Chapter One

Not knowing when the dawn will come

I open every door...

Mallory Phillips woke slowly, floating, with long–ago Christmases racing through her mind. Images jumbled together in a flurry of sound and motion that warned of something ominous, something unwanted, lurking too close.

She jackknifed until she was sitting in her bed. Her eyes opened to silence and serene shadows and the lingering echo of who she'd once been. There was no threat. There was nothing to fear except for the dreams that consumed too many of her nights.

She hugged her crimson comforter against the chilly darkness, then pushed it away in frustration. Fully awake, she scrubbed at her eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on how far she'd come and her determination to stay right where she was until she could feel every bit of the picturesque world surrounding her. This was her fresh start. This Christmas on Mimosa Lane was her reboot. She was finally, completely, moving on.

Yet it still swirled within her, that shadowy connection to another time, another Mallory, while moonlight dazzled her, dancing through bay windows that overlooked the backyard of her cozy ranch–style house. Snuggling into her pillows she stared at the property that she'd made hers free and clear three months ago. She hadn't hung curtains in the house. She'd wanted nothing to obscure her view from this peaceful place. The back of the home was almost entirely glass, allowing streams of sparkling light to wash over her as she tried to relax enough to sleep.

It was the abundance of windows that had first excited her, then the privacy of the twelve–foot fence secluding her backyard from the others on her cul–de–sac. After searching forever for just the right place, she now owned a piece of the everyday charm that was Chandlerville, Georgia—a historic town northeast of Atlanta that she'd moved to before the start of the school year.

Mimosa Lane was a twisty–turny, horseshoe–shaped road. Over the years a sprawling community of more than fifty homes had sprouted along its wooded splendor. At its center dangled a cul–de–sac where one side of the lane curled in sharply, around, and then returned to its twin. The cul–de–sac's secluded curves and the houses at its heart seemed to exist on a totally separate road. And within that bubble of isolated perfection, Mallory had found her dream house.

Surrounding her property were sedately aging homes and large lots bursting with trees and manicured landscaping. Only cul–de–sac residents or their visitors came this far down the lane. It was easier to reach the other houses from Scenic Highway, the main street running through Chandlerville that both ends of the lane eventually rambled into.

A paradise for young families, Mimosa Lane was the idealistic solid ground Mallory had craved as a little girl when her idea of heaven had been a yard she could call her own, a happy family and friends to play with, and doors and windows she'd never have to lock. She'd just spent Thanksgiving weekend feeling soul–deep gratitude for this chance—especially to her grandmother, who even after her death had been adamant that one day Mallory would have her fantasy come true.

So why couldn't she banish the past for good and embrace this world she'd wanted so desperately?

A rustle reached her from the direction of the living room.

Her eyes flew open.

That wasn't a restless memory, set free by her mind's nocturnal wandering. The next odd sound sent her scrambling from bed, her ears ringing.

She couldn't feel her legs except for their shaking. After two tries she crammed her feet into fluffy slippers and wrapped herself in terry cloth. She pressed her back to the wall beside her open bedroom door, willed her panic into submission, and ticked off her options. If someone had broken in, her choices were to confront them in her ancient Tinker Bell robe or to hide and wait for whomever it was to either leave or find her.

Instinct, unwise and unstoppable, propelled her into the hallway. The hell with hiding. She'd be damned if she'd let anything make her afraid in her own home.

The rattle came again, almost too faint to hear, drawing her the short distance to her living room where more windows waited, and more shadows. Plus the floor–to–ceiling artificial Christmas tree she'd assembled weeks ago, lit, and loaded with sparkling ornaments and lights, to the amusement no doubt of every conservative neighbor up and down the lane. The tree's flickering illumination revealed nothing to her except the room's sparse furnishings.

Her heart eased down her throat as she told herself to remain calm. But there was someone there. A childhood of self–preservation had armed her with a second sense she'd never shaken, and her intuition was screaming that she was no longer alone.

She heard a sniffle and stepped closer to the tree. A shadow in the corner moved, and only then did Mallory see her. A tiny, forlorn ghost lurked amidst the sheer panels that would have been curtains in another house, only Mallory kept them tied back. She sighed at the child who kept wandering over to stare through Mallory's windows. The seven–year–old had ventured inside this time and was hiding behind Mallory's tree.

"Polly?" She checked the mantel clock. "It's after midnight, sweetie. What are you doing here?"

What did it say about Mallory that this child was the first person who'd stepped inside her home since she'd moved here? No matter how badly she wanted to take part in the community thriving around her, three months of trying had proven an experiment gone sometimes comically awry. And while she attempted to figure things out, she'd managed to keep the locals at a comfortable distance. All of them except this wandering child.

Most afternoons since Mallory put up her tree, Polly had appeared out back. She would just stand there gazing through the glass Mallory kept sparkling clean—the sun setting on fire the red highlights in her dark hair. It was like catching a glimpse of a terrified woodland creature that was too paralyzed to flee yet too fascinated to look away. For weeks Polly hadn't ventured closer or said a word.

Then one evening just before Thanksgiving Mallory could have sworn she'd seen the little girl outside after dark. But when Mallory had stepped onto her patio door to check, she'd found nothing but closely cut grass and the breeze that never completely abandoned north Georgia. One moment Polly had been there. The next she'd vanished.

There was a door in the gate that separated Mallory's property from the Lombard house. Maybe, just for a while, locking it would be the gentlest way to break the little girl of her escalating obsession with seeking Mallory out, first in school and then at home. Except where would the kid go the next time her single father didn't realize she'd wandered away?

Polly looked poised even now to escape through the sliding glass door she'd left open behind her. She was an ethereal, barely there illusion of light and shadow. A mystery hovering amidst holiday fancy, crying and alone.

"I couldn't sleep," Polly said, still sniffling.

The defiant tilt of her chin dared Mallory to offer a hug or say something empty, something adult that would make what Polly was going through worse. Instead Mallory inched closer without speaking, her heart aching.

