really wanted was someone to give her some of the coddling that he wished he could provide, but had neither the skill nor the time to do.

"Yes, I think I understand," she said, taking the phone book from his hands.  "You want a...a...how do you say...someone to pamper her, no?"

"Exactly!" he smiled, pleased that Marta understood his desires.  He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out more money than he thought the charge could possibly be, and handed it to her.  "Make sure they’re gentle, Marta.  Her back is very tender right now."

"Yes," she nodded somberly, "I will make sure."

"Oh, and Marta, will you do whatever you have to do to make sure she eats something today?"  He shook his head in frustration as he commented, "She’s only gained fifteen pounds during this pregnancy, and all of that has to be from the baby.  The doctor thinks she’s probably lost ten pounds of her normal body weight, and frankly he seems worried about it."

"Sí, sí, I will do it," she assured him.  "Now eat some breakfast, Señor Evans.  You need to take care of yourself, too."

"That would be nice, Marta," he smiled sadly as he sat at the table to wolf down the hearty meal she had prepared.  "But that’s just not an option at the moment."

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

The pretty, young blonde woman stared at her in open-mouthed surprise.  "He went to work?  But Marta, it’s Christmas Eve!  And it’s Saturday!" 

"Yes, yes, I know," the older woman soothed, guiding the younger down onto a chair.  "He didn’t look like he wanted to go, Señora Evans.  He looked so tired..."

Catherine crossed her arms and laid her head down, willing herself not to cry.  Her long blonde hair fell forward, obscuring her features, and giving her a moment to collect herself.  Sighing heavily, she finally lifted her head and said, "I thought we could finally decorate the Christmas tree today."

"Oh, I see."  The cook had been wondering when the bare tree would gain some form of decoration, but she had thought that maybe the young couple liked it that way.  "Maybe I could help you, Señora...then it will be a beautiful surprise for Señor Evans when he comes home from work."

Forcing a smile, Catherine nodded, knowing that she couldn’t do it alone, and refusing to have their first Christmas be spent around a bare tree.  "That would be lovely, Marta.  I’d appreciate it."

"Will you go to midnight Mass tonight, Señora?"

"Yes."  She paused for a moment, wondering if Jim would be up to it.  "I think we will.  Jim’s father is expecting us."

"Why don’t you let me prepare a traditional Spanish Christmas dinner for you?" the cook asked.  "You can enjoy the meal after Mass.  Maybe you can both take a little rest this afternoon so you can enjoy yourselves tonight."

"That’s very thoughtful of you, Marta," Catherine agreed.  "That sounds like it will work out beautifully.  I’ll just call Jim to make sure he thinks it’s all right."

"All right, Señora.  I’ll make my list for the grocery."  Marta was beaming a smile at her, and Catherine recognized once again that they had utilized her talents very rarely.  What with Jim missing most evening meals, and her balky stomach, the poor woman had barely prepared ten proper meals in the months she had been with them.  It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried, either, Catherine thought fondly.  Marta was almost constantly in the kitchen, trying to concoct some small treat that would tempt Catherine’s reluctant appetite.  She had even taken to making a good lunch for Jim to take with him, when she noticed how loose his new suits had already grown.  But cooking an elaborate meal was one of the things that gave Marta joy, and she was fairly bubbling as she sat down at the table to create her extensive list of ingredients.

To Catherine’s surprise, Jim was fairly enthusiastic about the planned feast, and Marta immediately grabbed her purse and headed off to Draeger’s in San Mateo to assemble everything she would need.

Catherine sat at the breakfast table, idly patting her belly to soothe the baby, who was performing some rigorous regimen of gymnastics this morning.  "Shhh, calm down, little one," she soothed, deciding to get up and walk a little, a trick that usually calmed the baby down.  She paused for just a moment, reminding herself that it wasn’t just "the baby" any longer.  It was their daughter...their little girl.  She smiled as she patted her, rubbing her hand all over her child through her silk robe.  "We need a name for you, little one," she said fondly, speaking aloud to her child.  "I’ve been telling your daddy that "Little Sprout" is not an acceptable name for a sweet little girl."

It had seemed so far off when they didn’t yet know the sex of the baby.  But now...now she felt like they needed to attach a name to the child--to make her seem more like a person.  They had been through the gamut of family names--with Jim calling an immediate halt to the mere discussion of names like Phoebe, Maxine, Olivia, and Beatrix, the names of some of the women of previous generations.

