A couple of days later an invitation arrives for a New Year’s Eve party given by some of Jack’s high school classmates. Forgetting former resolutions to rise above old fears, Saffee considers that she has paid her party dues for one season. This time she’ll stand her ground. But Jack insists they go, saying that his friends are her friends too. Hadn’t they come to their wedding? Her memory of that day is a blur; she’d have to check the guest book. She tells Jack that she had endured the office party because she rightly assumed that group would have little interest in her and expect little in return. A party with people near her own age was another matter. There she would face unspoken competition, and she would lose.
Happy-faced Jenny Rose bursts in the door about noon. Gail has asked Saffee to keep her an hour or so after morning kindergarten until she returns from her baby’s medical checkup. “Thanks, friend,” Gail had said, “there’s no one else I’d rather trust her to than you.”
The little girl’s cheeks are flushed, and dark curls spill across the shoulders of her bright pink jacket. “Look, Miss Saffee, I made a present for Mommy and Daddy for Christmas!” With mittened hands she holds up a green gift bag tied shut with a red ribbon.
“Nice, and what a pretty bow, Jenny Rose. Did you tie it yourself?” Saffee unzips the girl’s jacket.
“Sure I did. And it’s a really good present . . . but don’t ask me what it is,” she whispers loudly, her eyes dancing. “It’s a secret!” Jenny Rose carefully places the gift bag on the coffee table and slides out of the jacket, mittens dangling from the sleeves. Saffee pulls off her matching pink boots.
“I bet you’re going to put the present under your Christmas tree.”
“Of course, if I can find room. There’s lots and lots of presents under there!”
They go to the kitchen, Jenny Rose cradling the green bag in her arms. Saffee ladles hot soup into two bowls, puts crackers on a plate, and pours glasses of milk.
“Miss Saffee, now remember, don’t ask me what this is, okay?” she says, stretching to place her gift in the center of the Formica table.
“Okay.”
“Cuz I can’t tell you!”
They both gently blow on spoonfuls of soup to cool it and Jenny Rose says, “Well, I can tell you”—her voice becomes mysterious—“it’s something white!”
“The gift is white? That’s nice.”
As she munches a cracker, Jenny Rose contentedly kicks a rhythm on a table leg. “I guess I’ll tell you one more thing,” she says, her eyes on the bag. “I made it out of wax.”
“Mm, wax?”
“And I can tell you something else . . . There’s a string in the middle of it!”
Saffee laughs and says, “Now I really wonder what it could be.”
Jenny Rose looks thoughtful. “Miss Saffee . . . well . . . maybe I can tell you one more thing.” She whispers, “You’re s’posed to put fire on top of it!”
“Ohhh,” says Saffee, “fire!”
“Now don’t ask me any more questions. You’ll just hafta see it after Mommy and Daddy open it up.” With this final pronouncement, Jenny Rose drains her milk glass, picks up the gift, and, with a self-satisfied look, holds it against her chest.
Gail had said there was no one else she would rather entrust this treasure of a child to, at least for these few minutes. Saffee found that surprising, but she can remember few compliments that have given her more pleasure.
“Okay. Let’s see if I’ve got the lineup straight,” Saffee says as the last hours of their first Christmas together wane. “The first row: rook, knight, bishop, queen, king, bishop, knight, rook. And pawns across the second row.”
“Right. And remember, the white queen goes on white, and black on black.”
“Got it.” She knew if she bought this elegant chess set for Jack he would love it—and she would need to stretch again. Games. She’s trying so hard to like them, to see the point.
When it’s almost ten o’clock, Saffee figures she’s spent enough time for one night learning chess strategy, but she doesn’t want the day to be over. Outside it’s snowing. Jack suggests a walk and she happily agrees.
They decide to walk along the mini-forest of birch trees across the street. But first, holding hands, they stop to admire their Christmas tree, twinkling through the front window. Saffee recalls the year her mother made the solemn decision to refrain from turning on holiday lights out of respect for those who had perished in tree fires. It had not seemed like one of the “good things” Saffee wanted to retain.