"Man, is it cold out here!" yelped Neal, his strained-tenor voice coming out in frosty gasps on the wintry air in the small lean-to shed. Jonathan nodded an agreement, stamping his feet and making the floor shake with each step of his lug soles against the wood, and Ross blew on his hands to warm them before slipping on the heavy down-filled gloves that were in his pocket. "Hurry up, Steve, so we can close the door and thaw out!"
"I'm comin', I'm comin'," came the lead singer's voice as he trotted up the path to the shed, then bounded up the step and into the room as Neal shut the door behind him. "D'ya think it can get any colder out there?" he asked the assembled group, who were reaching tenative hands out to the cherry-red upright stove in attempts to loosen up their chilled fingers.
Ross shook his head, peeking out the ill-fitting window to the steel-colored sky that rose above the cultivated forest of Christmas trees beyond the shed. "Not without snowing, but it just might rain. I heard this morning that it might freeze tonight in Fresno."
Steve nodded, remembering winters in his youth spent on his grandfather's dairy farm when the family would rise before dawn and break the ice in some of the milk pans, and the nights when the stars winked like frosty points of light as he and his grandfather made sure the barn was snug and warm for the cows before heading into the bright, warm farmhouse for his grandmother's hot apple pie. "It usually does, this time of year. Speaking of freezing, I hope Smitty's freezing his butt off in Massachusetts, him and his 'white Christmas'," Steve grinned, and the other guys chuckled ruefully.
"He's probably sitting in front of the fireplace drinking Bosco with his feet up," mused Neal, who looked like an overgrown elf in a long, knitted stocking cap that read "Bah, Humbug" on the brim that tamed his curly mane into a tight mass at his forehead. The guys had cracked up when they saw him drive up at the Christmas tree farm with it on, but had let up on ribbing him when he explained it was a gift from his wife, who thought it fit his attitude about getting out in the cold perfectly. He had to admit that it was warm and kept his ears from numbing in the chill wind, but he still saw the amused glint in Ross' eyes whenever the bassist looked at him.
That amused glint was there when Ross stood, stretching, and zipped up his black ski jacket. "Well, whatever he's doing, he got out of picking out a Christmas tree for the studio. Why, in God's name, did we have to volunteer for this?" the bassist groused, seeing in his mind's eye the front lobby of The Site, the Sausalito studio frequented by Bay Area recording artists most of the year. "Oh well, guess there's no use complaining about it now," he went on, pretending to be put upon when the rest of the group knew he loved Christmas and had actually volunteered the band without really asking anyone else. "Shall we, gentlemen?"
Jonathan laughed, zipping up the black White Sox parka over his grey thermal henley shirt, the jacket reaching almost to his blue-jean clad knees and making him look like a baseball-fan Eskimo. "I don't see any gentlemen here, but let's get to picking out this tree. I've got to go home and help Liz and the kids decorate our own trees, and it promises to be a big day."
"Did I hear you say trees, as in plural?" Steve said to the keyboardist as Ross banked the stove with ashes and the group filed out of the lean-to. "I thought you guys were going to cut it down to one this year. What happened?"
Pulling on his "# 1 DAD" baseball cap, Jonathan shook his head and sighed. "Well we were, until Liz heard that California Home Magazine might stop by and take pictures of the house all dressed up for Christmas, and you know I couldn't say no to that." Steve nodded, knowing it was true; Jonathan and Liz loved their sprawling ranch house in the Marin countryside, and he had to admit that Christmas at the Cain's was no small affair. "So we're going to have the big tree in the living room with the Whale, like usual, and one in the kids' room, and one in the studio. Then I've got to hang the lights on the eaves and put luminarias on the drive and all sorts of other stuff, so yeah, it's going to be a big job." He turned to the rest of the guys, who were starting on the path in the opposite way Steve had come, going back to the field of trees. "Anyone wanna be Daddy at the Cain's house for a while? I'll trade," he laughed.
"No thanks," Neal grinned, shaking his head and making the green knit tassel on the end of his ridiculous cap dance in the chilly breeze. "I'm doing Christmas light detail at my house this year, since we're not gonna be in the studio for a while. Is it some sort of rule or something, that dads have to be the ones that put up lights on the house?" Despite his playful griping, however, it ws obvious that Neal loved all his unwritten duties as head of the Schon clan, and would be out stringing lights with the best of them before the day was over.
