ICONS
follows "Haunted"

               ***October 28, 2024***

= Your sister is cute =, Kenny Shepherd signed as he wiggled his shoulders under his backpack.

The chubby, freckle-faced sixteen-year-old stood in the doorway of Room 101, Brother Matthew's homeroom, in the lower school of St. Gregory's Academy, with eleven-year-old Randall Shaw, who had his arms crossed, anxiously waiting for his foster sister to finish talking to Cerise Whittaker. At least he assumed she was talking to Cerise. She could be talking to that boy Jacob who she thought was cute-

= I guess =, Randall signed back. He hoped Kenny wasn't going to start talking about girls. There were okay girls in his homeroom and his classes, but he was still interested in becoming a criminal profiler like his foster father and didn't have time to think about girls. His sister didn't count, though, because she was a sister and could ask as many questions as he could.

= She is cute. She has big eyes, like my rabbits. =

Randall didn't laugh, although it sounded odd. Brother Michael had explained about Kenny when he'd asked Randall to be Kenny's "homeroom buddy"; Randall understood that Kenny had not gotten enough oxygen when he was born, which had compromised his development. Even as Kenny's body matured, he would remain a boy mentally.

Brother Michael added seriously that this didn't mean Kenny couldn't make choices and didn't know his mind. Although tests showed him capable of speech, Kenny didn't speak. From babyhood, he pointed at items he wanted or led people around. At his preschool, he had seen a girl using sign language and let the teacher know with gestures that he wanted to learn to do the same.

When Alexandra Eames and her husband Robert Goren decided to enroll their foster son at St. Gregory's, fidgety, insecure Randall, with his limited ability to look people in the eye, had been assigned to Brother Michael's homeroom, which Randall had gloomily predicted was for "weird kids" like him. But, weeks later, he had relaxed under his foster family's love and the instructor's instinctive awareness of Randall's need to feel "normal." Asking him to be Kenny's homeroom buddy had given him an additional boost of self-worth and a challenge in learning ASL. He was becoming proficient in the latter and could easily translate for Kenny now; to keep in practice, he usually signed to Kenny rather than spoke, as he was doing now.

= Here she comes =, Kenny announced brightly as blond-haired Olivia pelted down the wood-paneled hallway with her backpack half on over her jacket and flopping on her right arm. She was a year younger than Randall, a friendly extrovert next to her quieter, dark-haired brother, but a grade ahead of him and still taking AP classes.

"About time!" Randall said crossly as she skidded to a stop when Sister Angelica, one of the older children's history instructors, barked out, "Miss Goren! At a walk, please!"

"Yes, Sister," Olivia said obediently and decorously paced the last steps to Room 101. "Hullo, Kenny, how are your rabbits?"

"Dad is waiting for us," Randall insisted, shifting from foot to foot. If Kenny started in on the rabbits...

= Peter is fine. Cottontail scratched me =. Randall translated while Kenny showed Olivia the red lines on his left arm. = Mom put some stuff on it. =

"So it wouldn't get infected." Olivia nodded. "Your mom is smart."

"Dad-" appealed Randall.

"Randall's right, though, Kenny. We need to leave," Olivia said politely. "Papa's waiting for us."

Kenny extended his hand abruptly, and she shook it, after which he signed, = Good night, Olivia =.

"Good night, Kenny."

Randall was already trotting purposefully toward the front entrance, and she had to walk double time to catch up. "Papa won't scold us for being polite," she panted. "Don't worry about it."

"We're supposed to be waiting outside at the front door on Monday and Wednesday at five o'clock. It's practically dark. Those are the rules."

"Papa will understand. It's only 5:10, and he's probably reading. If he says anything, I'll say it wasn't your fault, 'cause it wasn't. Cerise and I were chosen to be on the Toy Roundup committee for Christmas, so we were making plans. And it's chilly out, so put on your jacket!"

