Christmas Eve
Loganville, Colorado
Twenty-two years ago

It was 11:00 P.M. Time to leave. For Jace had made a promise to a five-year-old.

The actual promise had been that at precisely eleven he would go to bed. But Jace's plan, to leave the house at the designated time, would accomplish the spirit of the pledge -- to be far from the white-brick fireplace through which Santa Claus would appear, and from the lopsided but beloved Christmas tree beneath which even more brightly wrapped packages would be placed, and most of all from the platter of cookies Grace had baked for the jolly Yuletide visitor and the bundle of carrots, freshly washed by her, for Santa's flying reindeer.

Grace Quinn's instructions regarding Jace Colton's whereabouts, where he must not be, had been specific. Emphatic. But she hadn't sounded in the least worried about whether Jace would comply. Grace trusted him completely. It was an astonishing trust, one that Jace had spent every second of the past eleven months trying to deserve.

There had been worry, however, when Grace had wondered aloud how he could be so unfamiliar with the Christmas Eve rituals of the merry St. Nick. Jace was fourteen, and she was only five. The nine-year age difference should have made him an expert.

Jace could not tell her, would never tell her, that he had never believed in Santa Claus, had had no reason to believe. So he reminded the five-year-old innocent of the truth. This was his first Colorado Christmas. She needed to acquaint him with Santa's Rocky Mountain routine.

"He tries to come exactly at midnight," Grace explained. "But he could come a little early, a half an hour or so, and sometimes, he can't help it, he might be a little late."

And there was, Grace realized, something one needed to be mindful of in snowy Loganville, not balmy Savannah. Fire. It was okay, she reassured, that flames had blazed within the white-brick fireplace throughout this Christmas Eve day. And even the care they had taken to add no new logs after 7:00 P.M. had been unnecessary. Santa's boots were fireproof, as were his clothes, and he had magical ways of dousing even the most raging of flames.

But if the ashes were cold, as they would be in Grace Quinn's home long before midnight, Santa wouldn't have to spend time brushing glowing embers off his boots. It would be rude, Grace asserted, to do anything that might disrupt his schedule. And it would be very mean for all the other children who were counting on him. Not, she added, that Santa would disappoint anyone. Ever.

Santa was as reliable, as trustworthy, as Jace.

Which meant absolutely reliable.

Which meant that as a bright-eyed but sleepy Grace Alysia Quinn wandered off to bed, and to sugarplum dreams, she didn't remind Jace of his promise, made hours before, to go to bed at eleven.

To bed. It was, Jace decided, an insignificant aspect of the promise. It was simply unimaginable to Grace that he would want to go anywhere but bed, would choose to do anything but sleep during the eternity, to the eager five-year-old, between Christmas Eve and Christmas morn.

Grace had no idea how little he slept on even the most usual of nights, and that his restlessness on this special night would preclude sleep entirely. Had she known that Jace would spend the sacrosanct time of Santa Claus roaming outside in the bitter cold, she would never have exacted the promise she had.

She would have placed the cookies and carrots on the front porch, along with a carefully printed note thanking Santa and the reindeer for dropping by, but advising the Yuletide dreammaker that he needn't come inside. They were fine. This was a perfect Christmas already.

Perfect. Just as for Jace the past eleven months had been perfect. He'd become a shepherd for a most precious flock of two, ever vigilant, ever wary, on guard always for the whim of fate that might shatter this unexpected, never expected joy.

Frissons of worry pierced him now, sharp reminders of the precariousness he felt, as he surveyed the living room before leaving the house. The once-blazing fire had burned to ash. Not an ember glowed. But Jace saw still the dancing flames of this joyous day. Grace, haloed in gold, as she baked cookies for Santa Claus and for him, more cookies for him than for Santa. And Mary Beth, gilded too, as she prepared their Christmas Eve dinner. And golden beams on them all as they played Scrabble, and Grace sang, until mother and daughter went to bed.

The fire was ash, and Jace had extinguished the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, had pulled the plug from the socket as soon as he'd heard the bedroom doors close overhead. The lights had glittered all day, and would blaze again tomorrow, and the pine needles were still so shiny, so fragrant and so fresh, that maybe, if he were careful, this beautiful tree would never die.

The hall light glowed, as it did every night, as did the light on the porch, and the thermostat was set to its nighttime low. There would be warmth and light for his sleeping flock. Unless the power went out. That had happened once already this winter, on a night of heavy snowfall and howling wind.

But it wasn't snowing tonight, and there wasn't the faintest whisper of wind. And even if the power did go out during his midnight absence, the house would hold its warmth until his return.

Jace would start the generator then, assuming Mary Beth hadn't already done so. Which she could. Easily. Jace had filled the generator just this afternoon, and topped off the extra gas cans in the garage, and he had oiled the cord, making it effortless to pull, and adjusted the choke.

Mary Beth could start the generator. But she wouldn't, Jace realized. She would not create the roar that would awaken Grace and worse, might discourage Santa and frighten his reindeer.

Discourage Santa? Frighten his reindeer? But Mary Beth was Santa, wasn't she? Wasn't being Santa Claus something mothers did? Real mothers? The ones who were conspirators in the magic of Christmas... just as they were conspirators in the magic of every moment of their children's lives?

Yes. Surely. At any moment Mary Beth would come downstairs to this place of cookies and carrots and ashes, this pine-fragrant living room that Jace must vacate soon. Now. The mantelpiece clock was beginning its eleven o'clock chime.

It was safe.