"Sheesh, when I was a kid, we had it all figured out," Ross chimed, wading in through the spiky branches of the miniature pine trees, scanning the bristly branches for shape and sturdiness. "We never took our lights down after Christmas." The rest of the band laughed at this typical surburbian phenomenon, which they knew was far from what Ross' reality was at the moment. He and his lady shared a very beautiful condo in an expensive part of Malibu, and their Christmas was always extremely refined, with flocked trees and tiny white lights to offset the glimmering golden decorations, and a sparkling, champagne-filled Christmas Eve there a few years past had been an occassion the rest of the guys had never forgotten. The party had been memorable not only because of the fine trappings that accompanied most Los Angeles parties, but that it showcased Ross's ability to be a very dignified host as well as his typical silly self, and everyone had been treated to a wonderful evening.
Jonathan nudged Steve, who pulled himself back from the memory of Ross's party and the particular remembrance of a pretty girl he'd met there, with long honey blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, who he'd ended up seeing a few times. He had been wondering what she was doing this year when he felt Jay's elbow in his ribs, and looked up into his friend's scotch-colored eyes in distracted surprise. "Hm? What?" the singer asked, and Jay chuckled to himself as they moved along the path through the middle of the field.
"Where've you been? I asked you what you were doing this year for the holidays. You and Loren going skiing again, or are you two just going to hang out in L.A.?" Steve's home was impressive, with modern furniture and cherrywood floors as far as the eye could see, but his girlfriend of two years had a knack for bringing warmth into the import-store elegance Steve preferred. Last year, Steve had sent out photos of the two of them standing in front of a huge Douglas fir, decorated with angels of all types, shapes and sizes perched amongst swaths of gold tulle and small white lights, Loren's golden retriever perched at their feet, and Liz had remarked that Steve looked happy for a change. That picture was still on the Cain's refrigerator door, but Jonathan anticipated Steve's answer before he even voiced it, the singer's voice taking on a saddened, frustrated tone in the cold air.
"Skiing? Not with my hip just barely healed, no. Even if I went skiing, I'd be going alone; Loren and I broke up a few weeks ago." Steve stopped to finger a price tag of $50 on a beautiful Scotch pine, then moved on without having really seen the tree at all. "She says I'm a drag to be around at Christmas. I guess she's right, which is probably what hurts the most." Steve stopped and looked up at Jay with eyes the same color as the sky; stormy and petulant, with the promise of winter's chill.
Jay stood silent a moment, then moved on down the path to where Ross and Neal were having a goodnatured argument about a stunning Douglas fir. "Maybe she's right. I dunno, maybe there was some personal issues she just had to work out," he fumbled, using the new pat phrase for the condition of boredom in a relationship after the initial newness had worn off. As Jay saw it, most women who had gotten with Steve had subsequently tried to cure the eternal chip he had on his shoulder, feeling that they would be the one to break through his safety barrier and find the real Steve, but when they saw that wasn't to be, they usually got bored and gave up. Jay knew that holidays were tough for Steve anyway, and he could sympathize, having lost his own father a few years ago.
Steve sighed, putting his hands in his coat pockets, and Jay noticed it was the leather coat he'd worn in the picture for Trial By Fire, with a hood trimmed in dark plush and the first two snaps open at the collar. The golden eighth note that Steve's mother had given him when he joined Journey so many years ago gleamed chill in the wan December light, and Jay found himself wondering how many times he'd looked over at Steve during a concert and seen that golden note glittering in the illumination of the spotlights, the tiny jewel doused with Steve's own sweat as he poured the music he promised her he'd make from deep within him. Jay mused to himself that although Steve was a good musician, he lacked that same lightening talent for real life, and that talent was always in short supply at facing reality at the holidays. That he now had to face it alone, without even the presence of his admittedly Beverly Hills princess of a girlfriend to make Christmas less lonely, was a shame, and Jay decided to do something about it.
"Hey, man," he said softly, stopping Steve with a hand gloved in the same black fabric as his bulky coat, "I'm sorry about you and Loren. If you want, come on up to the ranch and hang out with us, we're gonna have a little get together for the studio crew on Christmas Eve, and Ross and Neal are coming. How 'bout it?"
The warm, genuine light of friendship that went beyond being in a rock band together lit the depths of Steve's frosty eyes, and he flashed a trademark grin. "That's really nice of you, Jay, thanks. I just might, if I don't have other plans by then."
Jay's eyebrows rose. "Christmas Eve is four days from now; I don't think even Neal could get a date that quick." He and Steve fell into peals of laughter, and Neal popped his curly head, minus the stocking cap now, out from behind the tree he and Ross had been arguing over.