Before spending a decade pursuing the rocky path that had brought her to Chandlerville as the local elementary school's clinic nurse, a day hadn't gone by that Mallory hadn't wanted to run just like Polly. Even though this child lived in a perfect house, complete with an enormous backyard play set that would be a happy kid's heaven on earth, she clearly longed to be somewhere else. It was as if she didn't fit on the lane any more than Mallory did.

"I can't sleep sometimes myself," Mallory said. "But I keep trying. Especially when I have a busy day ahead of me like tomorrow. It's Monday. We both have school."

"I don't want to go to school."

"Where do you want to go?" The bulk of Mallory's love seat stood between them, but she was close enough now to stop Polly from dashing away. "What's outside, what's in here, that you need to see more than the pretty bedroom I'm sure you left behind at your place?"

The little girl stared down at her princess slippers—embroidered on each pink–swaddled foot was a cartoon blonde wearing a bejeweled tiara. A screen print of the same character sparkled on her gauzy nightshirt. She was covered head to toe in pretend.

Mallory glanced from the child's probably just–bought ensemble to her own faded cartoon mainstay. When she looked back Polly was wadding the hem of her thin gown in both fists. It was supposed to drop below forty outside tonight, unseasonably cold for the southeast. The kid must be freezing.

"I don't want to go home," Polly said.

"Okay." Mallory sat on the edge of the love seat, never more certain that something was terribly wrong.

She didn't want this tie. This knowing. This connection. This wasn't the peace she'd come to Mimosa Lane to claim. But as a pediatric nurse and a former mixed–up kid herself, Mallory couldn't stop herself from trying to help.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Her scared little rabbit scowled, sensing a trap.

"You keep coming over here and to my office at school," Mallory said. "But you never tell me what I can do for you, sweetie."

From day one Polly had looked so defeated. From their first encounter Mallory had wanted to take away just a little of the weight pressing on those tiny shoulders. In each quiet moment like this one, when a little girl who'd lost her mother half a year ago couldn't put into words the cry for help she kept acting out, Mallory had needed to see this sad princess smile.

"Franken Berry?" Mallory blurted out, not above bribery. "When I was your age, it felt like Christmas morning every time I ate it. Strawberry flavoring and refined sugar and bleached corn flour...Crunch and sweetness that will make your back teeth smile." And it could only be special–ordered from the manufacturer's website a few months out of the year, since most stores no longer carried it. But for Polly, Mallory would break into her secret stash. "Ever had any?"

Polly shook her head. "My dad says healthy food only. I need to eat healthy to stay healthy."

She stepped closer, and Mallory considered grabbing her. Except grabbing at kids who were hell–bent on running only made them more certain that they'd never be safe.

"Well there's not a redeeming, healthy thing about Franken Berry," she said, "no matter what the packaging says. In my book that makes it heaven in a bowl."

The child was underweight. Eating anything sounded healthy enough to Mallory. As Polly's nurse she knew there were no food allergies or preexisting medical conditions to be concerned about. And in the moon's reflection Polly's eyes were glittering at Mallory's description of the decadent treat.

"Let's live dangerously." Mallory shrugged off her robe and draped it over the little girl's shoulders. Then, catching a chill in only her matching flannel PJs, she led the way to the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. She checked once to make certain she was being followed.

Polly's slippered feet skidded to a halt inside the door. She blinked at Mallory's retro–looking, circa 1950s, pink and blue and green appliances. They were one of the few splurges, besides her Christmas tree, that Mallory had indulged in when she'd furnished the place. An early Christmas present, she'd rationalized. Actually, Christmas and Valentine's Day and her birthday and maybe Christmas again. But the hit to her budget had been worth it. This room made her heart sing.

Her dreams came to her in black and white and gray, stark visions that refused to bloom into the colors she'd always craved. But in this house, the first world that was totally, completely her creation, she was surrounded by a rainbow of life–affirming hues each morning and at the end of every day while she cooked and ate and cleaned up after herself.

She stopped first at the thermostat beside the door, easing the heat toward supernova so she'd stop shivering. Then she plucked the box of cereal from the pantry where her guilty pleasure nested amidst other breakfast options. Her cinnamon–flavored hot cereal would be healthier and would take only a minute to microwave. It might warm Polly's tummy if Mallory could get the kid to eat some of it. But for a little girl Polly's age magical trumped healthy every time.

"Have a seat." Mallory rummaged through the glass–front cabinet above her sink. "You're in for a surprise."

Her fingers closed around the plastic bowl and plate she'd snapped up at a local tag sale. She placed them on the table in front of Polly, the bowl on top. A cartoon princess, scratched and well used, smiled serenely from dishes someone had bought for another little girl, then discarded.

"Sit," Mallory repeated.

Polly hung back until Mallory poured the cereal, then added the milk she'd taken from the fridge. Her guest slid into the chair, trancelike, watching creamy white liquid transform to fantasy pink.

"Eat," Mallory urged, "while I call your father."

Polly's first spoonful of sugary goodness paused halfway to her mouth. Some of it slopped back to the bowl.

"It's okay." Mallory already had the kitchen phone in her hand. She could have gone into the other room to make the call. But she didn't lie to kids. Ever. They deserved to be treated like they understood and could handle what was happening in their lives. She knew better than anyone just how resilient a child Polly's age could be. "Eat. You don't want your daddy taking you home before you've drunk the strawberry milk from the bottom."

She winked and dialed the number she'd jotted on the pad on the counter. Pete Lombard had coughed it up yesterday morning, grudgingly, when he'd called. His child had spent yet another hour in Mallory's yard, watching without saying anything, scared when she realized she'd been spotted, but not leaving until her father showed up to take her home. Fifteen minutes later his call had been the man's first acknowledgment that he and Mallory had a problem.

Their conversation had lasted all of thirty seconds, which sadly had been longer than she'd managed with anyone else on the lane. She'd agreed to let him know if Polly came back. He'd promised to keep a closer watch on his daughter. Like that had solved anything.

