Posted on 2008-12-23

Anne Elliot stared out the window at the snow drifting lazily to the ground. A blanket of white covered every inch of lawn and street within vision, flakes piled upon flakes as the newly begun winter showed its intent. The past few weeks had been bitterly cold, curtailing any thoughts of outdoor activity for some time, and Anne had taken to spending much of her evening sitting by the window, watching the traffic pass outside.

Lights twinkled in the shadows, dangling icicles off houses' eaves reflecting candles in windows. Silhouettes of Christmas trees in squares of light darkened the frozen lawns, and snow-weighted garland drooped in waves across balcony railings.

As her nose touched the cold glass, her breath created a circle of fog, and she wiped it away absently with her sleeve.

"I can't stand this snow!" Elizabeth Elliot said, dropping heavily onto the couch behind her sister. "Why did you ever choose to live in this desolate clime?"

Anne turned to her melodramatic houseguest with a hastily concealed sigh. "I'm sorry for the snow, Liz. It can't be helped. This year is simply more precipitate than most."

A snort issued from the depths of the pillows and blankets her sister had quickly drawn over herself, and Anne refrained from mentioning that sweaters and denim jeans might be more helpful in keeping out the chill than the leggings and thin -- though fashionable -- layers she chose to wear.

But, then, Anne had become used to refraining by now -- from objecting to the sudden appearance of her father and sister for the holidays; from commenting when she returned the thermostat to a more fiscally responsible level after each mysterious increase; from hoping she might receive thanks for her hard work in cleaning and cooking for her houseguests; from asking how long they might be staying.

She had heard the abbreviated version of the tale from her mother's old friend, Myretta Russell, who had lived next door to the Elliots at their home in South Park. Anne had known Myretta all her life, and had often relied heavily on the older woman's advice, especially after her mother had died, leaving Anne in search of a parental figure. After Anne left for college, and even now as she braved the world on her own, the two exchanged phone calls, e-mails, and even the antiquated letter or two, keeping up the friendship.

In the last of the semiweekly phone calls the two shared before the Elliots' descent, Myretta, who as a former accountant continued to keep the books for Walter Elliot, had shared the news of Anne's father's difficulties and of her suggestion, after the full extent of his troubles became known, of retrenchment.

"Retrenching?" Anne had said with a laugh. "I think you've been spending too much time in your novels again to have used that word."

"Well, of course I didn't use that word for it," returned the voice from the other end of the line. "Your father's head probably would have exploded. I don't even think he knows what 'retrenchment' means -- either in the practical or the quarfotic sense. What I did say to him is that, especially how he has been barely able to cover his mortgage payments recently, and with his credit card debt piling up, it might be a sound decision to sell that drafty house and move into something a little more ... suitable for such a small family."

"And you suggested they room with me while looking for that more suitable housing?"

Myretta sounded regretful. "It was the best I could do, Anne. You know your father. I thought that maybe you would help guide them into a good situation."

Anne sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

She had been seeing what she could do for the past month now, since Thanksgiving had come and gone. She had been scanning the for-rent guides and the few houses on the market in their price range. She had gone to parades of homes and watched the local channels' apartment and condo showcases.

And every suggestion she had put forward, every floor plan and listing she had printed off, every photo of every open house she had attended, had been met with a sniff and the implication that she was simply not trying hard enough.

"It's bad enough we have to live in this wretched hole in the meantime," her father had said when she suggested a fine apartment on the west side -- a little small, perhaps, but comfortable and in a nice neighborhood. "You cannot consign us to anything less than 2,000 square feet. With a fireplace. And three bathrooms. And a private balcony and garage. An Elliot cannot expect anything less."

Anne had no idea where that notion had developed, but she didn't want to argue. She had enough to deal with, without adding a peevish father to the mix.

Christmas was a disaster. And it was still a week and a half away.

If it hadn't been her favorite holiday of the year, Anne would have given up on it long before now. It felt as if all of it this year -- the cookie baking, the shopping and gift wrapping, the decorating, the cheery wishes, the volunteering, the bell ringing, the sending and receiving of cards -- was all lackluster at best, sapped of Christmas cheer by her own troubles. And all of those troubles centered around one man -- her former fiancé, her only love, and now her new neighbor, Fredrick Wentworth.

Eight years ago, she had been in love with him. They had been in love with each other. They had talked of marriage, of starting off their adult lives by getting married, going to college in the same town, and starting a family.

He was ready. She was not. And, in a tearful and emotional conversation with Myretta, she had accepted the arguments against the plan: their youth, their relative poverty, the hardship of finishing college when you have kids. And while these might have weighed heavily with Myretta, what had struck Anne was how it could affect Frederick -- how their marriage, having children, being in poverty could ground his ambitions. The next day, she called the engagement off. And she had never seen him again.

Until mid-November, that is, only a few days after her father and sister had moved in. She had been at her apartment's front door, fumbling in her purse, a bag of groceries in her other arm, looking for keys. As she found them and pulled them out, the door next to hers opened, and she turned, half-expecting to help Mrs. Smith, the little old lady who lived there, to catch her cat before it ran down the sidewalk. But the person who emerged wasn't little, wasn't old, and certainly wasn't a lady. Her keys tumbled forgotten to the ground.

But Frederick either didn't recognize her, or pretended not to. His eyes swept only briefly over her and then he turned, locked his door, and continued down the walk to the parking lot. He had long since disappeared around the corner of the building before Anne had the sense to pick up her keys and open her door.

