The boy came to the edge of town at twilight, at the close
of a winter day. Although the snows had not yet begun, the
air was brutally cold, having leached the life from the
fields and forests, turning everything to shades of brown
and buff.

The road narrowed to one lane and passed through a covered
bridge on ancient river stone pilings. Through the years,
the structure had weathered and been replaced, plank by
plank, yet it never really changed. The tumbled rocks and
sere vegetation along the riverbanks were rimed by a
delicate breath of frost, and the trees in the surrounding
orchards and woods had long since dropped their leaves.
There was an air of frozen waiting, as though all was in
readiness, as though the stage was set.

He felt a quiet sense of purpose, knowing his task here
wouldn't be easy. Hearts would have to break and be mended,
truths would be revealed, risks would be taken. Which, when
he thought about it, was simply the way life worked—messy,
unpredictable, joyous, mysterious, hurtful and redemptive.

A green-and-white sign in the shape of a shield identified
the town—Avalon. Ulster County. Elevation 4347 feet.

Farther on, a billboard carried greetings from the Rotary,
the Kiwanis and at least a dozen church and civic groups.
The message of welcome read Avalon, in the Heart of the
Catskills Forest Preserve. There was another sign exhorting
travelers to visit Willow Lake, The Jewel Of The Mountains.
The bit of hyperbole might apply to any number of small
lakeside towns of upper New York state, but this one had the
earnestness and charm of a place with a long and complicated
history.

He was one of those complications. His understanding of what
brought him here only extended so far, a narrow glimpse into
the mystical realm of the human heart. Perhaps he wasn't
meant to know why the past and present were about to collide
at this moment in time. Perhaps it was enough to know his
purpose—to right an old wrong. Exactly how to accomplish
this—well, there was another unknown. It would reveal
itself, bit by bit, in its own time.

The main feature of the town was a pretty brickwork square
around a Gothic block structure which housed municipal
offices and the courthouse. Surrounding that were a variety
of shops and restaurants with lights glowing in the windows.
The first Christmas garlands and light displays of the
season adorned the wrought-iron gas lamps around the square.
In the distance lay Willow Lake, a vast indigo sheet under
the brooding sky, its surface glazed by a layer of ice that
would thicken as the season progressed.

A few blocks from the main square was the railway station. A
train had just pulled in and was disgorging passengers
coming home from work in the bigger towns—Kingston and New
Paltz, Albany and Poughkeepsie, a few from as far away as
New York City. People hurried to their cars, eager to escape
the cold and get home to their families. There were so many
ways to make a family…and just as many to lose them. But
human nature was forged of forgiveness, and renewal might be
only a word or a kind gesture away.

It felt strange, being back after all this time. Strange
and… important. Something was greatly at risk here, whether
people knew it or not. And somehow he needed to help. He
just hoped he could.

Not far from the station was the town library, a squared-off
Greek revival structure. The cornerstone had been laid
exactly ninety-nine years ago; the date was seared upon his
heart. The building was surrounded by several acres of
beautiful city park, lined by bare trees and crisscrossed by
sidewalks. The library occupied the site of its original
predecessor, which had burned to the ground a century
before, claiming one fatality. Few people knew the details
of what had happened or understood the impact the event had
on the life of the town itself.

Funded by a wealthy family that understood its value, the
library had been rebuilt after the fire. Constructed of cut
stone and virtually fireproof, the new Avalon Free Library
had seen nearly a hundred years come and go—times of soaring
prosperity and crushing poverty, war and peace, social
unrest and harmony. The town had changed, the world had changed.

People didn't know each other anymore, yet there were a few
constants, anchoring everything in place, and the library
was one of them. For now.

He sighed, his breath frosting the air as old memories
crowded in, as haunting as an unfinished dream. All those
years ago, the first library had been destroyed. Now the
present one was in danger, not from fire but from something
just as dangerous. There still might be time to save it.

The building had tall windows all around its periphery, and
a skylight over an atrium to flood the space with light.
Through the windows, he could see oaken bookcases, tables
and study carrels with people bent over them. Through
another set of windows, he could see the staff area.

Inside, laboring at a cluttered desk in the glow of a task
lamp, sat a woman. Her pale face was drawn with a worry that
seemed to edge toward despair.

She stood abruptly, as though having just remembered
something, smoothing her hands down the front of her brown
skirt. Then she grabbed her coat from a rack and armored
herself for the rapidly falling cold—lined boots, muffler,
hat, mittens. Despite the presence of numerous patrons, she
seemed distracted and very alone.

The sharp, dry cold drove him toward the building's
entrance, a grand archway of figured stone with wise sayings
carved in bas-relief. He paused to study the words of the
scholars— Plutarch, Socrates, Judah ibn-Tibbon, Benjamin
Franklin. Though the words of wisdom were appealing, the boy
had no guide but his own heart. Time to get started.

Hurrying, her head lowered, the woman nearly slammed into
him as she left the building through the heavy,
lever-handled main door.

"Oh," she said, quickly stepping back. "Oh, I'm sorry. I
didn't see you there."

"It's all right," the boy said.

Something in his voice made her pause, study him for a
moment through the thick lenses of her eyeglasses. He tried
to envision himself as she saw him—a boy not yet sixteen,
with serious dark eyes, olive-toned skin and hair that
hadn't seen a barber's shears in too long. He wore a
greenish cargo jacket from the army surplus, and loose-cut
dungarees that were shabby but clean. The winter clothes
concealed his scars, for the most part.

"Can I help you?" she asked, slightly breathless. "I'm on my
way out, but…"

"I believe I can find what I need here, thanks," he said.

"The library closes at six tonight," she reminded him.

