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F ramed in the doorway with the thin winter light creeping through the tiny windows she was lovelier than his memory of her.

He’d hoped it would be different. He’d hoped his fantasies of her would be exaggerated as so many fantasies are.

But she was here, flesh and blood, and so beautiful she took his breath away.

Perhaps because of it, his smile was cynical and his voice cool.

“Hello, Faith.”

She couldn’t move, forward or back. He trapped her now as he had so many years before.

He didn’t know it then, she couldn’t let him know it now.

Emotion, locked and kept secret for so long struggled against will and was held back.

“How are you?” she managed to ask, her hands like a vise around the doll.

“Fine.” He walked toward her. God, how it pleased him to see the nerves jumping in her eyes. God, how it tormented him to learn she smelled the same. Soft, young, innocent. “You look wonderful.” He said it carelessly, like a yawn.

“You were the last person I expected to see walk through the door.” One she’d learned to stop looking for. Determined to control herself, Faith loosened her grip on the doll. “How long are you in town?”

“Just a few days. I had the urge.”

She laughed and hoped it didn’t sound hysterical. “You always did. We read a lot about you. You’ve been able to see all the places you always wanted to see.”

“And more.”

She turned away, giving herself a moment to close her eyes and pull her emotions together. “They ran it on the front page when you won the Pulitzer. Mr. Beantree strutted around as though he’d been your mentor. ‘Fine boy, Jason Law,’ he said. ‘Always knew he’d amount to something.’”

“I saw your daughter.”

That was the biggest fear, the biggest hope, the dream she’d put to rest years ago. She bent casually to pick up the veil. “Clara?”

“Just outside. She was about to mow down some boy named Jimmy.”

“Yes, that’s Clara.” The smile came quickly and just as stunningly as it had on the child. “She’s a vicious competitor,” she added and wanted to say like her father, but didn’t dare.

There was so much to say, so much that couldn’t be said. If he had had one wish at that moment, it would have been to reach out and touch her. Just to touch her once and remember the way it had been.

“I see you have your lace curtains.”

Regret washed over her. She’d have settled for bare windows, blank walls. “Yes, I have my lace curtains and you your adventures.”

“And this place.” He turned to look around again. “When did all this start?”

She could deal with it, she promised herself, this hatefully casual small talk. “I opened it nearly eight years ago now.”

He picked a rag doll from a bassinet. “So you sell dolls. A hobby?”

Something else came into her eyes now. Strength. “No, it’s my business. I sell them, repair them, even make them.”

“Business?” He set the doll down and the smile he gave her had nothing to do with humor. “It’s hard for me to picture Tom approving of his wife setting up a business.”

“Is it?” It hurt, but she set the china doll on a counter and began to arrange the veil on its head.

“You always were perceptive, Jason, but you’ve been away a long time.

” She looked over her shoulder and her eyes weren’t nervous or even strong.

They were simply cold. “A very long time. Tom and I were divorced eight years ago. The last time I heard he was living in Los Angeles. You see, he didn’t care for small towns either. Or small-town girls.”

He couldn’t name the things that stirred in him so he pushed them aside. Bitterness was simpler. “Apparently you picked badly, Faith.”

She laughed again but the veil crumpled in her hand. “Apparently I did.”

“You didn’t wait.” It was out before he could stop it. He hated himself for it, and her.

“You were gone.” She turned back slowly and folded her hands.

“I told you I’d come back. I told you I’d send for you as soon as I could.”

“You never called, or wrote. For three months I—”

“Three months?” Furious, he grabbed her arms. “After everything we’d talked about, everything we’d hoped for, three months was all you could give me?”

She would have given him a lifetime, but there hadn’t been a choice.

Struggling to keep her voice calm, she looked into his eyes.

They were the same—intense, impatient. “I didn’t know where you were.

You wouldn’t even give me that.” She pulled away from him because the need was as great as it had always been. “I was eighteen and you were gone.”

“And Tom was here.”

She set her jaw. “And Tom was here. It’s been ten years, Jason, you never once wrote. Why now?”

“I’ve asked myself the same thing,” he murmured and left her standing alone.

H er dreams had always been too fanciful. As a child Faith had envisioned white chargers and glass slippers. Reality was something to be faced daily in a family where money was scarce and pride was not, but dreams weren’t just for nighttime.