She had seen him a few times since, most notably at a recent early-December generic holiday gathering the owners of her apartment complex held every year at the clubhouse. But he had ignored her, for the most part, and she had overheard a conversation he was having with one of the elderly gentlemen who always hit on her at the laundry, in which Frederick said he had known her some years since, during their final year in high school, but barely recognized her now. That, particularly, had hurt, despite the knowledge that he would hardly have confided their shared past to old Mr. Schweitzer.

And now -- well, now he was sending her gifts. She looked at the small plant sitting on her dining room table and sighed. It had appeared in front of her door sometime during the day, wrapped in brown paper. Though wary of unidentified parcels, she had cautiously opened the curiously shaped package to find a miniature pear tree with a small note artfully placed among the leaves.

"I'm sorry," it read, and Anne immediately knew from whom it had come. And, despite the not-so-small measure of hurt she still bore, she felt a tiny flutter in her heart. She was mildly surprised; it hadn't seemed quite the thing she would have expected from Fredrick, but, then, she reflected, people change. Perhaps over the years he had grown more romantic. It was original, though a bit of a stretch -- a pardon plea in a pear tree? -- but it was sweet.

The question was what to do with it. Not with the plant itself, certainly -- she would water it and tend it, of course. But, rather, what to do with the message. Should she say something? Was she ready to say something? Was the apology only for the comment at the party (had he discovered she had heard?), or was it for something greater?

She had wanted to give Myretta a call, but her old confidante was in Europe, on her yearly vacation to the Mediterranean, and wouldn't be back until Christmas. And she certainly couldn't talk of this with Elizabeth or her father. Elizabeth had taken one look at the plant and complained that it looked rather ugly and stunted; her father had said he didn't like pears.

So she had put the note in her keepsake box, and said nothing. Not even when she came home the next day from running errands to find another package in front of the door.

This one, she discovered, contained two boxes of Dove chocolates and turtles. Taped to the lid of the second box was a note:

I admit I'm trying to turn you up sweet, but I could not bear it if you remained angry with me. You are my love and have always held my heart. I made a mistake in letting you go. It was my own fault, my own weakness that turned you away, and I am sorry. I am hoping, in this time of Christmas joy, you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

This one, at least, made the issue more evident. It did not make her decision any easier, but it certainly made disappear any doubts that these gifts were from Frederick.

So she shared the chocolates with her sister, who took a whole box for herself, and her father, who declared that chocolate would cause his skin to break out (and just in time for Christmas, too), and she considered, as she attempted to gain a wink of sleep on the pull-out couch in her living room, the problem of what she should do.

The morning light revealed no brilliant answers, though it did reveal the bags under her eyes when she looked in the mirror after her shower. No wonder Frederick hadn't recognized her, she mused as she turned her face this way and that, despising herself for being as preoccupied with her aging appearance as Elizabeth was. But it was true that she was no longer in the first bloom of youth. Even the bartenders had quit asking her for ID some time ago, and she was barely over 27.

Throughout the day, these considerations weighed on her mind, and she found herself reading and re-reading the second note, which she had thrown in her briefcase. What was the point of it? Was he seeking her affections again, or was he simply looking for forgiveness? Could he possibly be interested in her again?

No, she had seen the way he had been at the holiday party with Louisa Musgrove -- a young, flirtatious undergrad from the local university who was rooming in apartment 204. He could do better than Anne Elliot this time. Well, younger, if not better.

So she wasn't surprised not to see any package in front of the door when she arrived home after work. The cheery Christmas doormat was lightly dusted with more snow, but there was no sign that anything had ever sat there. She wasn't disappointed. Just resigned.

The letters had never promised anything other than a wish for forgiveness. It was her own traitorous heart that had led her to hope for something more. And it was no surprise that he had given up so quickly, with no encouragement. He had demonstrated how well he was able to drop the issue eight years ago.

But something in her wished that this time he had persisted. That he had continued to press her, even though she had as yet shown him no confidence. That he still loved her. A part of her had not forgiven him for never calling her after she had calmly told him, that day eight years ago, that she could not marry him so young, that they should see more of the world and become more stable in their careers and education. Just as it was now, he had admitted defeat and retreated, and she could do nothing.

Or could she? Was it now up to her to respond?

The question came at her out of the blue as she was beginning to prepare dinner, filling a pot from the kitchen faucet. Startled by the idea, she dropped the handle, splashing cold water everywhere.

Could that really be the answer? Was she to have responded in some way to his advances -- if they were advances? Despite having grown up in a strongly feminist culture, she often recognized in herself an expectation for the man to make the first move -- most of the moves, actually. It was more than simply the chivalry of opening a door or tasting the wine; it was about their entire relationship. She had never really questioned, in her own life, the need for the man to call the woman -- and not the other way around. Perhaps he had been waiting for her; perhaps he had always been waiting for her.

But she had not seen him, she told herself. How could she have given him any encouragement if she never ran into him, either as he was leaving the gifts or otherwise? She certainly didn't know his phone number, and knocking on his door seemed a bit much.

Caught up in her thoughts, she reacted instinctively when the doorbell buzzed. She passed by her sister, installed on the couch watching some nighttime soap opera, and went to the door to discover who would be calling at this time of the evening. The annoyance of being the only one in the house capable of answering a door or the phone barely registered.

"Can I help you?" she asked the spotty young man at the door. His hat and jacket proclaimed him to be from the deli down the block.

"I'm here to deliver some food," he said in a voice that squeaked slightly. "Three game hens and a loaf of bread."