"Hey, I heard that! I'm offended, you guys know I'm a married man." He was teasing, however, echoing his friends' grins as he knew that they were right, given his track record before he had settled down with his second wife, Dina, and the family they had created by combining Miles, a son from his first marriage, and the two children Neal and Dina had together. "What do you guys think of this one?" Neal asked the two musicians coming up the path, and Jay reached out a gloved hand to tentatively shake the tree as a test for sturdiness.
Looking up at the seven-foot spire of the tree, Jay turned to Steve for his opinion, and the singer gave a silent nod in agreement. "I think this one'll do fine. Ross, you wanna do the honors?"
"Already ahead of you," came the muffled voice of the bassist, who was poised at the base of the tree to shear it from its place. "And I've got the seedling marker they gave us up at the stand to replace it with, so all we need to do is cut 'er down." The band had chosen this tree farm because every tree that was cut down for the holidays was replaced with a seedling in the spring, and bright orange markers were placed over the stumps of the cut trees so that the workers could find them in the spring, grinding the stumps into mulch that helped the new seedlings grow. This conscientious choice had already gotten them kudos on a local news program, and as Smitty reminded them before he left, any opportunity to make good PR was an opportunity that by all means should be taken.
Bracing themselves around the tree to lower it to the ground and heft it on their shoulders to Jay's Blazer, the guys watched as Ross carefully sawed the trunk. "Tim-ber!" the bassist shouted, even though the tree only fell a few feet into the waiting arms of the band, and Steve gave a strangled oath as a prickly branch biffed him full in the face. He felt a jerk as the tree swung back into place, the branch catching another snap on his jacket and popping it open, and he was thankful that he'd bound his hair back that morning, knowing that his hair would have been impossible to untangle from the scores of tiny needles on the tree. He managed to help the guys bear the tree back to the Blazer, however, and it wasn't until the tree was nearly lashed to the truck that he made a horrifying discovery.
Looking in Jay's side mirrors to brush the pine needles from his hair, Steve's grey eyes settled on where the tree had unsnapped his coat, and he noticed his golden note wasn't showing on the outside of his sweater. He wondered idly if it had slipped down inside the collar as he made an almost unconscious gesture of straightening the chain on his neck, but to his shock his fingers found no trace of the familiar serpentine thread. In a haze of nervous fear, Steve ripped open the snaps on his leather coat, a sound that drew the other guys' attention from where they were talking with Jay as he lashed the tree to the top of the truck, and they came over in concern.
"What's wrong?" Neal asked, not liking the near-panic on his friend's face as the singer shimmied out of his coat and thrust it into Neal's hands.
"I lost my chain," came Steve's breathless murmur, and he pulled his dark green sweater over his head, shaking it carefully before flinging it into Jay's arms, untucking the heather grey teeshirt emblazoned with a contradictory NO FEAR logo from his blue jeans, then shaking the hem of the shirt in hopes of dislodging the chain he hoped was just caught in his clothes.
A collective gasp went up from the three band members, and they shared startled, knowing looks as they remembered how important that chain was to Steve. "Oh, man!" exclaimed Neal, "How do you think it happened?"
Nearly in tears, Steve shook his head. "I dunno, probably when the tree hit me in the face. The branch must have caught on the chain and broke it."
Ross frowned, obviously upset. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to let it slip like that. I really, really am sorry." He put his hands on his hips and turned back to the sea of green behind them, and groaned inwardly as he realized how impossible finding the tiny bit of gold would be; there was no telling where it had landed. However, looking back at Steve, whose face was taut with emotion, he knew they had to at least try to find it before they left.
"I'm not blaming you, Ross, it was an accident." Steve sighed, taking back his sweater and jacket from Jay and Neal, and shrugging into both against the wind that had suddenly come up again. "I'm gonna go see if I can find it, I'll be right back." He took off down the path in the direction they had come, and the other three stood mutely watching him go, uncertain as to leave him to his emotions, or to help him try to find the chain. There was no time to do either, however, because as soon as Steve was out of sight, the owner of the tree farm came driving up in a mud- splattered Jeep.