"This would be easier if you were a little boy," Catherine told her child.  "We had already decided on naming you James Sloan Evans, Junior.  Your daddy even agreed that we could call you Sloan, just to give you a little panache."  She patted the baby fondly.  "Don’t tell your Daddy, but I’m happy that you turned out to be a girl, even if he can’t think of a name for you.  I’m worried enough about being a good mommy--having to figure out how to raise a little boy would be far beyond my capabilities."  The baby did a complete flip, nearly taking Catherine’s breath away.  "Oh my," she gasped as she grabbed onto a chair for support.  Patting her stomach gently she smiled and said, "I see you agree with me, little sprout."

The telephone rang, pulling her from her thoughts.  "Hello?" she answered in her polite, slightly formal voice.

"Hello, Dear.  How’s my little girl?"

"Hello, Father," she said fondly.  "I’m fine, how are you?"

"I’m good.  Can’t talk long, Dear.  The phone system here is just abysmal.  Hard to believe we’re three quarters of the way into the century and you can’t get a reliable phone connection from Mexico to California."

"How is the sailing, Father?" she asked, feigning interest in the sport to be polite.

"Just fine, Catherine.  The conditions couldn’t be better.  I think I’ll celebrate Christmas by going fishing for something exotic this afternoon.  How about you?  How will you spend the holiday?"

"We’re going to midnight Mass at Jim’s father’s of course, and then we’ll have Charles over for dinner tomorrow evening.  It should be nice," she said, feeling a lump form in her throat as she said the words.

"Well, I just wanted to make sure you were all right," he said rather gruffly--emotional connections never his forte.  "I know this will be a tough year for you, Catherine.  I just thought I’d remind you to buck up, Dear."

"Thank you, Father," she said, feeling the tears form in her eyes.  "I’m sure we’ll be fine.  Have a good day."

"You too, Catherine.  Try not to think about it too much, okay?"

"I won’t Father," she lied.  "Thank you again for calling."

The line went dead, either intentionally or by accident.  Using all of her reserves, she propelled herself up to their bedroom, carefully locking the door and turning on the radio to KDFC, the classical station, before she fell to the bed and cried until she had no more tears to shed.

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

When Marta arrived home, arms filled with shopping bags, she immediately got to work on the request Jim had made.  Much to her pleasure, she found a very nice sounding woman who had the time to come to the house in the afternoon for a massage.  She claimed to be the mother of three, and seemed to know exactly what Marta was talking about when she described the backaches with which her young employer was bedeviled.  After making the arrangements, she began to assemble all of the ingredients she would need to make the feast, losing herself in her work until she noticed Catherine enter the kitchen again, dressed and ready for the day.

Regarding the haggard-looking young woman, she once again noticed the tell-tales signs of a recent crying spell.  The poor little thing, she thought, wishing she could wrap the young woman up in her arms and soothe away her pain.  Such a horrible thing to loose your mother at such a young age...and how much worse to have it happen when you’re pregnant with your first child.  She felt tears spring to her own eyes as she felt the sadness wash over her.  It took just a moment for her thoughts to turn to her own family, and her decisions not to spend Christmas with them in Seville. 

As much as she missed her family, she knew it was better to stay away during the holidays.  Nothing reminded her more of her late husband--gone just over a year--than being surrounded by family and friends during the festive time.  It is better this way, she thought.  At least here I can be of some help for to this sad young woman.  It does no good to focus on my own broken heart.

Forcing a bright smile on her handsome, elegant features, Marta placed a gentle hand on Catherine’s shoulder and insisted.  "It’s time for a little breakfast for you, Señora."

"But I’m really not hungry..." the pale young woman began. 

Touching her lightly on her protruding belly, Marta reminded her, "Even if you are not hungry, your baby is.  She needs breakfast," she said firmly, determined to get some calories into the too-thin body.

Catherine shot her a puzzled look, unconsciously touching her child as she asked, "Did I tell you that she was a girl?"

"No, no one told me," Marta informed her.  "I knew it long ago.  It’s obvious," she said easily, guiding the reluctant woman back into a chair to await the food that she was going to make sure got past her lips.

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

The living room was awash in boxes of lights, garland, delicate strings of glass beads, beautifully crafted hand blown glass ornaments, and lovely, hand painted, carved wooden animals.

They had been diligently working for two hours, with Marta doing all of the more rigorous work.  She would not even let Catherine stand on the low step stool, insisting that her center of gravity was not stable enough to risk it. 

"Tell me about Christmas in Spain, Marta," Catherine asked, as she unwound a long string of lights.  "I’ve never been to Spain during the holidays."