Polly filled her mouth with cereal. Her eyes widened. Her spoon swooped in for a bigger bite. Mallory smiled, then frowned at the husky "hello" that rumbled through the phone connection.

"Are you missing something again, Prince Charming?" she asked, her words catching then stumbling out in a rush. She regularly became tongue–tied talking with her neighbors and the parents she encountered at school. But dealing with this man was worse. His child's situation ignited a flash fire of unwanted confusion inside Mallory. It was a daily battle to keep her frustration and anger from spewing all over Polly's father.

This had to stop. Her neighbor's inability to keep track of his daughter, let alone help the child properly grieve for her mother so Polly could heal and move on...It had to stop.

Mallory wasn't going to be sucked any deeper into these strangers' lives. She was nothing like them. They knew nothing about her. And besides, what possible good could she do? She was having a hard enough time in Chandlerville trying to patch together her own version of happiness.

"Excuse me?" Pete mumbled. "It's nearly one in the morning. Who is this?"

There was rustling on his end of the call, and Mallory imagined him sitting up, all sleepy and sprawling and mussed. Brown, unruly hair the same shade of mink as his daughter's. Brown, emotional eyes. Dark stubble that he let grow along his chin and jaw each weekend. Did he sleep in the nude?

"This is your conscience speaking," she said, irritated with her wayward thoughts. The man had made no secret of his dislike for Polly's involving Mallory in their family problems. And he was right. Mallory's interjecting herself into their situation could only make things worse. Except his child seemed to have her own agenda. "I've once again stumbled across something very precious to you."

"What are you...?" His voice thinned from groggy to suspicious. "Polly?" Mallory actually heard him stumble out of bed and across the floor, presumably toward his daughter's room. "Who is this?"

"It's your next–door neighbor," she said. "Your daughter let herself inside my place this time. She's in my kitchen eating what you'll no doubt consider offensive cold cereal. The patio door's open. We'll see you when you get here."

Chapter Two

Forever is composed of Nows...

What kind of man couldn't keep his child tucked safely in bed at night?

Pete Lombard shoved his feet into the beaten–up sneakers that had stood sentinel outside his patio door since late September, the last time he'd mowed the lawn. Without tying them, taking only a moment to pull on a sweatshirt over his pajamas, he sprinted through the chilly November night. A fenced backyard ran catty–corner to his own, the curve where Mimosa Lane twisted into their cul–de–sac, transforming the house next to his into his backyard neighbor as well. He let himself through the partially open wooden door he'd helped old Mr. Lancer cut out because Polly had loved to play with his basset hound, Charlie Brown.

What a difference two years could make.

The Lancers and Charlie had retired to sunny Florida. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Polly play. And now he was making a midnight visit to his new neighbor who at best thought he was an idiot, more likely an unfit father.

Light blared from inside Mallory Phillips's place. Her Christmas tree had been up and decorated like a gaudy holiday farce since two weeks before Thanksgiving, twinkling through the thermal–paned windows the Lancers had installed to make the twenty–year–old ranch more salable. Was the tree what kept drawing Polly over? Pete had caught her staring at the monstrosity from her second–story bedroom window.

What the hell was she doing out of bed in the middle of the night? And how, how, couldn't he have known she was gone? He saved lives for a living, but he hadn't been able to save his wife. Now he was failing his child.

Thank God they lived on quiet, insulated Mimosa Lane. Still, as an EMT for the fire department he saw enough each week to reinforce the tragic things that could happen to a kid who slipped away from the safety of home. Especially an emotionally fragile little girl his Polly's age. Too bad the house she'd shared with her mother was now the last place on earth Polly felt safe.

Emma, what am I going to do? How many times had he asked that of the soul mate he'd lost forever? He kept trying to figure things out, to reason them through, to get something of his falling–apart world back under control. But nothing made sense anymore, for him or Polly. I'm screwing this up. Help me, darlin'. Somehow, you've got to help me.

The sliding glass door leading into his neighbor's house was open. He knocked anyway. There was no answer.

"Hello..."

He stepped into a room overwhelmed by an artificial, ornament–filled tree. It was like Christmas had swooped in and attacked the poor plastic thing, inflicting forced cheer on anyone who caught a glimpse of it. Standing there he felt himself drowning in the festive holiday season he'd been trying to fake for Polly's sake.

Fake...That's what the monstrosity was screaming—every mass–produced inch of it. Looking around the room he realized there wasn't another decoration in sight. Just Mallory Phillips's christmas, Christmas, CHRISTMAS tree.

The small home's family room stretched the entire width of the house, and sparse would be too generous a word to describe its decor. There was a soft–looking oversize cream couch, a brass lamp with a beige shade, and a sad–looking recliner covered in a tweedy kind of plaid that for some reason made him think it was secondhand. Probably because there'd been something like it tossed into the corner of his fraternity's front room. They'd needed furniture because visitors had to sit somewhere, but his college buddies hadn't really cared what any of it looked like. Clearly, neither did the elusive Mallory Phillips. Even her floor was covered in a nondescript oatmeal berber.

I–give–up carpet, Emma had called it when he'd hastily picked something similar for their place in the hope of skirting her out of the store and home to work on making the baby they'd been so desperate to have.

"Hello?" he called, louder this time.

"Hey—" Across the empty dining area to his right a butler's door pushed outward, flashing a glimpse beyond of a kitchen filled with crazy colors. A tousled–haired blonde burst into the room in plaid Disney pajamas that made her look ridiculously young, tempting him to smile for the first time since spring.

For a moment he didn't recognize her. At school, Mallory kept her hair pulled back. She dressed in boxy scrubs covered in outlandish cartoon animals. So far no one in the community had gotten much of a look at her in anything else.