"I'm glad I caught you guys; the Forestry Service says there's a big storm down the hill from us, and it's coming up here pretty quickly. We've had so much rain up here already, they're afraid we're going to have some flooding, so you guys had better get going as soon as you can." The farmer looked at all of them, his weather-worn brow furrowing in confusion as he was met with silence. "Say, weren't there four of you here when you got here? Where's your friend?" He had never really heard of Journey until the media blurb about the band and his farm, and he hadn't gotten to meet the guys until that morning, where he'd confessed he was terrible with names.
Ross squinted up into the grey sky, and the tang of rain was definately present in the wintry air as he inhaled the sweet, sugary scent of pine. "Yeah, there's four of us. Steve'll be right back. Say, if you come across a gold chain with a little golden note on it, would you give us a call at the number our press secretary gave you? I think Steve might have lost it in a mishap we had with the tree."
Confused again at Ross' vague imagry, the farmer nodded. "Sure thing, though I can tell you guys that if you lost something that small, there's no telling where it could be. We find all kinds of things out here in the spring--cameras, saws, mittens, you know, all the stuff people put down while they're cutting the trees. I'll keep an eye out for it, though, but the crows around here like shiny things. I'll tell my son to keep an eye out for those, too."
"We appreciate it," Jay was saying to the farmer as Neal took off after Steve, and Neal found his friend on his knees in the mulchy dirt around the naked stump of the freshly cut tree, hands ploughing through the damp soil in hopes of finding the chain.
Stepping up quietly behind Steve, Neal looked down at him with a pang of sadness. "Hey, man, we gotta go. The Forestry Service says there's a storm coming and there might be some flooding, the tree farm guy just told us. He said he'd look for your chain," he finished gently, reaching out a hand and trying to draw Steve away from where he was skimming the branches of the nearest trees with his fingertips.
At the end of Neal's sentence, Steve dropped his dirt-smeared hands and hung his dark head slightly, clearly not wanting to admit defeat. A barely breathed, "Damn," came from between his lips, and there were scant tears in his eyes as he turned back to Neal. He wiped his hands on his blue jeans, leaving muddy brown marks on the denim, and sighed heavily. "This is nuts. How could I have worn that chain every day for over twenty years and have nothing ever happen to it, and today by a fluke, it's gone?" He shook his head again, letting Neal pull him away from the little clearing, yet glancing back over his shoulder as if he hoped he would yet see the little jewel. "I feel like crap."
Neal put his hand on his friend's shoulder, wishing there was something he could say to make him feel better. "It was just an accident," he finally decided on, and to his relief, Steve shrugged and nodded.
"Yeah, you're right. I guess Momma's just going to have to understand."
An eerie feeling crept over Neal at those words, and as Steve went ahead to join Jay and Ross, Neal couldn't help feeling that somehow, Steve had an otherwordly connection with his mother, a connection between mother and child that was impossible for even death to break. He always felt that way when Steve talked about his mother as if she were still alive, and he supposed that in many ways, she still was--at least, to Steve. Neal knew Jay still caught himself talking about his dad as if he was a phone call away, but it wasn't the same as the feeling he got from Steve. He shrugged it off, though, as the four Journeymen got into their respective rides and started the trek down the hill, managing to leave the area just before the storm let loose.
A few days later, those same four were part of a charity event involving underpriviledged kids in San Francisco, and the gathering was meant to give kids a chance to experience music firsthand with real musicians, possibly gaining an interest in an instrument. The event was geared towards raising money for schools to start band and choir programs, and was set to culminate in a small concert- like exhibition later in the afternoon, a fun jam session-type activity that the members of Journey were more than happy to help out with. With the added visibility of last year's album, there had been quite a turnout at the event of Journey's loyal legion of hometown fans, and several schools had held contests where the winning student could meet the band and have the typical photo op, or bring a special item they would like autographed. It was in this happy holiday blur of cheers and enthusiasm that the group now found themselves immersed, and Jay had to admit that seeing the energetic kids had seemed to lift Steve's heavy heart at losing his chain.
Under Rome's constant watchful eye, Steve seemed to have found a kinship with the delighted kids as he talked and laughed with them, signing autographs and shaking young hands, but when he was introduced to a shy young boy clutching a worn Escape album he felt a startling connection in the sadness of the boy's expression. "Well, hello there, young man," Steve said, bending down slightly to the slender boy with dark, curling hair that reminded Steve of Neal's mop. The kid was a little pale, whether from being inside too much or from a slight nervousness, Steve couldn't decide, but the boy's green eyes studied Steve with a seriousness beyond his years, which couldn't have numbered more than ten or twelve. With surprise, Steve realized that the album cradled in the young arms was older than the kid himself.