Olivia now knew Robert Goren as well as any child could know a parent. He towered over their little family, in the little girl's eyes a six-foot-four fount of endless knowledge, kindness, and sometimes mischief, keeping the anger rooted in his past under a tight leash. He was indeed absorbed in a book, head bowed down, and Olivia figured it was probably the one about Native American history he'd been reading in the living room while everyone else watched television. Or perhaps it was one of his well-thumbed psychology texts.

But he didn't need to keep an eye out for the kids, as he always brought the family collie with him. When the children hurried under the elaborate oak porte-cochere at the front of the school, joining at least two dozen other classmates who stayed late for after-school programs under the watchful eye of Sister Mark Anthony, who was nearly six feet tall and built like a woman's basketball pro, Sam began to woof and bounce back and forth in the back seat of the car, bringing Bobby to attention.

"Brill!" Olivia announced with the accent she still retained from her Australian mother and two years in a British boarding school. "Papa's brought the Mustang!"

"Is that your father's car?" a narrow-faced sixth-grade boy asked enviously.

"Yes," Randall answered. "It was an inheritance from a friend named Mr. Bruno Volpe and-"

"I asked Olivia, dork," interrupted the boy loftily.

Olivia returned in an even but icy voice that her adopted mother would have understood instantly. "I don't speak with people who are rude to my brother," and stalked toward the classic blue Ford Mustang with Randall in her wake.

Bobby Goren said mildly as she opened the back door, "You could have worded that more diplomatically, Min."

"It's Harry Newsome, and I was polite to him when he ignored Randall the last time," Olivia said stiffly, handing her backpack to Bobby, who stowed it in the front seat. "I just told him the truth this time."

"Didn't you tell me Donna said," Randall observed, referring to her temporary tutor the previous year as he climbed into his seat behind Bobby, shoving his backpack into the footwell while receiving a hearty swipe of the tongue from Sam at the same time, "that not everyone is going to like you?" He already knew that, for Olivia, "Donna said" was sacrosanct.

"He doesn't have to like you," Olivia said with a sigh, fending off Sam's doggy kiss. "Just be respectful."

               *** November 2, 2024***

Alex was cleaning out her daily workspace when Randall peered around the door. "Come in, Randall. I'm finished."

She had told her therapist once that Randall reminded her of Bobby at a certain point in his life, and it was certainly evident at this moment. Fidgeting next to Alex's desk in the room, which also doubled as a guest bedroom, the eleven-year-old wore a pensive face behind his round eyeglasses as he picked up and turned over and over a paperweight with an NYPD insignia on it; it was where the couple had first met as detectives, and Alex had learned her future husband's eccentricities, at first with irritation, but eventually with admiration. His "offbeat" methods made them the most efficient partners of that era, and for Alex back then, successful closure was the ultimate goal.

Bobby was still sequestered in the library, working on a lecture on criminal profiling to be presented in Albany the following Thursday. Alex planned to leave Sam and budgie Bandit in the care of Abbi Diaz next door so she and the children could travel into New York City to visit her family while he was away; Bobby would then take the train and join them for an Eames/Hogan weekend that included a visit to Radio City Music Hall.

Olivia was in her bedroom working on a "project" that Alex suspected was a gift; their third wedding anniversary was fast approaching. The corners of her mouth tipped upward as she recalled the Saturday and then the following Tuesday night that had brought Robert Goren back into her life.

"Why are you smiling, Mom?" Randall asked.

"Thinking of your dad, and how we came back together."

"You met him first for work, though," recited Randall. "'Livia told me. You started work...after the...Twin Towers were attacked."

Alex sighed. "Yes, the World Trade Center. That was a terrible day."

"Brother Michael talked about it the Wednesday after school began because it was September 11," Randall continued somberly. "He had a PowerPoint presentation. Almost three thousand people died in the Towers and-"

"Randall, please stop. It hurts me to relive that day," Alex said gently. "Your Uncle Jack lost several friends on 9/11, friends he'd brought home, and that I knew, and other police officers, too. I'd rather not discuss it." Then she smiled at him and stroked his always untidy hair. "Since Bobby and Min are both busy, how about you and I team up to do the Thanksgiving decorating?"