"For me?" Anne asked, surprised.

"Oh, man. This is apartment 118, right? He said 725 Bath Lane." The young man rubbed the back of his neck nervously with the hand holding a piece of paper, muttering, "My boss is going to kill me if I get this wrong again."

"No, that's the right address. But who sent this? I didn't order anything."

The delivery boy shook his head. "I don't know. All I know is the guy wanted us to give you this letter with the food."

He handed her an envelope, and, unsure how else to handle the situation, Anne thanked the young man, gave him for a tip the few dollars she had in her pocket, and sent him on his way. As he left, she opened the letter.

I am hoping that my pleas have not fallen on barren ground, and that you have forgiven me, at least a little. In my optimism, I have made reservations for a meal -- grander than this -- for the two of us to share on Christmas Eve. Until then, unless you tell me you cannot and will not forgive me, I will do no more than wait and show you, in these little ways, how much you mean to me. I will wait and hope.

P.S. I apologize for sending so much food, but three was the number. I promise it will taste as good when eaten as leftovers.

She was still standing in the doorway when the door next to hers opened, and Frederick Wentworth stepped out. "Ordering in?" he asked with idle curiosity as he fished his keys out of his pocket.

Anne shook her head, clearing her thoughts. "What?"

He indicated the bag of food dangling from her wrist. "The food -- you're having take-out tonight?"

She stared down at the bag for a moment before responding. "Oh! No, it's a gift. It was ordered for me."

He didn't say anything for a moment, taking the time to lock the door. "You seem surprised."

"I am," she replied. "I wasn't expecting anything."

"A secret admirer?" he asked wryly.

Her forehead wrinkled. "I suppose it is."

"Oh." He seemed on the verge of saying something, but then closed his mouth and shook his head. "Well, have a good night. And enjoy your dinner."

"Thank you," she murmured. "By the way, you did know that my family was in town, right?"

At her voice, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder, his shoes crunching in the snow, his expression confused. "Yeah. I met your dad the other morning as I was leaving for work."

"Oh."

She continued to puzzle over the letter as she re-entered the apartment and took the food to the kitchen. The confusion she felt was not because of the plea for forgiveness, which made her sigh, or the promise of a dinner for the two of them, which caused a small tremor of anxiety in her breast, but rather the postscript -- the implication that three small birds would be too much food. It baffled her.

It would have seemed as if he hadn't known she had two houseguests, if not for the fact that he had just told her that he did. What did it mean? Was he playing this closer than she had thought? He had asked her about the gift so casually, too, as if she should believe that he knew nothing about it. So perhaps she was not to address him directly about the gifts, then. That it was all supposed to be done secretly, through letters, like valentines left in a mailbox. But then how was she to give him an answer?

"Who was that?" Elizabeth asked at the next commercial break, turning around on the couch to see what her sister was doing.

Guessing accurately which "who" she meant, Anne answered that it was a delivery boy. She began slicing the French bread and arranging the game hens on plates, and the smell drew Elizabeth to the kitchen island.

"Why did you order out?" Elizabeth asked as she sat down on a barstool. "I thought you said you were making kielbasa tonight."

"I didn't order it," Anne said, casually sliding the letter out from under her sister's hand before the nosy parker could read it. "It's a gift from a friend."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Really? I didn't know you had any. You certainly haven't had anyone over and you haven't gone anywhere since we got here."

Anne merely sighed and put a plate and fork in front of her sister. She knew her own deficiencies and didn't need anyone to elaborate on them. No more than she needed to hear her father, when he had finished curling his hair and came out to investigate the smell of food, expand upon his own plans for the evening. She was glad when the two left to check out the new club he had heard about, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Not that they were better company, and, unlike her family, she could not ignore them at will. But the empty apartment gave her time to reorder her emotions and to resolve how she would respond to this newest letter.

In the end, she decided to write a brief note on her good stationary, reading, "I look forward to Christmas Eve." As she left for work in the morning, she taped it, enclosed in an envelope, to the front of her door and, in a fit of caprice, wrote the words "To My True Love" in elegant longhand on the front.

Even before arriving at her office, however, she began to regret this final touch and wondered if it weren't the cap of all silliness. Was it too forward? She had thought it whimsical, but perhaps it said too much too quickly. Especially with this reunion still fresh and fragile, she feared causing any awkwardness to develop.

But her worries were for naught, as she was rewarded when she arrived home with the sight of a small package resting on her doormat. It was soon revealed to be a CD of four remastered jazz songs by Charlie Parker.

I knew you did not have this album in your collection, and I wanted to give you a taste of the kind of music we will hear on Christmas Eve, when you come to dinner with me.

And on the back of the envelope, scrawled hastily, was a note that read: When I read your note, I was filled with joy, but I will wait until Christmas Eve to show you how much it meant to me.

Anne had just finished reading the message when she was startled by a chunk of snow falling from above her. She looked up to see Frederick leaning on the railing of his balcony, looking out across the lawn.

"Hello," she said.

He looked down in surprise, a few more chunks of snow dropping as his forearms shifted, and an expression passed briefly across his face before a corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a crooked smile. "You look happy," he said.

She paused for a moment, taking in the feeling, and then cocked her head to the side. "I am. Aren't you?"

He let out a brief puff of air that might have passed for the start of a chuckle and said, "How could I not be, in the face of such happiness?"

"It's almost Christmas," she said. "Eight more days."

"It's still your favorite holiday, is it?" he asked, a solemn note in his otherwise polite tone.