She didn't tend to her own yard like the rest of their neighbors—she had a guy come over once a week to do the bare minimum. The entire time she'd lived in Chandlerville she'd only attended a single Mimosa Lane get–together, a Sunday–night barbecue at the beginning of the school year that she'd arrived at late and had left after less than ten minutes, hardly speaking to anyone. She'd made herself scarce each evening and weekend and most recently during the Thanksgiving holiday, though no one had seen her pack her car for a trip.

It was as if Mallory Phillips were living amongst them, only she wasn't.

Her silky hair was down now, bouncing about her shoulders. The softness of her purple–plaid nightclothes accentuated generous curves that weren't the least bit childlike. Basic politeness said Pete shouldn't be staring at the swooping neckline of her pajama top, but he couldn't help himself. She clearly didn't realize or didn't care how she looked just rolled out of bed, or how a man could find himself reaching for something that warm and inviting and never want to find his way out of it.

"Good," she said, all business. "You're here. I was about to resort to another blast of sugary bribery." Still moving toward him, she held out her hand.

"Ms. Phillips." He shook briefly and let go.

His gaze made a discreet pass over the cartoon fairy embroidered on her top. The perky thing danced above the kind of firm, athletic breasts he'd preferred since falling in love with the high school track star who'd become his bride.

"I'm sorry about all this." He decided to look at his neighbor's summer–blue eyes for the rest of their conversation. And only her eyes. "I'm not sure why my daughter keeps seeking you out."

"I think it's pretty clear Polly's looking for something, Mr. Lombard." Her directness each time they spoke was unsettling, given her skittishness whenever she'd interacted with others on the lane. "I can only assume her behavior has something to do with missing her mother."

"Call me Pete," he said, the offer not coming out entirely friendly.

He'd asked her to use his first name when he'd phoned yesterday. She'd ignored him then. Just as he'd sidestepped her daily attempts when he picked up his little girl from the clinic at school to talk about Emma and how losing her was affecting Polly.

Everyone else in his life, his family and friends and his colleagues at work, got that he couldn't talk about it yet, losing the love of his life. This stranger to his turned–upside–down world couldn't be expected to understand. But the least she could do was stop asking questions that chipped away at what was left of his heart.

"Mr. Lombard?"

She'd repeated his name a couple of times, he realized. How long had he been standing there staring?

"Does Polly leave your place a lot after dark?" she asked.

"Of course she doesn't wander around the neighborhood at night." He was doing the best he could, damn it. He loved his daughter, and he'd do anything to keep her safe. "I have an alarm that sounds off in my bedroom if any of the doors or windows open."

His neighbor raised an eyebrow.

"I checked the system before I came over." The pulse at his temple thudded like muted cymbals crashing against his skull. "Polly must have disengaged it."

"She's a smart little girl." A smile transformed her features the way sunshine set morning mist to sparkling. Then all that glitter disappeared behind a frown. "And a desperate one."

He rocked back on his heels. "Desperate for what?"

She shrugged. "Freedom?"

The breath rushed out of him.

He could see his wife, propped up on pillows in their bed, home from the hospital for the last time, looking beautiful and serene and frail. I can feel it, Emma had said, the words breaking him while he clung to every syllable. The freedom. It's going to be okay. I'm finally going to be free of it.

Free of the cancer that wouldn't turn her loose, and the world that couldn't keep her without causing more pain. Emma had needed to hear him say it was okay to let go. She'd held on until he found a way to give her that last gift. But he refused to do the same for his child. He couldn't lose Polly, too. Thanksgiving had been a disaster, and she seemed to be preparing to hate Christmas just as much, but somehow he'd make things right for her again. Failure had never been an option for him, and he'd already lost too much of his family. He refused to watch Polly slip away, too.

"I'd like to see my daughter." The bite in each word was impolite, but he didn't care. It was late. He was at his wits' end. This woman needed to get out of his way.

"Of course." Mallory turned.

A view of Tinker Bell's backside twitched between her shoulder blades. She marched off, a leggy, flannel–draped queen leading him through the swinging door into the next room.

Her tree wasn't the only garish thing she'd blown her money on. Her refrigerator was blue. The oven, a sage green. The dishwasher's front was powdery red. The counters and tabletop were a blinding–white Formica, with the kind of chrome edges that belonged in a fifties–era sitcom.

Polly sat amidst it all wrapped in a vintage–looking bathrobe covered in more frolicking fairies, shoveling food into her mouth like a normal seven–year–old. A box of cereal was open at her elbow. She stared first at Mallory, panic creeping into her sprite green eyes. Her face lost its animation when her attention shifted to Pete. Every trace of the happy child she'd been until six months ago faded away. She dropped her spoon into the bowl and wiped at her milky mustache with the bathrobe's sleeve. Her gaze fell to her lap.

She never looked Pete in the eye anymore. He'd felt her pulling away for months. Then she'd run from the Thanksgiving table at Emma's parents' house, screaming to go home. She hadn't stopped crying until he'd tucked her into her own bed. She'd barely slept or spoken to him since. She couldn't stand to be around anyone anymore.

And the hell of it was, he understood completely. He was going through the motions of staying positive for his daughter's sake, but he didn't want to be around anyone, either. Not friends, not family, sometimes not even his own child. He'd never admit it, but sometimes he wished they'd all go away. It hurt too much, feeling close to the things and people he'd shared with Emma.

Fear had been Pete's constant companion since his wife's death. In his job he was a pro at pushing through the uncertainty of not knowing what would happen next. A rescue worker had to act regardless of the desperation of the moment. But with his little girl, after months of trying and failing to comfort her and be the father she deserved, fear had become a paralyzing mainstay. Fear and the crushing loss of the happy life they'd taken for granted.

Out of answers, he felt his neighbor's gaze boring into him as he knelt beside Polly's chair.

"You scared me, darlin'." He stroked the dark curls that were even softer than her mother's had been. "You can't keep wandering away from me. And you absolutely can't leave the house at night."

"Ms. Phillips doesn't mind if I visit her at school," Polly said to her lap.

"You're in her house now." The home of a woman who clearly wasn't the Won't you be my neighbor? type. "We talked about this last night. You haven't been invited. It's a no–no to just walk into someone's yard and their home when they don't know you're coming."