"Oh, it’s very nice," she said, smiling broadly.  "Not like here, so much though.  The Santa Claus is not worshipped where I am from," she said thoughtfully.

Catherine giggled girlishly, gently correcting Marta.  "We don’t worship Santa Claus, Marta," she said.

"No?" the cook asked, slightly puzzled.  "I...I know that many do worship the Christ child, but I thought that for others Santa Claus was..." she shrugged her shoulders, obviously having a difficult time with the concept that she was trying to explain.

"Oh, no," Catherine smiled.  "Most of us celebrate Christmas as the birth of Christ.  Really," she insisted, when she saw the doubt on the older woman’s face.

"I just thought..." she began.  Her head tilted and she asked, "Where is the Nacimiento?"  She gave a tentative look in the remaining boxes, seeing no evidence of the object of her quest.

"Nacimiento?"  Catherine tried to extrapolate her knowledge of Italian and hazarded a guess.  "Nativity Scene?"

"Sí, sí.  Where is the Nativity Scene?"

"Oh!"  Catherine looked a little puzzled herself, giving a look into the boxes along with Marta.  "All of this belonged to my mother," she said softly.  "I’m not really sure..."

"Don’t worry about it," Marta soothed, seeing the grief settle onto the delicate features.  "We have different customs, but they are all good."

Catherine smiled at the obvious efforts of her cook to make her feel better.  "Tell me about the Nacimiento," she asked.

Marta sat down upon the step stool, a fond look of reminiscence on her face.  "We don’t have a Christmas tree," she informed her young employer.  "Some do, of course, but my family focuses on making a big display of the birth of the Savior," she said.  "We decorate our house with a big Nacimiento on Christmas Eve, putting the three wise men very far off in the distance.  On their way to Bethlehem they passed through Spain you know," she said in a serious tone of voice.  Her eyes crinkled up into a grin as she added, "At least we tell the children this."

Catherine smiled back, charmed by the enthusiasm her cook showed for her subject.  "The Three Kings are very important in our celebration.  We do not give presents on Christmas--those come during Epiphany, January sixth.  That is when the kings brought gifts to the Christ child, so that is when we give little gifts to each other.  Mostly for the children," she added.  "On Christmas, we all go to Mass together, La Misa del Gallo, we call it."

"The Mass of the Rooster?"  Catherine assumed that her translation was off, but Marta agreed.

"Sí, Sí.  The Mass of the Rooster.  It is a very long Mass," she laughed.  "It is nearly time for the rooster to crow when it is finished.  Then we go home and have a very elaborate feast--like you will have tonight," she said proudly.  "The feast lasts all night long.  We say esta noche es Noche-Buena, y no es noche de dormir."

"Ahh.  This is the good night, and is not meant for sleep," Catherine guessed, fairly sure she was correct on this one.

"You are very good!" Marta cried.  "How do you know so much Spanish?"

"I don’t, really," she blushed.  "I know Italian and some French, and the Romance languages all have much in common."  Patting her belly she said, "I’d like the baby to learn to speak both Spanish and Italian."

"I will teach her," Marta found herself saying.  "It would be my pleasure."

"Would you really?"  The look of delighted wonder on the young woman’s face was so touching that Marta felt her heart clench with emotion.

"Of course I would.  Maybe we can all learn together, no?"

"That would be lovely, Marta.  I look forward to it."

"I do too," the older woman said fondly.  "I can’t wait to meet the little one."

Catherine paused and cocked her head in question.  "I don’t know much about babies, Marta.  When should we start?"

"We’ll start the day she comes home from the hospital," the older woman decided immediately.  "I’ll speak Spanish to her exclusively.  It’s the best way."

The young woman smiled brightly and agreed with the plan.  "It can be your secret language, Marta, for when she has secrets from her daddy."  An impish grin covered Catherine’s face, and Marta nearly had to bite back tears at how impossible young she looked when she smiled that way. 

I will do my best to make sure we see more of those smiles in this house, the determined older woman decided.

They worked together in silence for a while, each lost in her own musings.  When no more decorations would fit on the sturdy spruce, Marta pulled out a gorgeous, delicate china doll, clad in a nearly translucent gossamer gown.  "Ohh!  What a beautiful angel!" she exclaimed.