Her smile deepened. "This year more than most, I think."

He noticed the CD in her hands, identifying it easily despite the distance. "Charlie 'Bird' Parker. One of the jazz greats."

She nodded. "I was just about to go listen to it."

"Then I shouldn't keep you," he said. He let out a sigh, his breath coming out in a fog. "I should probably get back inside, too. It's cold out here."

"It was good talking with you," Anne quickly added as he pushed away from the railing.

He paused, then nodded. "Enjoy the music."

This encounter, short and fairly impersonal as it was, buoyed Anne's spirits for the next few days, as she went about her usual business. She smiled more often than not, drawing curious glances from her sister, father, and coworkers, but she hardly noticed in her happiness. The only fly in this otherwise healing balm was that she could not speak of the reason for this newfound contentment with anyone -- Frederick, it seemed, included.

And the gifts continued to arrive.

On the next afternoon, the fifth day, she found on her doormat five chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil, to remind her that he would pay for their dinner; on the sixth day she received a down comforter, with a note attached that read, The geese, I am sad to say, have laid down their lives to keep you warm until I can. Anne blushed; her sister thanked her lucky stars she would not freeze again that evening.

The seventh day brought seven fizzy bath bombs shaped into tiny swans "to relax and pamper" herself. The eighth day brought a van and eight helpful cleaners.

"'Maids A-Milking'? What a stupid name for a company," Frederick said as he heated up the water for tea. "Especially since they have nothing to do with milk."

Anne smiled from where she sat on the barstool at his kitchen island, rubbing her hands to warm them up. He had found her standing in front of her apartment, unsure where to go while the maids did their work, and had gruffly ordered her inside his own apartment so she wouldn't "freeze her tchotchkes off."

"I think it's rather clever," she replied. "And particularly appropriate for the eighth gift."

"The eighth gift?" he echoed. "Is this another one of these silly offerings from your lovesick swain again? I just figured you were getting tired of cleaning up after your sister and your dad."

"It is from my admirer," she said, a blush rising in her cheeks. "But they're not silly. I think the idea was rather poetic and sweet -- 12 gifts from one's true love."

His face had hardened, and it was clear he wanted to say something sarcastic, but he wisely refrained. "So who is this guy? Have you figured out who your secret admirer is?"

She cocked her head to the side with a considering look. "Did you really think I had any doubts?"

He shrugged, pouring out the tea into two mugs. "I wouldn't have any idea," he said. "You might have had any number of true loves."

Anne gazed sadly into her mug as she slowly swirled in the cream. "No. I had no doubt I knew who the gifts were from," she said quietly.

Frederick didn't reply, silently watching her expression as he drank his tea. At last, he set down his mug and said, "You know the 12 days of Christmas don't start until the 25th, don't you?"

"What?"

"The 12 days. They start after Christmas. You know, Twelfth Night? The Epiphany?"

Anne chuckled. "Well, of course. But this has been wonderful, regardless. Thank you."

"For what?" he asked warily.

"For the tea," she replied. "This was really nice of you. I'll admit I was a bit worried when I saw you had moved in next door. I wasn't sure how it would work out."

He looked away. "I should think we'd be able to move beyond the past," he said at last, taking another swig of his drink.

"I'm glad," Anne said.

A moment of uncomfortable silence followed until she asked, "Are you having any family here for Christmas, then?"

"My sister and her husband will be coming over later on Christmas Eve," he replied. "And my older brother will be flying in Christmas morning, after he finishes with services, but there isn't really anything very special planned. And you?"

"Mary and Charles will come to my place in the morning on Christmas with their two boys," she said. "The usual family thing. It's a little easier this year with all of us in the same state."

"I would imagine."

They fell into silence again, and Anne began to feel vaguely dissatisfied. There was a taboo on all of the things she wanted to speak of with him: the things that went wrong in their previous relationship, the love she still had for him, their plans for Christmas Eve. All that was left was the weather and the state of the roads. And as invigorating as discussing the city's horrible snowplowing was, it wasn't in her plans at the moment.

At last, in a fit of inspiration, she asked him about his job and the conversation continued. They spoke at length, sharing their tales of work woe and giving each other wholly inadequate and impossible advice, until Anne looked at the clock and realized that they had now been talking for nearly an hour.

Regretfully she excused herself. "I'm sure the maids are done by now," she said. "The apartment's not that large. I should get back downstairs before Elizabeth wonders where I've gone."

"She stayed in the apartment?" he asked.

Anne smiled. "Someone had to," she said. "And it's not like she was going to move. Her soap was on. They probably just worked around her."

"She always was a lazy b--"

Anne shot him a look, and he hastily cleared his throat, grabbing a rag to wipe the counter and mumbling something about sororities.

"It was nice talking to you Frederick," Anne said, grabbing her keys from the counter before he wiped them off it. "I mean, really talking. I hope we can do it again."

Frederick paused in his cleaning, staring at the rag with an unreadable expression on his face. At last he looked up and said, "I wish I knew what was going on in that head of yours, Anne Elliot. I'm wondering now if I ever really understood you." When her expression turned confused, he shook his head and returned to wiping the counter. "I enjoyed our conversation, as well. And, yes, I agree -- we should do it again soon."

With a smile, though slightly uncertain, Anne wished him a good afternoon and made her departure. Returning to her own apartment, she discovered that Elizabeth had not, in fact, been missing her, and had not even realized she had left. Anne might have felt unloved if she had not expected nothing less. Instead, she made her sister a frozen pizza and read some winter-related poetry.

