CHAPTER ELEVEN

We were terribly rude," Gemma said as they got into her car in front of Stella's flat.

"I did my best to make up for it." Kincaid had apologized to their hostess, then given her a peck on the cheek. Stella had looked surprised, then she'd smiled- a real smile, not the frosty, pasted-on equivalent she'd been wearing for the past hour.

"You're a charming sod," Gemma agreed now. "Poor Doug would've given rubies to keep us there. I imagine she's pouring boiling oil over him as we speak."

"Doug's all right." Although he said it as a statement, Gemma sensed that her approval mattered to him.

"Yes."

"The best of the lot, since you left. It helps a bit." He glanced at her. "I shouldn't say this. But in a way I'll be sorry to see this case finished. It's been good to be together again."

She touched her fingers to his cheek. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll be fed up with me soon enough."

At first, she worried about the bedroom's distance from Toby, who was now an entire floor below, when she was used to hearing his breathing from the next room. But she told herself he was safe and sound, sharing with Kit, and Kincaid soon took her mind off anything but decreasing the space between them.

She slept, in their bed for the first time, deeply and luxuriously, and she awakened early with a tremendous sense of energy and a determination to put her house in order.

By early afternoon, by force of will, she had reduced the still-packed boxes to a meager half-dozen. And she'd been to the supermarket, stocking pantry and fridge with necessities as well as treats for the children. The boys had organized their room, Toby with considerable assistance from Kit, and when they'd finished sandwiches in the kitchen, she'd sent them out to the garden to burn off some energy. An arctic front had dipped down from Scotland during the night. There was the smell of snow in the cold, gray air, and to Gemma it finally felt like Christmas.

Kincaid had been shelving books, hooking up the stereo system, and, last she heard, hanging his beloved London Transport posters. The hammering had recently stopped, however, so she went into the sitting room to see what he was doing.

He stood with his back to the hearth, looking quite pleased with himself. He'd managed to get the gas fire going, "White Christmas" played on the sound system and, above the mantel, he had hung the oil painting of the soulful-eyed hunting spaniel. Until now, they'd had no place to display the portrait. It made her think of Geordie, the cocker spaniel, and she wondered if she should tell Duncan about the commitment she'd made. No, she'd wait, she decided, at least until she heard from Bryony.

Instead, she said, "Oh, it's lovely… Everything's lovely." With books and posters and baskets of the children's toys, the room looked infinitely inviting. The only thing missing was the Christmas tree, and Wesley hadn't rung her. She realized she'd no way to contact him, and chided herself for not getting his phone number.

As if summoned by her thought, Wesley arrived three minutes later. Beside him stood not Bryony, but Marc Mitchell, holding the cocker spaniel in his arms.

"What-" Gemma stared at them. "But I thought you were going to ring- both of you, I mean."

"Bryony's holding her first clinic this afternoon," explained Marc. "And the dog's owner brought him round, so Bryony asked me if I'd bring him to you as a surprise. Heavy beastie," he added, setting Geordie down.

"And as I was lending a hand at the clinic," said Wesley, "I thought I'd bring your tree." He nodded towards a white van sitting at the curb. "Otto's contribution- he loaned the van."

Gemma recovered enough to say, "Oh, come in, please. Forgive my manners." Kincaid had appeared behind her, a hand on her shoulder. She introduced him, then gave him what she hoped was a coherent explanation of their visitors' burdens.

"Geordie, eh?" Kincaid dropped to one knee to fondle the dog's silky ears. "The kids will be thrilled."

"You don't mind, do you?" Gemma asked softly. "He was meant to be a Christmas surprise… for the family."

"I think he's lovely." He gave the dog a last pat and stood up. "Now, what about this tree?"

The three men managed to unload the tree from the van and lean it against the wall in the corner of the sitting room before the children, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, came trooping in from the garden.

It was the dog they noticed first, Kit wide-eyed with surprise, Toby his usual vocal self.

"What kind of doggie is he, Mummy? What's his name? Is he ours? Can we keep him?"

Gemma was accustomed to answering sequential questions. "Well, he's a cocker spaniel, his name is Geordie, and we'll have to see how he gets along with Tess and Sid before we're certain he can stay."

Tess was sniffing the spaniel cautiously, while Geordie stood, alert and quivering. Gemma watched anxiously, terrified the dogs might snap, but after a thorough investigation, Tess gave a playful bark and Geordie, his stump of a tail wagging furiously, sniffed back. Gemma breathed a sigh of relief.

"That just leaves Sid," she said, "though heaven knows where he is." Sid the cat had been released from the downstairs loo yesterday evening and had promptly vanished under the furniture, but his food bowl had been empty that morning. "Now he'll be even more upset."

"He was rescued from a rubbish bin when he was a kitten, so I imagine he can deal with another dog in the household," Kincaid reassured her.

"Do you mind if I nip out to the van for a minute?" asked Wesley. "I left a couple of things."

He came back with a paper bag from which he removed several boxes of tiny white fairy lights. "I didn't know if you had any, and I thought it would be rather a letdown if not…"

"Oh, Wesley, I don't know what to say. I bought a stand for the tree at the supermarket this morning, but I completely forgot lights." She retrieved the stand from the pantry, and Marc lifted the heavy tree into it with one apparently effortless heave.

"Can we put the lights on the tree now?" asked Kit, with the quiet intensity Gemma was learning meant he was either very excited or very happy.

"There is one more small thing," said Wesley. He pulled what looked like a pasteboard shirt box from the bag and opened it. A dozen little nests of white tissue paper held what at first glance looked like bright birds. But when Gemma examined them more closely, she saw that they were angels, their faces delicately painted on cloth, their robes and wings exquisitely sewn from colorful scraps of silks, brocades and organdy.

"But-"

"A housewarming gift from my mother. She makes them, and when I described you- Anyway, she said a new household needs its own set of angels." He shoved his hands in his pockets, and Gemma wondered if he were blushing. It was the first time she'd seen him discomfited.

"Wesley, they're gorgeous. Thank your mother for me. Where on earth did she learn to sew like this?"

"My grandmother was a crack seamstress-"

"Why is your hair like that?" interrupted Toby, pointing at Wesley's head. "Can I touch it?"

"Toby!"

"No, it's all right," said Wesley, laughing. He knelt down. "Put your fingers right in. They're called dreadlocks. White people can have them, too, but they have to work harder at it."