"I wanted to see her tree. It's the best tree ever, but I can't see all of it from my window."

Why the hell did Mallory insist on never closing her curtains? What was her back door doing unlocked in the middle of the night, so Polly could let herself inside?

The community rumor mill kept buzzing with each new quirk they discovered about this woman. Beginning all the way back when she'd arrived after closing on the Lancer place with a single U–Haul trailer hitched to an ancient Beetle. After which she'd greeted the steady stream of good–natured neighbors who'd brought over baked goodies and housewarming gifts with stuttering attempts to welcome them that had morphed into a strained thank–you and less–than–subtle excuses for saying good–bye before anyone was invited inside.

No one had gotten the impression that she was being intentionally rude. It seemed more likely that she didn't have the first clue what to do with any of them. She was a puzzle no one in Chandlerville could solve. Which evidently made her the only person his child could bear spending time with.

"I couldn't sleep," Polly said. She looked to Mallory. "I just wanted to see what your Christmas looked like up close."

Mallory patted her on the back and closed up the cereal box. She handed Polly her spoon. And damn if the kid didn't dive back in for her without complaint.

"We'll go buy our tree this week," Pete promised, forcing himself to sound positive while their broken holiday shattered into even more pieces. Polly had refused every attempt he'd made to get her excited about decorating the house—something she and Emma had always done together. "We'll make our own Christmas great, just as soon as you're ready. And if you can't sleep, you need to come get me up—not bother Ms. Phillips. I'll read you a story. I know it's hard at night, but I'm always going to be here, Polly. You can come get me no matter how late it is. We'll put you back to bed and make whatever's bothering you better."

His child shook her head, her bangs falling into her eyes. Pete reached to smooth them back, and she jerked away—the same as she had when he'd tried to comfort her at Emma's parents'. A tear rolled down her cheek.

He wanted to take her into his arms and hug away her loneliness and his, but that would mean another tantrum like the ones she had each night at bedtime. Her doctors said not to push closeness on Polly, but not to let her pull too far inward, either. Give her time. Give her space. But give her love, whether she accepted it or not.

How was he supposed to do that when each time he reached for his child he found a stranger in his grasp instead of the daughter who'd once worshiped his every move? How were they supposed to survive Christmas, Emma's favorite holiday, when not having her there was unbearable for them both?

"Did your wife read her bedtime stories?" Mallory asked.

"What?" He'd forgotten where he was. His neighbor's question froze time, then accelerated it. He stood, his scattered thoughts free–falling yet again.

The memory was so clear. Him coming off a day shift at the station, driving home to find dinner left warming on the stove and the house smelling like Polly's bubble bath. Emma was cuddled up with their sleepy little girl reading one last story before bed. Pete settled in to watch like he always did, loving them both so much and content with being exactly where he planned to be every night he wasn't working, until Polly was too old to think of their nightly ritual as heaven on earth.

It had been warm there where the three of them were happy, where he could no longer return. Warm and real and already forgotten by a child who cried now whenever he tried to read to her the way her mommy had.

"If Polly's having difficulty with you at night," Mallory said, looking perversely curious as she stared him down, "I was wondering if it used to be a time when she was especially close to her mom."

"Of course it was a special time," he snapped.

"Then maybe she—"

"Can I speak with you privately?" He was already halfway through the swinging door. She was likely a damn fine nurse, and she clearly cared about his daughter's well–being. But his neighbor's meddling in private matters she couldn't possibly understand was officially over.

He stepped into her excuse for a dining room and waited for Tinker Bell to join him. Once Mallory had, he swung the door closed and turned on her, losing his stranglehold on his temper.

"Exactly who the hell do you think you are, lady, questioning how I parent my own child?"

"I seem to be the only one of the two of us your daughter will talk to." Blue eyes sparked with frustration that rivaled his own. "And whether I like the situation any more than you do, it's something we'd both better deal with. Or the next time Polly slips away from your oblivious ass, she might just be gone for good."

***

Mallory sucked in air so fast she hiccupped. Her lapse of professionalism was appalling. Not to mention her breach of basic courtesy.

Long ago she'd accepted that ruthless honesty was how she'd become who and what she wanted to be. You're strong enough to make anything happen, her grams had always said, no matter how difficult Mallory made their last years together. Even learning to trust people again. You just keep on bein' strong, and you'll figure the rest out eventually.

Mallory never meant to be cruel to others, even while helping them face their own harsh truths. But one of her many flaws was that she didn't know how to back down when she was challenged. And on the rare occasions when someone who made her feel as off balance as Pete Lombard pushed too hard, she came out swinging.

She was an unflappable ace at what she did best. Personal relationships, unfortunately, fell far short of that top spot.

It had been forever since she'd allowed anyone but her grams close enough to see her lose control. There'd been a few going–nowhere dates in high school and college, one long–term relationship since that had fizzled painfully, and some less–than–successful attempts along the way at meaningful friendships with women. Preserving emotional distance at all costs was another survival instinct she'd mastered too early and too well. Which made allowing someone beneath the surface a losing proposition from the get–go.

So how had this man already tunneled deep enough to bring out the worst in her?

She knew nothing beyond the obvious about his problems, regardless of how much Polly reminded Mallory of another little girl who'd been trapped in a totally different set of circumstances, who'd longed for security and a new life and a world light–years from the one holding her hostage. In Polly's silence and acting out, Mallory saw the runaway still lurking within herself. But that didn't make Pete the irresponsible parent Mallory's mother had been. She had no right to berate him or suggest that she could better parent anyone's child.

"I'm a good father," he bit out evenly. "I'll do whatever it takes to help my daughter survive what's going to be the worst Christmas of her life. I don't need any damn help. Certainly not from you."

The absolute certainty of the statement lost its impact when he closed his eyes. He jammed his fists into the front pockets of his sweatshirt. UGA, it read, above the image of the university's mascot, a bulldog. Fitting. His reserve, even when he was angry, hinted at a steely will that would push tenaciously through any obstacle until he'd reached his goal.