The following day was a Sunday, and the fourth day left before Christmas. Without work, Anne had every opportunity to sit by the window and watch for the next package to be delivered, but instead she stayed steadfastly away from the front door, not wanting to ruin the surprise. In the afternoon, after a brief glance outside to ensure the package had not come, she decided to make a quick run to the mall to finish some of her Christmas shopping, giving Frederick a wider opportunity to leave her gift at her door. And if it were another gift like yesterday's -- well, Elizabeth was at home, watching some cheesy chick flick and could answer the door. In theory at least.

The shopping expedition was successful, and Anne was on the way home when, at the bus stop a mile away from her apartment, her former neighbor Mrs. Smith boarded. Anne immediately cleared off the bench next to her and offered the old woman a seat.

"Oh, thank you, dear heart," Mrs. Smith said gratefully, folding up her walker to get it out of the aisle. "You're such a sweet young lady."

"Well, thank you," Anne replied, smiling. She pointed to the packages in her former neighbor's bag. "Getting ready for Christmas?"

Mrs. Smith cackled. "Indeed. Coal for all my children who have not come to visit me."

Anne laughed. "Not that I'd ever believe that of you. Or your children. So, where are you living now? I noticed last month that I suddenly had a new neighbor, and wondered where you'd gone."

Mrs. Smith explained how, after hurting her hip, she had spent some time in an assisted living facility, and while she was away they moved her from her apartment above Anne's to her currently more accessible lower-storey apartment. "I'd have let you know, but I hadn't seen you in a few weeks.

"But how are you doing, my dear?" she asked, patting her young companion's hand. "Getting ready with those big wedding plans?"

"Wedding plans?" Anne echoed, confused.

"Now, what was the name of that nice young man of yours?" Mrs. Smith continued, unhearing. "Neddy? Freddy? I thought it was something like that."

Anne suddenly realized whom she was talking about. "Oh no, Mrs. Smith. You have me confused for the woman who lived in my apartment before me. Remember? She got married in August. That's why I moved in."

"Oh, bother," Mrs. Smith said, shaking her head. "My memory has gotten so bad. And all you young people look alike nowadays, besides. So who then is that handsome young man leaving packages on your doorstep?"

Despite having her emotions under control, Anne felt her cheeks grow warm. "That's Frederick," she replied. "He and I knew each other some years ago, and we're ... renewing the acquaintance. It's kind of a 'twelve days before Christmas' thing."

Mrs. Smith looked at her shrewdly. "I take it I'll be losing another one of my young helpers soon, won't I?"

"Oh, my. I don't think it'll be that quickly," Anne replied, aghast. "It's been more than eight years, and it was a rather harsh breakup. It might take a bit longer than these twelve days."

"But it usually ends the same way," Mrs. Smith said with a sigh. "My poor John was never one of those what you'd call 'romantic types,' but he always knew how to time the roses to make me forgive him."

Anne didn't know what to say to that, but the bus was just coming to their stop, so instead she helped her elderly friend collect her packages and they made their way off the bus and down to the apartment building. The old woman invited her in for hot cocoa and cookies, and Anne stayed a while, listening to old stories of wartime and Christmases with Mr. Smith.

After an hour in the warmth and spices of Mrs. Smith's Christmas-laden living room, Anne was dismayed to have to return to her own apartment through the blistery weather, despite it only being a few steps away. But the moment she spied the envelope taped to her door, the biting wind through her gloves and scarf became unnoticeable as her happiness warmed her.

The ninth gift, she found, was a pair of tickets to the local ballet. The note read:

To reassure you that I am not looking merely to Christmas but to our relationship beyond, I give you this ticket -- the partner of which I retain -- for a night of romance a few months hence. I wish to court you as you deserve.

Anne had always enjoyed the ballet, though she couldn't seem to recall ever telling Frederick that. But then, she supposed as she unwrapped her scarf and hung it in the hall closet, it's always possible it was simply chance. What other kinds of romantic gifts are there to prove you're in it for the long haul?

She found out the next day, as she came home from a long Monday at work to find a decently large package on her doorstep containing a unique chess set comprised of characters in Regency costume.

"A chess set? That makes no sense."

Anne looked up in surprise to see Frederick leaning on his balcony railing, looking down at her. His muttered comment from where he stood had so well matched her own sentiments that it had taken her a moment to realize that he was there.

"Well, it could make sense," Anne said doubtfully in response as she opened the accompanying note. When she had read it through, she smiled. "Actually, that's fairly clever."

"What is?"

"Y-- my true love says it's to show he can be domesticated, as well: a night at home by the fire, playing a cozy game of chess, perhaps wrapped in the down blanket y-- he gave me for the sixth gift."

"And how are there ten lords a-leaping?" he asked.

Anne bit her lip. "Well, I suppose these rooks could be lords. And knights aren't lords, they're 'Sirs,' but I suppose that could count. And if you include the kings, that would make ten. And when they're played, I suppose they could be called 'leaping.'" She smiled. "So it is a stretch, but you know I would have hated 'Lord of the Dance' or whatever other possibilities there'd be."

"How about Lord of the Rings? I seem to recall you had liked those books ... but, then, time makes so many changes."

"I do still enjoy them. But how is that a-leaping?"

"I'm sure there was dancing in there at a few points," Frederick replied with a smile. Anne merely laughed and shook her head.

"This has really gotten you, hasn't it?" he said, his voice becoming serious. "These secret gifts from your true love."