"Hi," said the kid, and when he didn't continue, Steve assumed the boy was nervous. He didn't have to be, the singer thought, and smiled a kind smile.
"What's your name?"
"Jason."
Maybe this was going to be harder than Steve originally surmised. "Jason what?"
"Jason Faulkner." The kid shifted the album a little, but was still absorbing Steve with those bottomless green eyes, which was beginning to make the singer a bit nervous himself.
"Well, Jason Faulkner, I'm Steve Perry. Glad to meet you." Steve offered his hand, which the boy shook solemnly. He glanced up at Rome as if to say "any suggestions?" but the bodyguard only raised one dark eyebrow as if to say "Beats me," and left Steve to handling his young fan on his own. "What'cha got there?" Steve asked Jason, gesturing to the Escape album, and to his surprise, the boy gave it into Steve's hands without so much as a blink.
"Escape, 1981. Steve Perry, lead vocals. Neal Schon, lead guitar. Jonathan Cain, keyboards, replacing Gregg Rolie. Ross Valory, bass guitar. Steve Smith, drums, in his second year of replacing Aynsley Dunbar." The boy spewed out this line of facts as easily as most children would rattle off their ABC's or multiplication tables, which startled Steve to the edges of his being, and the kid barely took a breath before continuing on. "Recorded and mixed at Fantasy Studios, Berkeley, California. Produced by Mike Stone and Kevin Elson. Tracks include Don't Stop Believin', Stone in Love, Who's Crying Now, Keep on Runnin'--"
Steve broke in, having a feeling the kid wouldn't stop until he quoted every song lyric on the album and all the production notes besides. "That's pretty impressive. You sure know this album forwards and backwards, considering it's older than you are."
In answer, Jason shrugged as Steve turned the worn cover in his hands, noticing that the embossing on the cover was worn smooth from years of handling. "I was born in 1984. The day you were giving a concert in Jacksonville, Florida, to be exact, for Frontiers." The green eyes studied Steve again, this time critically. "The format you used for Escape and Frontiers worked so well, why did you change it? Of course, ousting Valory and Smith made a significant difference, but you must have known there would be cries of selling out."
Nearly blinded by this scorching slew of words, Steve opened his mouth once to speak and then shut it again. A laugh spluttered from him in utter shock, and he shook his head. "Wow, where did you come up with that?"
Another shrug. "It's an honest question."
"Well, that's true, but I thought this was Christmas, with good will toward men and all that." Steve tried to get the situation back on track, and gestured to the album in his hands. "Did you want me to sign this?"
"Yes, please." Thankfully for Steve, Jason dropped his criticism and became a kid again, and Steve found a marker, poising the tip over the discolored record sleeve.
"To...Jason," he began, but the boy stopped him just before he signed the J.
"No, it's not to me. It's to Sheila."
Smiling, Steve nodded and continued his autograph. "Alright, to...Sheila, Merry Christmas? Okay, Merry....Christmas...all--the-- best...Steve....Perry." He finished the signature and capped the pen, then held out the album to his young fan. "'To Sheila: Merry Christmas, All the best, Steve Perry.' How's that?"
His answer came when the boy carefully took the album back into his hands, holding it so as not to smear the still-wet ink. "That's great, thanks, Steve." The green eyes were shining in wonder and delight, and his smile warmed the singer's heart.
"Can I ask who Sheila is?" Steve said, and Jason cocked his head at him.
"Shelia? Sheila's my mom."
Scanning the crowd for a woman with hair like Jason's, or even a woman that might be waiting at the edge of the crowd for him, Steve's gaze met with no one who came forward, seeing that he was near the end of this autograph session. "Where is she, is she here? I'd like to meet her and tell her how smart her son is." He smiled down on the boy, who was tracing the inked letters with a fingertip.
"My mom's in Heaven. She died last year. She had cancer." The frankness in the green eyes pierced through Steve's heart, and he coughed to loosen his suddenly tight throat.
"My mom's in Heaven too," he said, voice a little hoarse with emotion. "She died ten years ago; she had cancer too." Part of Steve's mind marveled at how ten years had passed since that day she had smiled at him and settled into a morphine-induced slumber she never awoke from; ten Christmases without him coming to her house for dinner, saying "Merry Christmas, Ma," and as Steve looked at Jason, he knew the boy knew that as well as all the other stats.
"The book says you flew home every chance you got," Jason said, tears threatening to fall, "but you hate to fly."