Randall thrived on orderly things to do. "Could I?"

Moments later, he was helping her unpack items from a big plastic storage cabinet in one corner of the basement. He could recite them afterward for Brother Michael. For the front door, a fall-leaf wreath with a carved wooden turkey in the middle. On either side of the front door, two heavy terracotta vases with corn stalks and a big sheaf of wheat. A woven cornucopia with realistic artificial vegetables spilling from it, surrounded by autumnal-colored grapevine, was set on the table in the front parlor window, laced with dark red, orange, and gold miniature lights. Three multicolored ears of Indian corn tied with a fall-themed ribbon hung from one of the coat hooks in the foyer. A garland of brilliant leaves was wound around the newel post of the stairs. Centered on the dining room table, an old gravy boat brimmed with asters, Michaelmas daisies, and autumn-colored straw flowers, centered by a comical stuffed turkey. On the kitchen table sat a woven basket in the shape of a turkey with fall flowers springing from inside it in profusion, and on either side of the basket were salt and pepper shakers shaped like turkeys. On the Welsh dresser, a primitive statue of a Pilgrim man and woman fronted a china plaque about blessings.

"Our neighbor Mrs. Carraher in Wilton had lots of statues of Pilgrims and Indians for Thanksgiving," Randall told her. "You have only one. How come?"

Alex said wryly, "Things didn't work out between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans as the iconography suggests. Your dad can explain how that came about better than I can. My mother had Pilgrims, too, but I don't like to use them anymore."

"You sound like Dad. What's iconography?"

At that moment, Bobby came striding into the kitchen through the swinging door, which already fit the Thanksgiving theme as it had a cornucopia design etched into the glass at the top half. He had a way of imparting a lesson, cultivated since Olivia had come to live with them, as a normal part of the conversation, and he proposed immediately, "Randall, if I showed you drawings of Santa Claus, reindeer, gifts, and a decorated tree, what would you think of?"

"Christmas," was the prompt reply.

"Colored eggs, rabbits, lilies, and a cross?" Bobby continued as he made coffee.

"Easter."

Bobby grinned over his shoulder as he popped a K-cup into the coffee machine. "A Vulcan salute, a tricorder, and a tribble."

He succeeded in making Randall laugh. "Star Wars!" the boy joked, and Alex's eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement because Star Trek was one of Randall's great loves.

Bobby was still in schoolmaster mode. "That's iconography. Images that can bring to mind a concept or idea or even a person or place. Like the Empire State Building and the Brooklyn Bridge represent New York and the deerstalker hat and calabash pipe indicate Sherlock Holmes."

Randall nodded in understanding, and Alex was quiet for a moment, then took a deep breath and asked gently, "I wanted to ask you, sweetie, if your family...if your mom...had any special traditions for Thanksgiving that you might want to continue."

The smile on Randall's face vanished as she feared it might, but she had hoped the addition of a familiar ritual might make his first Thanksgiving without his mother easier. He was silent for a moment, then quirked his mouth. "We watched the Macy's parade and then went out to eat. When I was little, Mommy overcooked a turkey and never tried cooking one again. In the afternoon, Dad would watch football. I tried to watch, too, but it...it was boring and never made sense to me. I would say I was going to the bathroom and then hide in my room with a book." Suddenly his eyes brightened. "I have a Thanksgiving decoration that I made in school. It's in my box. But it's just on paper."

Alex inclined her head toward the wall to the left of the basement door, against which the home's original owner, Bruno Volpe, had kept an old futon. Now a short bookcase crammed with cookbooks was in its stead, and on the wall above it hung a combination corkboard and whiteboard, the whiteboard holding the children's weekly chore chart and scribbled notes on groceries needed; the corkboard tacked with business cards and photos/drawings that used to be on the refrigerator in the old house, including a drawing Olivia had done of Sam when she was eight years old. "Why don't you run upstairs and get it? Olivia has a cross stitch she made last year that says 'Happy Thanksgiving' with leaves around it, and I'll put them both up."