"My mother bought this for me when she was in Italy just before Christmas last year," Catherine said softly.  "She said that someday my husband and I could put this on our tree."  Her lower lip trembled as she said, "Neither of us knew it would be this year.  Or that she wouldn’t be here to see it."  She collapsed in tears, allowing Marta to wrap her in her arms and comfort her as she would a small child.  "I’m sorry," she said as she pulled away, her embarrassment over her display as intense as her grief.  "I don’t seem to have any control today."

"You don’t need to control yourself, Señora Evans.  Not with me."

Looking up tentatively at the woman who still held her loosely, Catherine sniffed a few times and made a hesitant request.  "Would you do me one great favor, Marta?"

"Of course.  Anything."

Her lip trembled again as she rasped out, "Will you call me Catherine?"

"Of course," she said immediately, terribly touched by the request.  "When it is just you and I, I will call you Catherine." 

"Thank you," she said softly.  "I could use a friend right about now, Marta."

"I will be your friend, Catherine," she assured her.  "I am honored that you wish to be mine."

"I think I’ll go lie down for a little while if you don’t mind.  I’m feeling awfully tired today."

"Yes, please, go," Marta insisted.  "I’ll clean up here.  When you wake I’ll make you a little lunch."

The frail woman smiled weakly, walking awkwardly as she made her way up the stairs. 

As Marta began to neatly pack the remnants of their decorating spree, she considered how few people Catherine seemed to have in her life.  The older woman had only been in the Evans' employ since September, and even in that time she had seen Catherine’s "friends" slowly fall by the wayside.  She knew that she should not be angry with the young women, still juniors in college and focused on their own interests.  But she was angry, unreasonably so, that they couldn’t spare a little time for their friend who desperately needed some companionship.  I will do my best to make up for her lonely heart, she decided.  It won’t be the same as having her own young friends, but I will not abandon her, she thought with a fiery intensity in her dark eyes.

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

The masseuse was, as advertised, very gentle and kind.  She performed impressively, doing a very good job of relaxing some of the tension in Catherine’s lower back.  After the woman departed, Marta went up to check on Catherine and restate her offer of lunch.  Knocking softly, she opened the door to the master bedroom just a crack, smiling fondly at the young woman who lay in bed, already sound asleep.  She needs sleep more than food right now, she decided, even though she knew it was a close race.

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

Jim wandered into the kitchen a little after six, looking like he was having a hard time picking up his feet to propel himself across the stone floor.  "Hi, Marta," he said, unsuccessfully trying to hold back a yawn.

"Señor Evans," she said reprovingly.  "You look like you are asleep standing up!"

"I am," he murmured softly.  "How’s Catherine?"

"She slept much of the afternoon.  Her massage was very good.  She was very pleased that you thought of it for her."

He smiled tiredly and said, "Maybe I’ll go catch a nap before Mass tonight."

"That is a very good idea.  Make sure that you’re not alone," she said, a playful tease to her voice.  "Señora Evans looks every bit as tired as you do."

"I’ll do my best, Marta," he said with a small smile twitching at his lips.  "She’s a determined woman when she wants to be."

"Yes, she is, but she also needs a little extra...how did we say...pampering."

"That she does," he agreed, grabbing an apple as he left the kitchen.  "Oh, would you wake us by ten?  We need to leave here by eleven to be on time."

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

She was intently working on her recipe when the phone rang.  "Evans household.  May I help you?"

"Yes, is this...Marta?"

"Sí, yes, it is.  Who is calling?"

"This is Charles Evans, Marta.  Jim’s father.  I just wanted to call and ask him when he and Catherine will be here this evening.  If they wished, I wanted to invite them for a little sherry before Mass."

"Oh...that sounds very nice, Reverend Evans," she said, wondering how to make her point without being too forward.  "I can wake them to ask ..."

"They’re asleep?" he wondered, checking his watch.  "It’s eight o’clock."

"Yes, I know.  They are both so exhausted...I don’t know how they manage to stand on their feet."

"Hmm..." he mused.  "That’s not very encouraging, Marta, for either of them."  He paused for a moment, obviously considering something.  "Would you do me a favor, Marta?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

"Would you tell them that I would prefer that they not come to Mass tonight?  Nothing is more important than Catherine’s health right now, and if she needs her rest, she should stay home.  I’ll see them tomorrow."

"Oh, sí, I will tell them, Reverend Evans," she said, her pleasure showing.  "I think God will not mind if they don’t come to church tonight."

"I’m certain that you’re right, Marta.  Now see what you can do to put a little weight on that daughter-in-law of mine, will you?"

"I will do my best, Reverend Evans.  I will start tonight!"

