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       CHAPTER ONE

      ELAINE ST. JAMES hurried along Fifth Avenue, trying to outrun Christmas, but it was gaining on her. She was only a few steps ahead of a troop of apple-cheeked carolers belting out “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and collecting donations from shoppers and tourists. She dodged to avoid a Santa reeling in the crosswalk, his breath smelling of too much holiday cheer too early in the day.

      Although she had a cell phone glued to her ear, Elaine could barely hear Byron, her boyfriend. Still, she’d heard enough to know the news was not good.

      “A bra model?” she yelled into the tiny daisy-decorated phone.

      His response was a garbled remark ending in “Huh?”

      And so she yelled even louder, “You’re dumping me for a bra model?”

      Too late, she realized the heralds had stopped harking, and the stoplight had brought traffic to a halt. Everyone within half a city block had heard her.

      Caught in the glare of dozens of curious looks, Elaine dropped her hand to her side and hitched her purse strap up on her shoulder. Byron’s mosquito-voiced reply squawked faintly from the receiver, but she didn’t want to hear another word. Belying the flames of humiliated color in her cheeks, she held her head high and said to no one in particular, “Whatever.”

      Then she clicked off her Star-Tac, turned on her kitten-heeled boot and headed up the street. Behind her, traffic started up as the light changed. The carolers struck up “Silver Bells,” and the city sidewalks became busy sidewalks again.

      Okay, so it’s Christmas, Elaine told herself, appalled to feel a sudden sting of tears in her eyes. Tears. Not for Byron, she realized. But for yet another dream gone, just like that. It was hard to say goodbye to a dream, hard to close the door on hope.

      Elaine squared her shoulders and soldiered on down the avenue. The fact was, she had enormous reserves of self-discipline. She’d been raised to do what was expected of her, and she was extremely good at it. She just had to get through the day. How hard could that be?

      She tried to get into the spirit of children laughing, people passing. She saw smile after smile and even made a valiant attempt at smiling herself, but it felt more like gritting her teeth.

      Why was Christmas so easy for some people, but so impossible for Elaine? Where had she been when they were passing out Christmas spirit?

      She knew where she’d been—in the chill confines of the right boarding school, the right summer camp, the right college. She’d been so busy training herself to do what was expected of her that she’d forgotten to ask herself what the point of all her efforts was.

      At the next crosswalk, a woman laden with glossy bags and beribboned parcels shoved herself in Elaine’s way like a barge pushing into port. Elaine bit her lip to keep from making some smart remark, but she couldn’t help scowling. She was later than ever for her lunch, and in no mood. Given her current situation, a slight edge of crankiness was justifiable.

      There had been a time, long ago, when the bustle and noise of the season had filled her with a sense of magic. She missed her former self, but had no idea how to revive that breathless, boundless feeling. Clearly Byron was not the answer. Of course, she should have known that from the start, but in spite of all the ways life had disappointed her, deep down, she still had this secret, frisky inner self that wanted to believe in magic.

      Someone had a set of real silver bells. She heard them chiming like a windup alarm clock.

      A moment later, she found herself confronted by an elf holding out a collection jar with a picture of a grinning orphan. Clenching her teeth, she merely stared straight ahead, pretending she hadn’t seen him. If she didn’t make eye contact, she might be able to shake him off. Elaine was pretty successful at avoiding contact. It had kept her safe for years.

      These street singers for charity were bogus, she reminded herself, thinking of the reeling Santa. The donations went into the collectors’ pockets, to be spent later at the pool hall or