While Randall darted upstairs, Bobby handed her a hot cup of coffee. "Amply sugared in the Eames tradition, of course," and they sipped and waited. "My box," they knew, was a cardboard liquor container filled with odds and ends his late mother Rosalind Shaw had left him: a wristwatch ("It only tells time," he had reported with awe, "nothing else!"), some photos printed out from his mother's phone, costume jewelry, Randall's report cards printed out from his school's computer account, his baby book, and one piece of memorabilia from kindergarten.

Olivia had followed him downstairs and asked, "What is that?"

Randall showed everyone with a flourish. It was a square of butcher paper centered with a young child's right handprint. The thumb and palm were brown, and each stubby finger was a different color: red, blue, yellow, and green. With markers, someone had drawn a black beak on the outside edge of the thumb, a big black eye in the area where the thumbnail would be, and a red wattle under the beak. In crooked crayon underneath was printed "RANDALL."

"It's fingerpaints," he told them. "A turkey made from my hand. Ms. Stinson had us all do one. She said we had to be very careful and be still and have the paint put on our hand and not touch ourselves, even with a big apron on. Marvin Cagle didn't listen to her and got paint all over his shirt and-"

As Randall continued his story, Bobby saw Olivia give a troubled, regretful look at the palmprint turkey, and a tiny sigh hitched at her breath. Alex gently interjected, "Here's Olivia's cross-stitch. Why don't you pin them both up, Min?"

Olivia still appeared preoccupied at bedtime while Bobby read The Thanksgiving Treasure to her that night, fiddling with her thumbs. When he finished, he asked, "Is there something you need to talk about, Min?" When her mouth wiggled but she said nothing, he continued gently, "Was it Randall's turkey?"

She shrugged, but her eyes told the story.

"There's no Thanksgiving in France," Bobby said, understanding. "You wouldn't have had that iconography. Why does it bother you?"

"I don't know. Maybe because Randall got to make one and I didn't. An American thing. I know. It's daft."

"Not daft. But, remember, every American came from somewhere else," he said, bookmarking his place with a finger. "You just came later."

I know," Olivia said a little glumly. "And I have things Maman saved, too, like my reports and a baby book. But I've never had a handprint."

"That's a very old-fashioned craft. It was the sort of thing they would have done when your mother and I were at school. Randall's teacher was either older or had a bent for nostalgic projects."

Olivia sighed, then looked wryly at her left hand. "I s'pose it's a bit big for it now."

Bobby took it and rubbed her fingers. "Your hands are perfect just as they are."

"Hey," Randall said from the doorway. "I came to say goodnight."

Bobby opened his right arm obligingly, and Randall came up to be hugged. He appeared unsettled, and Bobby wondered how much of the turkey handprint conversation he had heard.

               ***November 4, 2024***

Maybe Kenny wouldn't ever grow up, Randall thought, and never talk, but he sure could be a profiler by the way he noticed things. Because in the brief moment Olivia stopped to drop Randall off on the way to her homeroom, 110, and said, "See you later," while waving offhandedly at Kenny, he'd seen something amiss.

= Olivia's sad. What happened? =

Randall froze, then began, = It's about a turkey =, and knew it had been worded badly.

= What about a turkey? = Kenny's quick-moving fingers inquired.

Randall spread out his own fingers in frustration. = I don't know the signs for what I want to say. =

Kenny signed impatiently. = Then talk. =

               ***November 15, 2024***

"So," Alexandra Eames asked across the white tablecloth and the graceful swaying of a candle flame as she finished a final forkful of lasagna, "what do you think they're up to?"

Bobby had been gazing at her with content eyes through the entirety of their anniversary dinner at Diorios, an upscale Italian place in Waterbury. Richard Carver and his partner, TJ Gomes, had presented them with a gift card earlier in the week and told them that a table had been reserved on Friday at 6:30 p.m., their third wedding anniversary. Abbi had promptly agreed to watch the children; they had noted the collusion immediately but kept silent.