"They have," Anne admitted.

He looked down at her for a moment, not saying a word, then raised his head and gazed at something in the distance. "I can only hope, then, that he deserves you." And with a tight smile at her, he turned and disappeared into his apartment.

Anne remained for a moment on her doorstep, wondering what she had done to upset him and what his last comment could mean. But nothing she could think of, either then, or in the long sleepless night, or during the next day as she finished up projects at work, explained it. She had not been negative at all about the gift, nor could she recall saying anything that might have put him off, either being too forward or standoffish.

When Anne arrived home from work, she began to worry even more, finding no package on the doorstep. But only an hour later, the doorbell buzzed, and her heart began to lighten. As she made her way to the door, she heard the opening strains of a Christmas carol, and she smiled, knowing that, somehow, all had been made well.

She pulled open her door to find eleven singers, ranged in a half-circle and belting out the tune of "The 12 Days of Christmas."

After the small choir came to the close of the song, one of the altos offered Anne a folded piece of paper, which read:

Today, my true love, I offer you eleven singers to share the season's carols. And, a word in warning: I would suggest that when they are finished, as the weather is cold, you might invite them in for some wassail to warm their pipes, or perhaps some figgy pudding. They probably won't go until they get some.

Anne smiled brightly as the choir launched into "Here We Come a-Wassailing," followed by "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

As they were declaring their refusal to go without getting their figgy pudding, Anne looked up to see Frederick peek over the railing of his balcony. She shot him a smile, but he disappeared almost immediately.

At that moment, however, the choir ended their song, so she was forced to return her attention to them, waving them all into the apartment for some hot cocoa, as, unfortunately, she was fresh out of pudding.

"What is going on?" her sister asked her in an undertone after all of the choir members had been served. Elizabeth and her father had been peering out through the front window as the choir was outside singing. "Who are these people?"

"They're carolers," Anne said with a sigh.

"Obviously," Elizabeth said, rolling her eyes. "But why are they here? Did your supposed 'friend' send them? Is this another one of those gifts, like the dinner and the blanket?"

"It is," Anne said.

"That's a really dedicated friend," her sister replied, some suspicion in her voice. Anne felt her cheeks grow warm. "Just so long as I don't have to hear the drum corps out there tomorrow. I'd like to get some sleep before tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night?" Anne echoed in surprise.

"Yeah. The party at the Carleton." Elizabeth looked at her sister in exasperation. "Please tell me you didn't forget. You said you'd get a new dress for the occasion. A new dress."

Anne didn't remember ever saying that, but, luckily, "Well, I did buy a new dress--"

"Good. We're planning on leaving at eight."

Eight? Anne started to say something, but her sister had moved away to join their father, who was getting a phone number from one of the departing choir members.

Well, it might not be a problem, she mused a little later, as she finished the gift wrapping and tidied the floor around the tree. After all, she had no idea at what time her date tomorrow was supposed to be.

The question was answered the next morning, after Anne had awoken with a smile on her face, nerves brimming in anticipation, and had gone to get the newspaper from the front door.

There, next to the bright blue plastic around her morning news, was the final package -- the twelfth gift. She picked it up and brought it inside, setting it gently on the table and unwrapping the brown paper. Revealed was a clock, painted and carved in the same style as a cuckoo or chateau clock. A paper arrow was taped carefully to the wood, pointing to the number five.

As she stood looking at it bemusedly, the hour struck and a little drummer boy appeared in the top window beating a tattoo as, below, figurines circled out from behind, each in the shape of one of the twelve gifts of song.

Five o'clock, then. She only had to wait until five o'clock.

It was perhaps the longest day in her life. By the time that four-thirty rolled around, she had worked herself into -- for her -- something of a state, having cleaned everything in the apartment that needed cleaning, and then giving it another scrub for good measure. And even then, her heart was beating a rhythm faster than even the tiny drummer, which had made its appearance with regularity only an half hour before.

And then, only a few minutes before five, the doorbell buzzed. Anne, who had been waiting impatiently by the door, her hands trembling, opened it after a few deep, calming breaths.

The man at the door turned, and Anne felt her breath catch in her throat. Standing before her was quite possibly the most gorgeous man she had ever seen: blonde hair, slightly curled; stunningly blue eyes; a perfectly formed nose; and the body, or, at least, what could be determined under the heavy winter pea coat he wore, of an Adonis.

"Oh, hello. I didn't realize Fanny had a roommate," said the Greek god. "Is she getting ready?"

"Fanny?" Anne echoed dumbly, still slightly dazed at finding on her doorstep such a man -- a clear potential for the sexiest-bachelor-alive list, if Anne had ever seen one.

He paused, a confused frown flittering briefly across his face. "Fanny. Frances Price."

"Price," Anne murmured, trying to remember where she had heard that name before. "Oh! Price! No, she lived here before me. She moved out right before I moved ... oh, no. Oh, no no no."

He stared in incomprehension at Anne, who had raised one hand to her mouth in horror. "She moved out?" he echoed at last. He ran a distracted hand through his hair, cursing as he slapped against his leg the flowers he held.

"Are you the one who sent me the gifts?" Anne asked quietly, her face pale.

He didn't say anything for a moment, staring instead across the snow-covered landscape. Then he turned back to Anne, his lips tight. "I'm sorry. I think there's been a mistake. You see, I thought ... Fanny Price and I ... well, I thought she lived here. That old lady told me she did."

"Oh no. That must have been Mrs. Smith," Anne said. "She tends to forget things a lot. No, Miss Price got married."