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

"Marta!"  Jim Evans’ voice boomed down the staircase as he took the stairs two at a time.  "I thought I asked you to wake us at ten!  It’s 10:30!  We’ll never make it!  Where are my clean shirts?"

He happened upon their cook, placidly setting an elegant table in the dining room.

"Marta," he said slowly, "what’s going on?"

"Your father called a few hours ago, Señor Evans.  He said he doesn’t want you to come to Mass tonight.  He said God wants you to stay home and have a nice dinner."

"What...?"  The young man stood staring at her, his hair mussed from sleep, a pair of jeans the only covering on his muscular body.  Even though he looked totally confused, his nose began to twitch at the fantastic array of scents that emanated from the kitchen.  "We’re supposed to have dinner?"

"Yes.  You are supposed to eat pavo trufade de Navidad.  God said so."  She looked entirely serious, but there was a twinkle in her eye that he had not noticed before.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, scratched his head briefly and said, "Well, if God said so, who am I to argue?  I’ll go tell Catherine."

"This is a special Christmas meal, Señor Evans.  Guaranteed to bring you luck for the whole year."

"Then I’d better dress appropriately," he smiled, giving her a gentle pat on the shoulder.  "Thank you, Marta.  I know you had a hand in this little plot, and I appreciate it."

"It’s not me," she insisted, innocently blinking her eyes.  "It’s God."

*          *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *            *

The young couple dressed carefully, heeding Marta’s warning that the meal was a special one.  Catherine wore what she had purchased for Mass, a simple long sleeved, chocolate brown velvet dress with an empire waistline.  A small amount of cream-colored lace adorned the collar and the cuffs, giving the dress a slight Victorian flare.  She looked absolutely lovely in it, the color matching her eyes nearly identically.  Her hair was parted slightly off center, as she usually wore it, and hung loose down her back, with two small braids sweeping the hair back from the sides.  A brown velvet ribbon was neatly tied at the juncture of her braids, finishing off the style perfectly.

Very little jewelry adorned her person--just her wedding set, and a pair of small golden knots resting upon her earlobes.  A touch of makeup removed the last vestiges of her fatigue, not much needed since her extended nap had erased most of the dark smudges from beneath her eyes.

Jim looked quite handsome also.  He wore a navy blue blazer over a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, and a pair of dark gray slacks.  Cordovan tasseled loafers, shined to a mirror finish, completed his attire, and as Marta took them in she had just a fleeting moment of dismay that no one else would see the handsome young couple this evening.  "You both look wonderful," she gushed, her pleasure evident.

"Thank you, Marta," Catherine smiled back shyly.  "I feel so much better.  Turning slightly to gaze at her husband she said, "Thank you both for taking care of me today.  I feel very special."

Jim looked at her and gave her an equally shy look.  "No problem, Honey," he said quickly, wishing that Marta would leave them alone for a moment.  Along with all of the other adjustments, he had to learn to conduct his normal life with servants in the house, and he was still a little uncomfortable about it.  Catherine assured him that he should just ignore the staff and act normally, but he knew that would take a long time to manage effectively.

"Come, come, sit down," the cook insisted, showing them to the table.  She had outdone herself for the feast.  A profusion of candles brought the only light to the table, a festive Christmas floral display took up an impressive amount of space, and the silver and china they had received for wedding presents was displayed in beautiful fashion.

As soon as the couple sat down, the feast began, the happy cook bringing course after course to the table.  When she emerged with the entrée, both Catherine and Jim made over the delightful presentation for long minutes, pleasing the older woman to no end.  "So this is turkey baked with truffles, eh?" Jim asked as he regarded the golden bronze bird.

"Yes, Señor Evans.  It is the traditional dish for Christmas Eve in my country."

Catherine glanced at the clock and asked, "Marta, don’t you want to go to Mass?  You still have time to make it."

The older woman paused, her eyes darting from one of her employers to the other.

"Yes, please, by all means, go," Jim agreed, wishing for a rare bit of alone time with his wife.

"But there is so much to do..." she hesitated.  "I haven’t served the dessert yet."

"Marta, we haven’t eaten the entrée yet," Catherine reminded her gently.  "Please.  Both of us want you to go to Mass.  We insist."

Marta beamed a genuine smile at both of them and was taking her apron off as she exited the room, calling over her shoulder, "God bless you both.  I will say a special prayer for you and the little baby."

"Alone at last," Jim smiled, a wide, relaxed grin that Catherine had not seen since they had been married.