Alex was wearing her winter-blue wedding dress, hair swooped up gracefully on either side and held with rhinestone clips, her mother's pearls encircling her slim throat, a matching pair of pearl teardrop earrings dancing under her earlobes. He had bought her a corsage of a single red rose surrounded by baby's breath, and she touched the velvety petals occasionally between the appetizer, the salad, and the main course.

She was equally pleased with him in his dark suit and the winter-blue tie that matched her dress and pearl cufflinks; he had needed to have the suit altered after daily workouts had resulted in weight loss. His eyes were so often distracted by his work or a book that it pleased her to see the soft, relaxed expression on his face.

"I think we should skip dessert," he said with a grin, "because I'm sure it involves cake."

"It will be very filling," Alex said, sipping at the bourbon the server had recommended, her face impish and slightly flushed, "since we already had dessert this afternoon."

He chuckled deep in his throat. Her snark had provided endless amusement when they worked together, an antidote to the grim situations they faced, but he had not known much of this playful, sensual side of her until they had reunited.

"We'll act surprised."

"But they'll know we're lying."

The house looked no different from when they had left, with rectangles of welcoming light in the front parlor and library windows, around the front door, and in the upstairs hall, but they could read the clues clearly: cars parked further down the road where cars were usually never parked, a gift bow dropped in the grass next to the sidewalk leading to the kitchen, and the scent of TJ's appetizers drifting out the back door despite the weatherstripping.

When the door to the kitchen opened, a bright shaft of light flared on the sun porch, illuminating Bruno Volpe's photo, and a waft of steam heat warmed them. They were face to face with a wall of beaming faces with a grinning Olivia and an anticipatory Randall at the center. In the next moments, they would be escorted into the dining room, where lilac and blue balloons bumped the ceiling, and a big cake sat at one end of the dining room table and a stack of gifts at the other.

But for now, they were greeted with the expected chorus of "Surprise!"

Bobby provided his best Brooklyn accent for the occasion. "Aw, geez, you guys..."

It was a small affair since the crew at the Dark Crystal were at work and Alex's family unable to come--"We'll make it up at Christmas," Alex's sister Liz promised, as there would be a houseful during the holiday--the neighbors, Alex's neighbor Viola Perrino from the short time she lived in Southbury, Russ Jenkins from Big Brothers/Big Sisters, Bobby's nephew Donny in town for a few days (he was a long-haul trucker), Alex's cousin Phil (and insurance salesman) and his wife Becky (an ER nurse), Henry Cattaneo the Americana collector, and Bobby's friend Lewis, who'd driven in to show off a vintage Porsche, and of course Abbi Diaz and her grandchildren Carlos and Ana Serrano, who rented the house next door. Bobby spent the evening wagging eyebrows suggestively at his "adopted sister" for bringing a date, Manny Escarra, who owned the Mexican "taverna" and for whom Abbi worked two nights a week as a hostess. In return, Abbi Diaz eyed him sideways, amusement dancing in her eyes. Manny was in his early 70s, silver-haired and rugged-faced, dressed in a bolo tie, tight jeans, and cowboy boots, looking like a cover shoot from Vanidades.

There were a few gifts, including a photo of Abbi and her grandchildren that had been printed up at the local Walgreens and framed. Others had arrived in the mail: a gag gift from Mike and Carla Logan, a huge package from Alex's sister and brother that had shown up that morning that proved to be a roof rack for Alex's new Honda Pilot so they would have room in the car on their trip to Michigan, and others, plus Manny had brought with him an envelope of four tickets to A Christmas Carol in Providence from the Dark Crystal staff.

When everyone had gone home, Olivia invited her parents to sit in the front parlor and brought out something wrapped in tissue paper.

"I just finished it," she said apologetically. "It's not washed or blocked and pressed, so I didn't want to show it at the party."