"She got married?"

She nodded. "Or she was about to get married, or something. That's what Mrs. Smith told me when I first moved in to this apartment in September: she had moved out because she was getting married. Apparently, she was a good neighbor -- a really nice person."

The man before her sighed. "She was. Much better than I deserved, I suppose. I should have expected ..."

Anne didn't know what to say. During all her preparations, she had rehearsed what she would say at this moment, what they would say to each other, how she would tell him that she had long since forgiven him, that she wanted to start again. But she couldn't say them to the wrong person.

Suddenly, she felt like crying. This whole time, she had built up her hopes, created a world in which Fredrick Wentworth had loved her again. And now all of those hopes had fallen heavily to the ground, crashing around her like snow off an eave. She wrapped her arms around her, trying to hold back the pain.

The night had grown silent, only the muted sounds, drifting through the falling snow, of the merry Christmas Eve parties starting up in other apartments. They neither of them spoke, until the man said softly, a trace of annoyance in his voice, "Why didn't you say anything? You could have left me a note."

Anne didn't want to admit her stupidity, but said with as much composure as possible, "I thought you were someone else."

"Oh, lud," the man breathed, peering into her face and undoubtedly seeing the hurt she was trying to hold back. "As if this couldn't get worse. I'm sorry -- now I feel a complete chump. I hope -- I mean, was he ... whoever this was, an old friend?"

Anne nodded, but then shook her head. "He was, at one time, I suppose you could say. But we ... I made a mistake, and turned him away. And now -- well, now I think he's forgotten me."

"And you're still in love with him, and I've built up your hopes, thinking he loved you in return, only for you to find out it was idiotic me who was sending you the gifts. Sounds like the plot to a bad chick flick," the man said with a short laugh. It didn't feel any better to hear someone else sum it all up, and Anne smiled sadly.

Again, they fell silent. The strains of a group singing an off-key rendition of "O Come, All Ye Faithful," broke through the quiet, and the man before her laughed again softly. "Well, that's appropriate, if nothing else," he said with wry amusement. He paused, then offered, "You know, I already have these dinner reservations. And I suppose now is as good a time as any to move on. Would you care to join me? Consider it a blind date."

For a moment, Anne considered it. But then she shook her head. "It wouldn't be fair," she said at last. "You may be able to forget that easily -- indeed, it seems as if all men do -- but I can't. I don't think most women can. Besides, I don't even know your name."

"Henry Crawford, at your service," he said, performing a perfectly antiquated bow before her, taking her frozen hand in his and kissing it lightly. "And you are?"

"Anne Elliot," she replied carefully.

"You're a good woman, Anne Elliot. Perhaps more so than Frances," he said with a grin that held surprisingly little sadness. "I think I may like you better."

"Anne? What are you doing out here?"

Anne turned to see her father in the doorway of the living room, a mug of steaming hot cider in his hand. As she turned, he caught sight of her companion and made a sound of admiration. "And who is this debonair young man?" he asked.

Though reluctant to perform the introduction, she said, "Dad, this is Henry Crawford. Mr. Crawford, this is my father, Walter Elliot, who's been staying with me for a few weeks. And my sister, Elizabeth," she added when her sister appeared in the doorway, as well. "Mr. Crawford was hoping to take me out to dinner. But, um ... I can't go."

"Can't go?" Elizabeth exclaimed, looking their visitor up and down and clearly approving what she saw. "Why on earth would you not? The party's not for three more hours."

Anne shot a panicked glance at Crawford, but he merely raised a curious eyebrow. Before she could come up with, much less stutter out, a reasonable lie, Elizabeth said, "Well, if you wouldn't go, I certainly would!"

"Would you?" Crawford said, turning with a charming smile to Anne's sister. "I still have these reservations, of course. And I would hate to not go, after Arturo was so good as to fit me in."

As Elizabeth ran to change into something nice, Crawford turned to Mr. Elliot. "You would be most welcome, as well, sir," he said. "In fact, all three of you would be welcome. I'm sure Arturo could fit a few more chairs around the table."

Mr. Elliot quickly dashed off to change, as well, and Anne was left again with Crawford. She invited him in and made him a cup of hot cider as they waited for her relatives.

"Are you sure you won't come?" he asked again as he stirred the drink in his mug. "It doesn't make sense to spend Christmas Eve alone."

"No, it just doesn't make sense not to spend it with the people you love," Anne said, then blushed when she realized the implications of her words. "Not that I don't love my family! It's just -- oh, dear."

Crawford laughed. "Houseguests and fish, I'm guessing?"

Chastising herself for her lack of charity, Anne sighed. "They are wonderful people, as you will discover, Mr. Crawford," she replied.

"Henry."

"Henry, then," Anne replied. "And I hope, Henry, that you have a very nice dinner. It's just ... I thank you for inviting me, but I don't think I would be very good company right now."

"And later?" he asked, the corner of his mouth turning up to reveal a dimple in his cheek. "We do still have the tickets to the ballet."

Despite her slight annoyance at his persistence, she found herself responding to the smile. "I don't think later will be any different, Henry."

They both continued to drink their hot cider until Anne, thinking of something, asked, "By the way, if you don't mind my asking, what did you do that you needed Miss Price's forgiveness?"

His smile didn't falter, though his eyes shifted briefly away. "I, uh, slept with her cousin. Her married cousin, actually."

"Ah." Anne nodded, somehow not completely shocked. "Well, I think I can safely say -- again -- that I don't think later will be any different," she said, and he laughed unrepentantly.