"I won't be long."

"I don't think we've met," she said. "I try to meet all my
library patrons."

"My name is Jabez, ma'am. Jabez Cantor. I'm…new." It wasn't
a lie, not really.

She smiled, though the worry lingered in her eyes. "Maureen
Davenport."

I know, he thought. I know who you are. He understood her
importance, even if she didn't. She'd done so much, here in
this small town, though perhaps even she didn't realize it.

"I'm the librarian and branch manager here," she explained.
"I'd show you around, but I need to be somewhere." I know
that, too, he thought. "See you around, Jabez," she said.
Yes, he thought as she hurried away. You will.

Maureen Davenport's cheeks stung after the brisk walk from
the library to the bakery. Although she loved the nip of
cold in the air, she was grateful for the warm refuge of the
Sky River Bakery. Peeling off her muffler, hat and gloves,
she scanned the small knot of people crowded around the
curved-glass cases of pastries and goodies. More couples
gathered at the bistro booths and tables around her.

He wasn't here yet, clearly. It was a singularly awkward
sensation to be waiting for someone who didn't know what you
looked like. She considered ordering a big mug of tea or hot
chocolate, but there was a line. She sat down and opened the
book she was reading—Christmas 365 Days a Year:How to
Bring the Holiday into Your Everyday Life.

Maureen was always reading something. Ever since she was
small, she'd found delight and comfort in books. For her, a
story was so much more than words on a page. Opening a book
was like opening a door to another world, and once she
stepped across the threshold, she was transported. When she
was reading a story, she lived inside a different skin.

She loved books of every sort—novels, nonfiction, children's
books, how-to manuals. As the town librarian, books were her
job. And as someone who loved reading the way other people
loved eating, books were her life. She tried not to
sink too deeply into the page she was currently reading
because of the upcoming meeting. She kept reminding herself
to keep an eye out for him.

Him. Eddie Haven. And he was late.

As the minutes ticked by, Maureen grew paranoid. What if he
didn't come? What if he stood her up? Could she fire him?
No, she could not. He was a volunteer, and you couldn't
really fire a volunteer. Besides, he'd been court ordered to
work with her.

Why else would a man like Eddie Haven be with her except by
judicial decree? She tried not to be insulted by the notion
that the only way he'd ever be found with the likes of
Maureen Davenport would be through court order. The
fundamental mismatch was a simple fact, perhaps even a law
of nature. He was heartthrob handsome, a celebrity (okay, a
D-list celebrity, but still) and a massively talented
musician. He was almost famous.

Long ago, his had been one of the most recognizable faces in
the country. He was one of those former child stars who had
rocketed briefly to fame at a young age, and then flamed
out. Yet his role in that one hit movie—along with
twenty-four-hour cable—kept him alive for decades. The
Christmas Caper, a heartwarming movie that had
captivated the world, had become a holiday staple. She'd
heard his name linked with a number of women, and every once
in awhile, one of the gossip magazines pictured him with
some starlet or celebu-tante. For quite a while, he had
fallen off the radar, but a fresh wave of notoriety
surrounded him now. The silver anniversary DVD of his hit
movie had just been released, and interest in him had
skyrocketed.

Maureen had nothing in common with him. Their lives had
intersected one night he didn't remember, though it was
seared in her mind forever. He lived in New York City, but
came to Avalon each holiday season—against his will. She'd
heard he had friends in town, but she wasn't one of them. To
her knowledge, he'd never set foot in the library.

Even so, arranging to meet him here had almost felt like a
date. The rendezvous had been organized via e-mail, of
course. Using the phone would be far too bold and
intimidating. She was much better in e-mail. In e-mail, she
didn't get flustered. In e-mail, she almost had a
personality. So she hadn't actually spoken to him—who needed
to talk when there was e-mail?— yet the give and take as
they settled on a day and time had borne all the hallmarks
of a date. It wasn't a date, of course, because that sort of
thing didn't happen to women like Maureen.

Except maybe in books. And of course, in dreams.

It only happened in dreams that a plain, bookish woman
caught the eye of someone like Eddie Haven.

Even if the plain woman had once saved his life. She sighed,
and shrugged away an aching wisp of memory, quickly stifled.

She hadn't dated anyone in a very long time. She had
exacting taste, or so she told herself and her
too-inquisitive siblings and friends. She still cringed,
remembering her last two dates—an outing with a stamp
collector named Alvin, and a very bad concert with Walter
Grunion last year. She'd ended up returning home with a
headache, and a resolve to quit going out with guys because
it was expected of her. She was determined to stop saying
yes to men she wasn't interested in just because she was
still in her twenties—barely—and "supposed" to be dating.

People coming and going in the bakery barely looked at
Maureen, which was fine with her. She never liked being the
center of attention. A long time ago, she used to dream of
being in the limelight. Life had quickly cured her of that
notion. At a mercifully young age, she'd learned that being
well-known and recognized was no substitute for being loved
and cherished. Maureen was an unobtrusive sort; that was her
comfort zone. Flying under the radar took very little effort
on her part. She wore a T-shirt that said Eschew Obfuscation
and a button in support of intellectual freedom, yet the
slogans didn't seem to draw anyone's eye. Maybe the trendy
shirt was counteracted by her hand-knit cardigan sweater—a
gift from a favorite aunt—and Maureen's tweedy wool skirt,
leggings and boots. Though she knew her style of dressing
was plain and boring, this didn't bother her in the least.
Fashion was for people who craved attention.

Occasionally, her gaze touched someone else's and they would
give each other a slight, social nod. She was the sort
people recognized only obliquely. She looked vaguely
familiar, like someone they occasionally encountered but
couldn't quite place.