PROLOGUE- Gary's Art
Writing had always satisfied him. Nick Monroe loved everything about it. The stillness, the solitary silence, the way that his thoughts and words filled a blank page, and the inventive joy that came with creating a story. It eased his spirit. Everyone should be able to do one thing that causes people to say, "You're good at that."
"Attach and send," he said to himself. Then he smiled.
He took a long sip of coffee and looked out the window of his apartment. Holiday music came from his radio. Annually, he listened to it from the Friday after Thanksgiving until the evening of December 25th. The early morning snow continued to fall on Boston 's Chinatown . It was the third Saturday in December.
"Gotta love a Christmas snow," Nick whispered quietly.
He let his thoughts turn to Charles Dickens, It's a Wonderful Life, and Miracle on 34th Street. His study of the seasonal weather was interrupted by a soft voice. He turned to see his pretty wife standing in the doorway of his writing den. She was holding her own mug of coffee, snugly wrapped in her favorite robe.
"Is there any thing better than Christmas time?" she asked her husband.
"Fall is nice," he said, "with the autumn colors and the start of a football season."
"Don't forget the green of spring," she countered. "New flowers blooming and all that stuff."
"And the Red Sox take the field," he added.
"There's also summer," Nick said. "You know, the long days and warm evenings that seem to go on and on."
"I haven't forgotten," she said.
"Me neither," Nick said. Waves of recollection ebbed between them.
"I'm so proud of you, Nick," she said. "My husband, the new columnist for The Boston Globe."
"Raaaahhh!" Nick joked and waved his hands in the air. "'The crowd goes wild."
This made his wife laugh and that was another one of his favorite things.
"And my wife," he replied, "the prettiest art gallery manager in all of 'Bean Town ', Massachusetts
She walked over to his desk. Nick rose to his feet and they hugged each other tightly. He kissed the top of her head.
She picked up the picture frame from off of his desk and studied it.
"I spotted you, didn't I?" she said as she gave him another squeeze.
Together, they gazed at the picture of Nick, his three best friends, his younger brother, and a blonde haired blue-eyed boy with an amazing smile. Carson, Nick's little brother, and a grinning Gary were sandwiched between four high school football players dressed in red and white uniforms. From left to right there was a tall handsome quarterback sporting a #12 jersey, Nick was # 85, a dark haired square-jawed powerful fullback/strong safety wore #42, and a very speedy younger player with sharp features was clad in his #22 jersey. The word CRUSADERS was emblazoned across the chest of each young man.
"Man, will you look at Gary and Kit?" Nick said.
"Oh, speaking of the boys, your mom called last night. Their plane is supposed to land at 8:30 tonight. I went ahead and made reservations at Turner's for a late dinner."
"Best 'chowdah' in town," Nick said in an attempt to disguise his persistent Hoosier drawl with a proper Bostonian accent.
"They aren't really boys any more," he said reflectively.
"In my mind's eye," she began, "they'll always be boys."
"You're right," Nick concurred. "I guess I wouldn't call Carson 'Kit' if I thought of him any other way."
Nick wore a pensive expression. He began to let his mind time-trip back to a cool spring day when he was in the 11th grade.
"Tell me again, Nick," she said, "about that first time you met Gary
"As if it happened an hour ago," he said to her
"The guys and I were stuck in the 'Dungeon' on a cool spring day…" Nick began.
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