Steve swept the boy into his arms, the album slipping gently to the floor as Jason hugged Steve around the waist. He could feel the boy's shoulders shaking with tiny, silent sobs, his nose buried in the boucle of Steve's grey sweater, and Steve rested his chin on top of the curly head, his own hair forming a curtain around his face. The tears came quietly from both of them, two people separated by age but brought together by their losses, and it was a good minute or so before they let go of each other, looking into the other's tear-stained face. "Yeah, I hate it, but for her I'd do it," Steve said in answer, and they managed shaky smiles. "You miss her, huh?"
"Yeah. She gave me this, she liked this record a lot. She used to tell me about when she went to see your concert before I was born."
Nodding, Steve rumpled the boy's hair. "I know, I miss my mom too. Her name was Mary." He reached to pull out the chain she'd given him, but he stopped short as he remembered with renewed sadness that he'd lost the chain at the Christmas tree farm the other day. "She gave me a necklace with a little gold note on it, and I never took it off until the other day."
"Why'd you take it off?"
Swallowing, Steve forced himself to smile. "I had to have the jeweler fix it, I'd worn it so long the catch broke." He glanced up at Rome, who tapped his watch meaningfully. "I have to go, Jason, but I'm sure glad I met you." They embraced again, and Steve turned to leave, watching the boy as he stood there and clutched the album in much the same way he had before, only this time, Steve's inked dedication was scrawled across the worn surface. "Take care of that album." He joined the group as they exited the multi-purpose room, turning to wave at Jason, and the boy waved back as Steve crossed the threshold and was gone.
Outside, they all turned up their collars at the gathering evening chill as they walked around the building to the auditorium for the jam session. "Hey, you okay?" Ross murmured to Steve, and the singer grinned and nodded wordlessly in answer.
The fundraiser was a huge success, and quite a sum had been raised for music programs in the schools when all was said and done. Steve, who was standing in the middle of the Cain's living room looking up at the huge, beautiful tree and sipping mulled cider, wondered if Jason would benefit from some of that money and maybe learn to make his own music someday. He had told the guys about the kid's ability to spew facts about the band, and they had all been impressed, but he kept to himself the more personal aspects of this particular fan encounter. Taking another sip of the cider and feeling the hot liquid warm his throat, Steve wondered what Jason was doing tonight, since it was Christmas Eve. Whatever he was doing, Steve wished him the best, and hoped he had people around him who encouraged him to remember how his mother had lived, rather than how she died, and Steve was grateful for his own bandmates and friends who had forced him to go on with his work, rather than stew in his own depression.
Depression was something far from this bright gathering in this house tonight, he mused, watching Miles Schon and his little brother and sister, as well as Madison Cain and the twins, Elisabeth and Weston, all dressed in holiday finery and scampering around the house in an wired rush of sugar and excitement. He chuckled as he saw Ross dancing first with Liz, then Dina as his own lady looked on in amusement, and he caught Jay's eye as he stood chatting with Smitty on the phone in a quieter place in the hallway. "Smitty says hi and Merry Christmas, and that he's freezing his butt off," Jay announced to the group, who laughed as the keyboardist turned back to his conversation.
Grinning, Steve tossed back the rest of his cider and left it on a coaster on the coffee table, then decided to go out onto the patio and look at the starts for a while, a favorite thing of his to do on Christmas since he was a child. He pulled on his leather coat but didn't put up the hood, and decided it wasn't cold enough for the gloves either, so he put his bare hands in his pockets and stepped out onto the flagstones, making sure he shut the door and kept the warmth inside the house. The stars were tiny, frosty points of light in an icy blackness, and his breath came in grey clouds as he stood watching the heavens, silently thankful that the Cains lived in the country where there were few streetlights.
Suddenly, Steve realized he was fiddling with something in his pocket, and he drew out his hand to examine what he'd found; a slender golden chain with a single golden eighth note dangling from it, winking in the starlight. His heart skipped a beat; had it fallen into his pocket? No, nearly impossible, since the pockets were merely slashes and never hung open. Had someone found it and placed it there? No, that was impossible, since he'd had the jacket with him since the accident, and he'd never worn it to the studio, so if it had been tangled in the tree, no one could have slipped it into his pocket.
As he stood holding it in his disbelieving hand, Steve looked up just in time to see a shooting star race across the sky, and the answer flashed through him like the fire of a comet, in a split- second rush of warmth and light and love.
"Merry Christmas to you too, Ma," he whispered.
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