He tilted his head back. He whispered an expletive so softly it became a prayer.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know you're only trying to help. But you have no idea what Polly's dealing with."

"You're right." She should leave it at that. She should retire to a neutral corner and silently watch these people slip back out of her life. Yet for Polly's sake, how could she? "But I do know a lost soul when I find one standing beneath my Christmas tree."

She'd bet money that this capable, controlled man had never before the death of his wife had even a cursory experience with the kind of emotional turmoil ripping at his child.

His stormy gaze took her measure and found her lacking. "You shouldn't be insinuating yourself into our problems."

"Right again." Mallory stared down both him and the cowardly impulse to excuse herself to her bedroom while he collected his daughter and left. "Someone like me shouldn't be butting into a family matter. But I'm Polly's health care provider at school, and she's in my office several times a day. Every day since August. She seems almost desperate to get away from her class and friends and teacher. And short of locking her in her room when she's at home, you can't keep her away from me here either."

"You heard her. It's that damn tree of yours. She's obsessed with it. It's all she talks about when she bothers to say anything to me at all."

"Then why haven't you put up one of your own?"

"Because she said she didn't want one. That's the one thing she's adamant about. No Christmas this year. Not at our house."

Mallory absorbed the pain in his words, finding hope in his reluctant honesty. Her heart melted even more.

"I've tried to discourage her from visiting me," she said, "as gently and as firmly as I could. But she needs something, Mr. Lombard. And she seems to think she'll find whatever that is—"

"Here?" His bewilderment came as no surprise.

She followed his gaze around her nearly empty house, picturing how it must appear to someone who knew only this part of her. Still, she was proud of what she'd created, a reality where she felt safe, if not included. She was once more a social misfit. But in Chandlerville she could revel in watching the beautiful world beyond her windows without resorting to the dead bolts and blackout curtains she'd once needed to feel safe. Add that to the sounds of laughing children and happy families filtering through her solitary evenings like sweet music on continuous replay—plus the Christmas she was going to celebrate like a lunatic this year—and she was in heaven.

So what if her failed attempts to be neighborly had ended in odd looks and awkward moments? So what if she never figured out how to blend into this kind of normal? She could handle that if she had to. She'd handled far worse for most of her childhood.

And as far as her decor was concerned, she was rarely there and had more important things to spend her money on than furniture and decorations she'd never use. There was no one to impress with how she did or didn't indulge herself, so what did it matter what the inside of her house looked like? Except Pete and Polly had barreled headlong into her privacy, and they likely couldn't fathom a world where white fences and clusters of picture–perfect homes didn't dot the landscape to the cotton candy horizon.

Pete was a fireman, a local EMT hero. ALS was the term someone at school had used to describe his job, because he was certified in "advanced life support." He was one of the good guys. Like she'd snarked when she'd called him, he was Prince Charming. He kept the world safe for everyone, especially the magical princesses in his life.

Her colleagues at school had filled in the blanks about the Lombard family when it became clear that Polly would be a daily part of Mallory's clinic work. How Pete had lost his wife to a fast–growing brain tumor no one could do anything about. His happily ever after had crashed and burned, leaving him and Polly grasping for the enchanted life their tragedy had ripped away. He was fast becoming as much of a misfit as Mallory, and he had no idea how to deal with it.

Which must make cataloging her faults a welcome distraction. Something she supposed she could deal with for one night, as long as it meant moving him and his daughter along and back out her door.

"Where you at least awake when Polly came in?" he finally asked. "Did she maybe see you and then come inside to talk?"

"I was asleep." Mallory got why he needed to believe that tonight was somehow her doing. "On a school night I'm in bed before eleven."

He inhaled slowly. "She walked into a house she'd never been in before and woke you up while you were in bed?"

"I heard her rustling around in here."

"I thought you weren't awake."

"I'm a light sleeper. But if I weren't, yes, she might have made her way into my bedroom, in the dark, before I knew she was there. I don't think she would have, though. I found her hiding in the corner by the tree."

He rubbed his forehead. His hand was shaking. "Lord, what if she'd gotten farther away or stumbled into someone else's home? Someone I don't know?"

"You're missing the point. Polly coming to me wasn't about my house being next to yours. Like I said, I think your daughter's looking for something."

"And you're that something?"

Mallory's professional training wavered beneath a rising flood of compassion. Desperation was rolling off this man at the thought of not being able to fix his child. The empathetic part of her longed to give him the blanket reassurances he wanted. After years of experience working with families in crisis, she knew better.

"I'm not responsible for Polly getting better," she said. "I don't know her, but I care about her. So whatever her something is, it's okay with me, even in the middle of the night."

"And I'm not okay with what my daughter needs? It's all I think about."

"I understand. Really, I do. You're her father, and your job is to make things better for her. At night that means making sure she sleeps. But you just told her that if she came to you, you'd put her back to bed and read some more. Because it's not okay for a child her age to be up this late."

"It's not."

"I agree." It was sad and unhealthy how Polly's issues were escalating. "But since I'm not her parent, I don't have to fix that problem—at least not in Polly's mind. No problem, no conflict. No conflict, and it starts to seem like an escape to hang at my place instead of yours when the shadows feel too close and she needs to get away from them. And maybe it's easier to enjoy my Christmas when her holiday feels terrible this year."

"Or maybe you never bother to turn your garish tree off, and little girls like sparkly things. You indulge her at school, so why wouldn't she assume you're a ready–made excuse at home to keep pulling away from everyone who loves her? Me, her grandparents, her friends and neighbors, and her teachers at Chandler. You need to stop encouraging this attachment she's built to you. She can't keep avoiding me and everything else that used to make her happy, just because I'm the one who has to set limits. I don't have the luxury of filling Polly with sugary cereal or ignoring the way food like that and staying up this late exacerbate how fragile she's become since losing her mother." He crossed his arms, muscles bulging beneath age–worn cotton, reminding her that EMTs had to remain physically certified to work just like the rest of the fire department's rescue professionals. "Please consider how much harm you're doing the next time you're tempted to indulge her."