"I suppose you would like your gifts back," she said after a few moments. "Or, at least, the ones we didn't eat. And I am really very sorry for the mix-up. I feel so unutterably stupid about it all."

"Don't," he replied, finishing off the rest of his cider and setting it down with a thump. "I'm the one who thought I was being so clever, not bothering to check for sure that Fanny still lived here. I just didn't think she'd move out in the middle of her lease." He smiled wryly and began putting on his coat as Elizabeth came back into the room, wearing a dress highly unsuited to the cold night. "And keep the gifts. You deserve them for all I put you through."

Anne thanked him, and, when her father came out of the master bathroom smelling of cologne, she saw them out of the apartment, closing the door behind them with an unsatisfying thump.

Left alone now on this snowy Christmas Eve, Anne Elliot sat in her apartment, eating reheated pizza and watching It's a Wonderful Life on television, a box of tissues beside her ready, yet left unused. She had always hated the movie before, but now it evoked in her a strong sense of nostalgia and regret, and she wondered how things would have turned out if only, berating herself for the widgeon she had become.

It made so much sense now -- all of Frederick's comments, his unfeigned ignorance of the gifts -- and she wondered how she had been so blind as not to see it. But that was an easy question to answer: she hadn't seen it because she hadn't wanted to. She had wanted to much to believe that he loved her still that she had taken every expression, every lingering look, and, adding them to the gifts, came up with a sum that didn't quite fit its parts. And though a part of her, reviewing every encounter, wanted now to believe that maybe, just maybe, there had been a hint of jealousy there, she could not now believe in a heart that had been so wrong already. She could only be grateful that she had not made a complete idiot of herself before everyone -- only a partial one, she reflected.

By morning, the pain had dulled to a mild throb. And as the clock's drummer beat the hour, Anne reminded herself that this, too, would pass, just as it had eight years ago.

After a warm, comforting shower, she wandered into the living area again, finding on the kitchen counter, lying beside Elizabeth's handbag, an envelope containing the second ballet ticket and a handwritten note from Henry Crawford asking Anne to keep it, with his compliments. Anne put the ticket, along with its mate, in her keepsake box with the notes that accompanied each of the twelve gifts. They would be something to remember, and perhaps laugh over, sometime years in the future.

The hours passed quickly as Anne prepared breakfast before the arrival of her sister, brother-in-law, and brood. Elizabeth and their father made their own appearance only moments before the doorbell buzzed to announce the arrival of their guests.

Merry Christmases were shared as the newcomers entered, shaking snow from their hats and coats and finding places under the Christmas tree for the dozen or so wrapped gifts.

"Where should I put this?" Charles asked as he located his sister-in-law in the kitchen, where she was putting the rolls in the oven.

Anne glanced briefly over her shoulder at the sight of the small, haphazardly wrapped package in his hands before saying, "You can put all your gifts under the tree, over there."

"Oh, no -- it isn't ours," Charles said, setting it on the counter. "It was on your doorstep."

"On my doorstep?" Anne echoed, turning to look more closely at the package. It was in some respects similar to the gifts of the past few weeks, and she felt a twinge of worry that perhaps Henry Crawford had begun his campaign again.

With care, she peeled back the brown paper to reveal a small wooden ornament in the shape of a heart. Baffled now, she tore open the enclosed envelope to read:

These past few days, just as I had found you again, I thought you lost to me. But even as hope is reborn, you pierce my heart. Your voice I hear from below, with the trace of pain you cannot hide, leaves me half in despair, half in hope. I would never have wished such a thing to happen to you, but now I find myself thanking the stars for this chance.

You must have seen -- how could I hide them? -- my own feelings. Tell me only that I am not too late, and that such feelings as you once had are not gone forever.

You say that men forget sooner than women, but know that I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but inconstant never.

I did not have a pear tree, or calling birds, or maids a-milking, or any of these, so I offer you now, instead, myself, with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it eight and a half years ago. And with that, I rest uncertain of my fate and hope only that you will give me what I most want this Christmas: a second chance.

Yours ever, F.W.

Anne was frozen. Had she hours in solitude to take in the sudden rush of returning joy, she still couldn't have completely assimilated it. As it was, with the shrieks of raucous children, the concerns of well-wishing in-laws, the demands of querulous sisters, and the smell of burning scrambled eggs assailing her senses, her brain could only comprehend one thing: he loved her still.

It was only when the fire alarm began its insistent, pulsing call that she was spurred to action. Leaving Charles to pull the skillet off the hob and wave a book at the smoke detector as the others added their whines and cries to the general din, she went to her desk, wrote a quick note, grabbed the miniature plant off her table, and escaped from the apartment.

At Frederick's door, Anne paused, the fog of her gulping breaths revealing her nervousness. Gathering her courage, she raised her hand to knock, but before she could the door was pulled open and Frederick himself stood there.

She said nothing, though her eyes spoke volumes as she handed him the miniature pear tree. He looked at her curiously as he took the gift, pulling the note from the branches to read.

When he had read the two words on the paper, he looked at her, his expression one of slow joy. "You didn't have to--" he began.

"I did," she replied. "I love you, too."

Then, with an impulsiveness she would later blame on the cold and her need for warmth, she reached up and, pulling his head down to hers, kissed him with all the passion she had held in check for so long.

And though it wasn't perfect, it was a beginning, and the best for which either of them could have wished. A second chance was given, and two hearts reunited. The rest could come later.

And it did.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me ...