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been.
    He leaned past her to reach the mini-entertainment center built into a wall cabinet. They both jumped as sound filled the room, and Charles quickly lowered it. He punched the scanning bar several times, leaping from some sports event to a weather report and then some preacher, before the radio honed in on seasonal music.
    As the strains of “The Holly and the Ivy” filled the kitchen, for the first time that day Charles felt himself begin to relax. The tune was so upbeat and joyous, even though this rendition had no words. Were there any words to this song?
    â€œDoes this song have any words to it?” Judith asked.
    Charles laughed and took a glass from the rack. “I was just wondering that myself. I know the melody, but I can’t remember any words.”
    There was a short silence. She handed him another glass. “Do you think we could talk Alex into playing a few Christmas songs?” she asked in a noncommittal voice.
    A sudden poignancy filled Charles’s throat with emotion. “Remember the year Jennifer was born? We had Christmas Eve dinner with Doug and Cora. Cora was playing carols on that old piano she used to have.” He slowly dried a plate. “Alex was just a little thing.”
    â€œHe was three.”
    â€œYeah. Three years old. Remember how he stood on the piano bench next to Cora, singing his little heart out?”
    â€œOn the first day of Christmas my two loves gave to me, a party in a pear tree.” Judith sang the version Alex had so innocently entertained them with those many years ago.
    â€œA party in a pear tree,” Charles repeated. “I wonder if he remembers that.” He reached for another plate and his hand touched Judith’s wet fingers.
    She released the plate and concentrated on the silverware. “That song has always been hard to remember—all those verses.”
    â€œYeah.”
    The strains of “The Holly and the Ivy” were replaced by the smooth baritone of Bing Crosby. “Looks like we’ll definitely have our white Christmas this year,” Judith remarked.
    â€œYeah.”
    They worked in silence, finishing the silverware and the casserole dish. From relaxed to edgy, somehow they were back to where they’d been before, and Charles didn’t know how it had happened. He fiddled with the dishcloth after the last dish was dried.
    â€œJudith,” he began abruptly. “I want this Christmas to be good for all of us. I think . . . I think that pretending to get along is not a good solution. We need to talk about why you’re so unhappy. Why you’re so unhappy with our marriage—and with me.”
    He was trembling inside by the time his words were finished. They had to be said and he needed her to respond. Yet he was petrified with fear at the prospect of her answer.
    Judith reached for her rings on the windowsill. One by one she slipped them on. The art deco one of onyx and baguette diamonds. The pearl one. And finally her wedding band. Then she looked up at him.
    â€œWe need to talk? Yes, I suppose we do. But are you willing to listen, to hear what I say and not talk over me?”
    â€œI am listening, Judith. I am.”
    â€œOkay, then.” She lowered her gaze, took a deep breath, then looked up at him. “You’re a workaholic, and you’re never going to change—”
    â€œI work hard, yes,” he interrupted her. “But we have a good life. You have the time and money to do any damn thing you want, Jude. Anything at all. I even offered to set you up in a business all your own, if that’s what you wanted. I don’t tie you down. The kids don’t, either. Not anymore. Hell, you have more free time than any ten people I know!” He realized he was shouting when she took a step back from him.
    â€œI’m not complaining about that. You’re a good provider, Charles. I’ve never denied that. But when does it stop? When