"As soon as I discovered she was here, I walked her to the kitchen and made her a snack she couldn't refuse. I watched her relax into a happy kid for a few minutes while we waited for you. The conflict sleeping has become between you two went away for a while. No permanent harm done, even if I violated her pediatrician's dietary guidelines. Polly might even sleep better with something pasty and soothing in her system. Is that what you consider indulging her? Limits are important, but so is listening to what she's trying to tell you she needs."

His belligerence crumbled beneath exhaustion and resignation. It was an ugly personal moment, and they both hated that she was there to see it. Lost. In that moment, the guy looked positively lost.

"I can't get her to eat anything," he said. "She cries whenever I try to make holiday plans. Thanksgiving was a nightmare. She spent most of it in her room here, when we were supposed to be away with family all weekend. She doesn't want to be anywhere else but our place, but she hates being anywhere that reminds her of my wife, too."

Mallory nodded. "Her teacher says she's agitated with things that used to make her happy. That it's getting worse the closer we get to Christmas. Polly comes to see me halfway through lunch every day with a stomachache. Ms. Caldwell invariably tells me she hasn't eaten a bite in the cafeteria, so she doesn't understand what could be causing it. Then I call you, and she's upset when you take her home."

"She's hungry. That's what's causing it." He raked a hand through sleep–rumpled hair. "She's losing more weight. She's starving, and she won't eat."

"I've started bringing her a cheese sandwich each day," Mallory confessed, another of her secrets revealed. "She eats it in my office just fine."

"You what?" The man was simmering again, edging toward full boil. "Lady, you have no right to do something like that without my permission."

"You signed a medical release her first day of school, to allow the staff to stay informed about how she's doing physically. I cleared her school diet with her doctor, and I follow up regularly in case something's changed. I'm not giving Polly anything that would make her sick."

"That's not the point. She's not eating when she gets home."

"Exactly."

"Because you're feeding her crap at school."

"You don't really believe that." Her respect was growing for the frazzled but deeply caring parent she was beginning to believe he was. She suddenly wanted very much for that confidence not to be misplaced. "Whole–milk cheese and five–grain bread isn't crap, Mr. Lombard. Not when I suspect it's the only real meal she's getting that day. And once she starts eating she practically swallows her food whole. As you say, she's starving."

He had trouble swallowing himself, as if something awful were wadded in his mouth, clogging his throat. She could almost hear what she now suspected was a highly analytical mind processing everything she'd said and reevaluating his options.

"Why...you?" he asked, the question husky and halting. "Why does she feel safe enough to eat with you, talk with you, enjoy your Christmas...?"

Why her? Why would any child turn to a stranger to make things better when her family would give anything to be that healing place for her?

"It's not me, Mr. Lombard. I'm not a rival for your daughter's affection."

"Don't you think it's about time you called me Pete?"

The animosity behind his repeated request to do just that was gone. Something between them was shifting. Slowly. Resentfully. Like the revolving seasons that took a ridiculously long time to come to this part of the country, but eventually found their way. He didn't seem to appreciate the inevitability of this moment any more than she did, but they were clearly united over their concern for Polly.

She nodded her head in agreement and said, "Call me Mallory."

"If it's not about you, Mallory, then what? She won't eat for anyone else. She's firmly refused to have Christmas this year, except she's been obsessed with your tree since you put it up. Don't think I enjoy asking you for insight into my daughter's psyche, but...nothing else seems to be working."

"I think I'm not a part of the life the two of you lost when your wife died," she said. "I suspect my ridiculous tree might be a safe alternative for Polly this year because it's not part of your family's holiday memories. I'm Switzerland in your daughter's world, and as a nurse I think I represent healing and someone who can make something inside her feel better. All in all it's good that she's reaching out, even if it's to me. It's taken six months, but she wants to get better, Pete. I truly believe that, no matter how hard she's making this for you."

Mallory heard herself rambling and stopped. And waited. Could he trust someone to help him, the way Polly was starting to? She braced for his continued resistance. She accepted how badly she wanted him to walk away, because clearly she couldn't.

"What else do you recommend?" he asked, the question reasonable and controlled, impressing the hell out of her. Most parents would do just about anything to avoid admitting they didn't have all the answers where their kids were concerned. "Beyond feeding her food I don't approve of and letting her flit in and out of your life whenever she pleases while you put no demands on her whatsoever to snap out of this."

"This is depression." Mallory wanted to reach for him. His arm. His hand. She wanted badly to comfort and soothe, and she couldn't. She absolutely couldn't. Not this man. Not this close, dark, unpredictable night. "Polly is grieving and losing herself in it and fighting depression she might very well have to deal with the rest of her life. Childhood trauma can do that, and there's no amount of snapping out of it that will permanently repair the place in her heart where one moment she had a mother and the next she didn't."

Tears were in Mallory's eyes, her words hitting too close to home. All while her neighbor was leaning away the way she longed to, his open expression closing down, becoming brittle, emotionless.

"You talk like a shrink." The rigid set of his jaw spoke volumes about his opinion of formal therapy.

"A credentialed social worker," she clarified. At least she had been. "My degree and certification are in a box around here somewhere if you'd like to look at them. My concentration's in early childhood development, with an emphasis on grief recovery and crisis care."

"All that, so you could be a school nurse in Pleasantville?"

His pop culture description of their community was so unexpected and dead–on she laughed. She slapped her hand over her mouth, grinning behind it and charmed by his crooked half smile in response.

"No," she admitted. "Nursing school was always in the cards, but it came after."

"After what?"

She paused, then made herself give him the truth, as much of it as he needed to trust her with Polly.

"After I realized that while I want to help every child who has nowhere else to turn, it's not something I can do successfully day in and day out. Not without it damaging me too deeply to be useful to anyone."

