"You smell like bourbon."
"That would be Santa," Patrick says. "I had the unparalleled pleasure of sticking St. Nick in a cell to sleep off a good drunk." As he talks, he starts unpacking the bags. Cracker Jacks, Cheetos, Chex Mix.
Nonalcoholic champagne. "There wasn't much open," he apologizes.
Picking up the fake champagne, I turn it over in my hands. "Not even gonna let me get trashed, huh?"
"Not if it gets you busted." Patrick meets my gaze. "You know the rules, Nina."
And because he has always known what is right for me, I follow him into the living room, where we set up the tree in the empty stand. We light a fire, and then hang ornaments from boxes I keep tucked in the attic. "I remember this one," Patrick says, pulling out a delicate glass teardrop with a figurine inside. "There used to be two."
"And then you sat on one."
"I thought your mother was going to kill me."
"I think she would have, but you were already bleeding-"
Patrick bursts out laughing. "And you kept pointing at me, and saying, 'He's cut on the butt.'" He hangs the teardrop on the tree, at chest level. "I'll have you know, there's still a scar."
"Yeah, right."
"Wanna see?"
He is joking, his eyes sparkling. But all the same, I have to pretend I am busy with something else.
When we are finished, we sit down on the couch and eat cold chicken and Chex Mix. Our shoulders brush, and I remember how we used to fall asleep on the floating dock in the town swimming pond, the sun beating down on our faces and chests and heating our skin to the same exact temperature. Patrick puts the other Wal-Mart bags beneath the tree. "You have to promise me you'll wait till the morning to open them."
It strikes me then; he is going.
"But the snow . . ."
He shrugs. "Four-wheel drive. I'll be fine."
I twirl my glass, so that the fake champagne swirls inside. "Please," I say, that's all. It was bad enough, before. Now that Patrick's been here, his voice filling the living room, his body spanning the space beside mine, it will seem that much emptier when he leaves.
"It's already tomorrow." Patrick points to the clock: 12:14 A.M. "Merry Christmas." He pushes one of the plastic bags into my lap.
"But I haven't gotten you anything." I do not say what I am thinking: that in all the years since Patrick has returned to Biddeford, he has not given me a Christmas gift. He brings presents for Nathaniel, but there is an unspoken agreement between us-anything more would be tightrope-walking on a line of propriety.
"Just open it."
Inside the first Wal-Mart bag is a pup tent. Inside the second, a flashlight and a brand-new game of Clue. A smile darts across Patrick's face. "Now's your chance to beat me, not that you can."
Delighted, I grin right back. "I'm going to whip you." We pull the tent out of its protective pouch and erect it in front of the Christmas tree. There is barely room enough for two, and yet we both crawl inside. "Tents have gotten smaller, I think."
"No, we've gotten bigger." Patrick sets up the game board between our crossed legs. "I'm even going to let you go first."
"You're a prince among men," I say, and we start to play. Each roll of the die reverses a year, until it is easy to imagine that the snow outside is a field of Queen Anne's lace; that this tournament is life-or-death; that the world is no larger than Patrick and me and a backyard campsite. Our knees bump hard and our laughter fills the tiny vinyl pyramid. The winking strand on the Christmas tree, out there, might be lightning bugs. The flames behind us, a bonfire. Patrick takes me back, and that is the best present I could ever receive.
He wins, by the way. It is Miss Scarlett, in the library, with the wrench.
"I demand a rematch," I announce.
Patrick has to catch his breath; he's laughing that hard. "How many years did you go to college?"
"Shut up, Patrick, and start over."
"No way. I'm quitting while I'm ahead. By-what is it?-three hundred games?"