She’d fallen in love with Jason when she’d been eight and he ten and he’d bravely vanquished three boys who’d tossed her into the snow.

It had taken three of them. Faith could still look back on that with a sense of satisfaction.

But it had been Jason fiercely coming to her rescue and sending her opponents scattering that she remembered best. He’d been thin, and his coat had been too large and mended at the elbows.

She remembered his eyes, deep, deep brown under brows drawn close in annoyance as he’d looked down at her.

Snow had coated his pale-blond hair and reddened his face.

She’d looked into his eyes and fallen in love.

He’d muttered at her, hauled her up and scolded her for getting in trouble.

Then he’d stalked off with his ungloved hands thrust into the pockets of his too-big coat.

Through childhood and into adolescence she’d never looked at another boy. Of course she’d pretended to from time to time hoping it might make Jason Law notice her.

Then when she’d been sixteen and her mother had sewn her a dress for the spring dance at the town hall, he’d noticed. So had several other boys, and Faith had flirted outrageously, with one goal in mind:

Jason Law. Sulky and defiant he’d watched her dance with one boy after another.

She’d made sure of it. Just as she’d made sure she looked directly at him before she’d stepped outside to take the air.

He’d followed her, just as she’d hoped. She’d pretended to be sophisticated.

He’d been rude. And he’d walked her home under a fat full moon.

There’d been other walks after that—spring, summer, fall, winter.

They were in love as only the young can be, carelessly, heedlessly, innocently.

She told him of her longings for a house and children, for lace curtains and china cups.

He told her of his passion to travel, to see everything, and write it down.

She knew he’d felt trapped in the small town, hampered by a father who gave him no love and little hope.

He knew she dreamed of quiet rooms with flowers in crystal vases.

But they were drawn together and tangled all the dreams into one.

Then one night in the summer when the air was sweet with wild grass they stopped being children and their love stopped being innocent.

“Mom, you’re dreaming again.”

“What?” Up to her elbows in soapy water, Faith turned.

Her daughter stood at the doorway to the kitchen, snugly wrapped in a flannel gown that came up to her chin.

With her hair freshly brushed and her face scrubbed clean, she looked like an angel.

Faith knew better. “I guess I was. You’ve finished your homework? ”

“Yeah. It’s dumb having homework when school’s nearly out.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You’re grumpy,” Clara declared and eyed the cookie jar. “You should go for one of your walks.”

“Just one,” Faith said, easily outguessing her daughter. “And don’t forget to brush your teeth.” She waited while Clara rooted through the jar. “Did you see a man this afternoon? A tall man with blond hair?”

“Uh-huh.” Mouth full, Clara turned back to her mother. “He was walking up to the house. I sent him to the shop.”

“Did he—say anything to you?”

“Not really. He looked at me kind of funny at first, like he’d seen me before. Do you know him?”

While her heart began a slow, dull thud, Faith dried her hands. “Yes. He used to live here a long time ago.”

“Oh. Jimmy liked his car.” She wondered if she could talk herself into another cookie.

“I think I will take that walk, Clara, but I want you in bed.”

Recognizing the tone, she knew the cookie would have to wait. “Can I count the presents under the tree again?”

“You’ve counted them ten times.”

“Maybe there’s a new one.”

Laughing, Faith gathered her up. “Not a chance.” Then she grinned and carried Clara into the living room. “But it won’t hurt to count them one more time.”

The air was brittle when she stepped outside and it smelled of snow.

There was no reason to lock the doors in a town where she knew everyone.

Bundling her coat closer, she glanced back at the second-story window where her daughter slept.

Clara was the reason why the house wasn’t cold, why her life wasn’t empty when both things could easily have been true.

She’d left the tree burning and the lights around the door sent out festive color.

Four days until Christmas, she thought, and the wonder of it came home again.

From where she stood, the town looked as pretty as a postcard with the strings of lights, the tree with its star in the town square, the street lamps burning.

She could smell smoke from the chimneys and the bursting scent of pine.

Some might find it too settled, others would find it dull. But Faith had made it a home for herself and her daughter. She’d altered her life to suit her, and it fitted her well.

No regrets, she promised with one last glance at her daughter’s window. No regrets at all.

The wind picked up a bit as she walked. There’d be snow for Christmas. She could feel it. She’d look forward to that, not back any longer.

“Still fond of walking?”