A thoughtful, vertical wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. "So you've settled for becoming a fairy godmother for kids like Polly who just happen to find you? Where did you come from, lady?"

His unexpected insight and quick mind, the easy banter they'd stumbled into, reined in Mallory's meandering thoughts. Of all her neighbors, it was crazy that Pete Lombard was the person she felt most comfortable talking with.

She'd like to see Polly happier and more stable. But she'd shared far more than she'd intended to with anyone in Chandlerville. And becoming too attached to the Lombards' situation would be trampling the same kind of personal boundary that had ended her formal career in social work. She had a habit of overidentifying with pet cases. That was another mistake she'd promised herself never to make again.

"I come from somewhere that gives me a leg up working with people like your daughter," she reminded herself out loud. That's all that was happening here. This was another impersonal connection she'd spin into something good, because helping and letting go once her job was done was supposed to be her specialty.

"And you think you can work with us?" He didn't sound convinced.

"That's a question you're going to have to answer for yourself. I've considered sending Polly back to her class when she comes to my office, but I worry about how she'll take that kind of rejection. And I could lock my doors here..." She ignored the cringe deep inside, a flashback of being hemmed in as a child, unable to leave. Not until morning when daylight made it safer, though never completely safe, to be out and about. It was a claustrophobic, panicked place she hated each time her mind returned to it. "But if Polly came back another night, she'd be—"

"Locked outside in the dark, and there'd be no pretty Christmas tree for her to hide behind. No one to alert me that she was gone." Pete seemed to age before Mallory's eyes.

"I don't have definite solutions to give you." Thinking that she did was a slippery slope. "I suspect I'll end up asking you more questions than anything else."

"Questions I'll like about as much as you giving Polly puffed air for a late–night snack?"

"Get back to me on that one. My guess is she'll sleep better with it in her stomach than she does the harder–to–digest, wholesome fare you're giving her for dinner."

"Because you served her the nutritional equivalent of crack?"

"No, because she ate it from a chipped princess bowl."

Mallory waited for him to get that she was kidding. He didn't blink. So much for distracting him with playful sarcasm.

"The cereal's a base for her stomach." She felt ridiculous lecturing him about dietary dos and don'ts while looking like a waif that barely came up to his chin, wearing oversize thrift store pajamas she suspected might not be entirely covering her breasts. Only she wasn't drawing attention to the situation by clutching at the lapels of her nightshirt. "Even with the appalling amount of sweetener coating it, something like puffed corn is a good option for bedtime. Like rice, it's easier to digest than more complex grains. Have you heard of the BRAT diet? I recommend it for many of the kids I work with. There's a lot of anxiety to deal with for little ones who're constantly moving around with displaced parents."

Pete blinked. "There are kids like that at Chandler?"

Mallory inhaled.

"No..." she backpedaled. "I was speaking of other places I've worked. What I'm trying to say is digestive problems are common in kids who experience upheaval too early in life."

"The BRAT diet?"

"Bananas, rice, apple sauce, and toast. Four of the most easily digestible foods you can find, and there's substantial dietary value to each. When you're rebooting a little one's system, I'd start with BRAT every time."

"I'll try to remember that."

It was the nicest thing he could have said to her, even if his acquiescence came out rusty, like the scrape of a door that didn't want to be opened.

"Friends, then?" The suggestion tumbled from her mouth as if she hadn't bungled each attempt to make a similar offer to other families in their community.

She extended her hand, officially committing to their cease–fire for Polly's sake. And why not? To this man a friendship with her would mean nothing more than being casual acquaintances. And casual was a crystal–clear boundary Mallory could work with.

"If Polly continues not wanting a tree of her own," she said, "maybe the two of you could come back one afternoon to visit it together. I'll stay out of the way. You can have a little holiday, at least, without her feeling pressured to want what you've always done with her mother."

"You're hard to figure out." He shook and held on longer than any casual friend she'd ever had.

"You're better off not trying." Mallory slipped free and yanked her pajama top tightly closed. "Tougher characters than you have given up in frustration. I'm a nut that defies cracking."

When he laughed she felt a rush of pleasure race through her.

"Daddy?" a tiny voice said. Then a tiny body emerged through the butler's door. "I'm tired."

Pete knelt and cuddled Polly close. As he held her and stood, his daughter's head fit beneath his chin as if she'd laid it there a million times. The bond between them no matter how much they'd both lost was clearly stronger than ever. They were still trying. Maybe they were failing a little, but they were trying.

Watching them Mallory felt alone beneath her glaring Christmas tree for the first time since putting the thing up.

"How's your tummy feeling?" Pete ran a hand down his daughter's hair.

"Better," Polly whispered around a yawn. Her eyes drooped, then shut completely.

Pete scowled at Mallory's unapologetic smirk.

"Night." Savoring her victory, she led the way to the patio.

"We should give you back your robe."

"Next time," she heard herself say.

Pete stepped outside. He turned back. The look he gave her clouded with unvoiced questions. "Next time," he accepted, sealing their deal. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Too welcome. She stepped away and caught herself wondering which afternoon that week the pair might be back.

She had way too much personal experience with what it was like for a little girl to dream of a Christmas that wouldn't break her heart to be inviting Polly and Pete Lombard deeper into her rebooted life. She slid the glass shut between them, her tree's lights reflecting her image like a mirror. With a flip of the switch beside the patio door she disappeared, her tree going dark for the first time since she'd decorated it.

The world beyond her window re–formed, shadowy and frigid. Her neighbors were already gone. The door in the corner of her fence was shut. Peace had reclaimed her view. But the crystal perfection of it no longer tempted her to smile.

As quickly as she could she cleaned the kitchen, reset the thermostat, turned her tree back on as she passed through the living room, and crawled into bed. Much, much later, she fell asleep, worry for the Lombard family joining her until dawn painted ribbons of lavender across a gray sky and Mallory's own childhood grabbed for her with greedy fingers.