"I have no complaints," she agreed, clinking her glass of sparkling cider with his glass of chardonnay.  "I’m dining with the handsomest man in San Francisco, our little girl is nearly ready to join us, and I’m well rested for the first time in a month.  How about you, Sweetheart?  How do you feel?"

"Well, I’d say that I feel quite good.  I’m dining with the most beautiful woman in the country, if not the world."  He grinned wolfishly at her, making her giggle at his exaggeration.  "There’s a little sprout in here that’s just about to come out and play," he said, patting Catherine’s swollen belly,  "and I had a marvelous three and a half hour nap.  I feel grrrreeeaaattt," he said in his imitation of Tony the Tiger that Catherine was always charmed by.

They spent the rest of their meal talking about Catherine’s afternoon tree-trimming party and Jim’s work on the big case that he was assigned to.  They were so thoroughly stuffed when they finished their entrees, that neither could even consider dessert at the moment. 

The baby started to wake up, going into her usual nighttime routine of tumbling and acrobatics.  Catherine stood and began to walk around a little, the motion of her gait usually calming the baby.

"I have a thought," Jim said, his eyes twinkling.  "Dancing should be as effective as walking, shouldn’t it?"

Catherine blinked slowly, wondering what had gotten into her husband, who was generally loath to dance.  "I suppose so," she said.  "Do you want to dance?"

"I never thought you’d ask," he grinned toothily, rising to grasp her hand gently.  Leading her into the living room, he switched on the stereo, smiling when the stylus settled onto the record that was already on the turntable.  "Oh, what a surprise," he smiled.  "Stevie Wonder."

"I like him," she blushed shyly, knowing that her husband’s tastes went towards a harder rock beat.

"Our baby is going to be surprised that we’re not black," he teased gently.  "All she hears is Motown."

"That’s not true," Catherine smiled.  "When she’s in your car she is assaulted by the Doobie Brothers and the Eagles and all of those Jackson Browne tapes you always have lying all over the seat."

He smiled back at her, drawing her close, snuggling up against her protruding stomach.  "I think she likes my music," he decided, "but I have to admit that I like this song.  This is true you know," he whispered into her ear as they started to sway to the music.  "There are brighter days ahead."

She hugged him as tightly as she could, their baby cuddled between their bodies.  "I hope so, Jim," she said, her voice tight with emotion.

He returned her embrace, wishing that he could take away every bit of pain from her lovely face.  "A smiling face you don’t have to see.  Cause it’s as joyful as a Christmas tree," he sang softly, his voice not well trained, but beautiful to her ears.  "Please smile for me."

She looked up at him and allowed every bit of the love she felt for him to show in her expression.  "I’ll try to keep smiling," she promised, knowing in her heart that they could get through the tough times ahead if they could carve out some time alone together.

They continued their dance, his discomfort with the art form combining with her ungainliness to form an inartistic, but very tender merging.  The baby slowly calmed down, lulled into slumber by her parents' gentle movements.  Catherine looked up at her husband and made the suggestion that had occurred to her while she slept.  "I have an idea for her name," she said, nearly holding her breath in anticipation of his reaction.

"Let me guess," he mused.  "You have a great aunt Hermoinie that will never forgive you if you don’t name her after her and your great uncle Waldo."

"No," she laughed gently.  "I think you might actually like this one."

"I’m all ears," he said, pulling back a little to be able to see her face.

"I still want my family mentioned, so I thought we could give her three names.  Both mother and father’s families could then be carried on."

"I hope you mean Smith and Dunlop," he said, a concerned look on his face, "because Bill and Phoebe are just not going to cut it."

She slapped at his chest lightly.  "Of course I mean Smith and Dunlop.  Or rather, Dunlop and Smith.  Just like mine."

"Okay," he said.  "That’s actually a very good idea.  So do I get to pick the first name?"

"You may if you wish," she agreed, "but I was going to suggest Jamie."

He beamed a grin at her with so much power that it looked painful.  "Jamie?" he asked with delight.  "For me?"

"Of course for you," she said, snuggling against him again.  "After all, the baby’s going to be my lasting gift to you, she may as well know from the start that she’s daddy’s girl."

"It’s going to be okay, Cat," he said emphatically, his voice cracking with emotion.  "I swear it’s going to be just fine.  Work will ease up soon, and we’ll have some time together.  Next year at this time we’ll be having Christmas dinner with our little baby.  With our Jamie," he said, tears streaming down his face, to merge with those that fell from his wife’s eyes.

"We’ll be a family, Jim," she sniffed.  "You and me and our Jamie."

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PART II

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