tea with lemon and honey, and he added a shot of brandy to it, and then offered Steve a glass, which he took gratefully. He said that if it hadn't been for all of them, it would have been his worst Christmas, but thanks to them, it wasn't. And he glanced across the room at Gabriella especially as he said it.
He walked her to her room that night, and hovered in the doorway for a while. He had given her a beautiful leather-bound notebook, which she knew he could ill afford. But he had given all of them lovely gifts, and a warm scarf to the professor.
“They're beginning to feel like my family,” he said, and Gabriella understood perfectly. She felt the same way about them. They talked about her new job, and her writing, and they stayed off the subject of the past. They had enough to cope with as it was, without dealing with that too. But she had missed everyone at the convent that night at dinner. And she found herself wishing that shed had a photograph of Joe that she could look at. They had never taken any, and now all she had were her memories, and she was always terrified that she might forget him, the exact look of his face, his eyes, the funny way he smiled. She found herself thinking of the baseball game he'd organized on the Fourth of July, and laughed remembering something he'd said. She was still so haunted by him, and Steve sensed that. He didn't want to push her, but he loved being with her, and he gently touched her face with his hand that night before he left her. She worried about it afterward. It was still too soon for her to get involved with anyone. She didn't know if she ever would again, and Steve was very different. He was so much a part of the world, he was a businessman, he didn't have Joe's innocence or naïveté, he didn't have the same magic about him. But he was a nice man, and he was alive and there with her, and Joe wasn't. Joe had abandoned her. He had taken the easy way out, because he wasn't brave enough to fight for her. There was no denying that now either.
And on the day after Christmas, Steve came upstairs and knocked on her door. He had gone for a walk and brought her a cup of hot chocolate. She was always impressed now by how thoughtful he was, and he was impressed when he saw that she was writing.
“Could I read something you wrote?” he asked, sounding a little awestruck. And she handed him a couple of her stories. He seemed bowled over by them, and she was pleased. They sat and talked for a long time, and afterward they went out for a walk. It was cold again, and it felt like it was going to snow that night. And in the morning, when they all woke up, the city was blanketed with snow, and she and Steve went out and threw snowballs at each other like children. He said it reminded him of when he was a kid, and she said nothing to him about her childhood. She didn't feel ready to share that. But they had a nice time, and afterward, when they went inside, he admitted to her how worried he was about money. He was sending money home, to help his mom, and if he didn't find a job soon, he'd probably have to go back, or at least give up his room and find a cheaper one, maybe somewhere in one of the rougher neighborhoods on the West Side. That sounded awful to her, and she didn't want to embarrass him, and she had no idea how to broach the subject to him, but with the money from The New Yorker, she was going to have a little left over in her savings. She could easily lend it to him, until things got a little better for him. And after an agony of attempts, she finally said that to him, and he had tears in his eyes when he thanked her. She offered to pay the January rent for him. His room was almost the same price as hers, and he could consider it a loan, and pay it back whenever he could afford to. She had a job, she was in good shape, and she was very cautious with her