Alex accepted it with a smile. "No one would have cared, Min. But we can do that together and then have it framed at Joelle."

They both knew it was a cross-stitch project but were surprised at the design, which had a colonial motif like the architecture of the house.

"It's from a Jo Verso book Maman bought me before my first term at Creatwood. There are different motifs to make your own sampler, and, with the people, you could change hair color and clothes." Sure enough, there was a tall man in a suit and a shorter woman in a blazer and skirt centering the design. Alex admired the stitching of the hair on the figures because Olivia had painstakingly couched the thread to give the impression of silver through the brown. Next to the man stood a smaller blond girl, and next to the woman a dark-haired boy. Alex realized why the sampler had only been finished at the last moment because she could see where stitches had been pulled next to her figure--Olivia had removed some other design to fit Randall in.

Other motifs appeared below: interlocking wedding rings, a small house, a big shaggy dog, a budgie, an SUV-type vehicle with luggage on top, a laptop, a US flag, a French flag, the silhouette of an oak tree, a hand forming the "I love you" ASL sign, and a police officer's badge. The top edge had the customary alphabet, and the bottom border was the spines of two books, clearly labeled as "Ice Blue" and "The Refuge," with the name "Goren" in square blue letters between them.

"This is beautiful, Min," Bobby said in a hushed voice. "All the work..."

"A little each day." Olivia shrugged. "I started it back in June, so I could take time to do it perfectly."

Alex ran her finger over other places where threads had been pulled and gave the girl a confiding look. Olivia bit her lip and winked back.

"I-It's a-awful n-n-nice," Randall stammered. He was now holding his gift behind his back and showed an inclination to inch away.

"You have something, too, Randall," Olivia reminded.

"And he took a long time deciding on it, I heard," Alex supplied quickly, recognizing the signs from her childhood that Randall thought his gift inadequate. "Viola said you two went to several stores before you decided on something."

"I-It's not h-homemade..."

Bobby laid a hand on his shoulder. "It doesn't have to be."

"The thought and care you put into it counts, too," Alex said soberly.

"There's a story about a beautiful conch shell," Bobby added, "brought by a little boy to his favorite teacher for Christmas. The exterior was pale cream, and inside the shell was a rainbow of iridescent colors. The teacher knew these particular shells could only be found at a beach five miles away. There were no cars, so the boy would have had to walk to the beach and back, so she was overcome and said to him, 'It was such a long way; you shouldn't have.' He said, 'The long walk was part of the gift.'"

Randall still looked skeptical, as in his limited experience, adults often said one thing but meant another, but he presented the gift-wrapped flat package to Alex; it proved to be a fifteen-by-thirteen-inch plaque with a cream-colored background. Little autumn maple leaves in shades of gold and orange surrounded a calligraphed verse:

BLESS THIS HOUSE AS WE COME & GO
BLESS OUR HOME AS THE CHILDREN GROW
BLESS OUR FAMILY WHEN THEY GATHER IN
BLESS THIS HOUSE WITH LOVE & FRIENDS

"Well, here I am doing an Aunt Lizzie again," Alex said, trying to act jaunty, but her eyes were damp. "This is beautiful, Randall. Viola said you chose it yourself?"

He nodded. "It's a new house blessing, and I knew this was a new house for you, and it had the fall leaves, and you were married in the fall, and it says children...and that's us."

"It's brill!" Olivia said stoutly.

Bobby indicated the space next to the coat tree bench in the foyer, which was still empty because they hadn't decided yet what to put there. Thoughts of a pendulum clock vanished. "We'll put them there. A place of honor."

"And everyone will know this is our house," Alex said softly, "all four of us."

               ***November 26, 2024***

"So much better than last year!" Olivia announced as she burst out of the car at the outlet mall. She spun around in her open jacket, face to the sun, then beamed at Randall, "It was rainy last year. Mama had to stay in the car with Bandit because it was cold."

They were on the first leg of what originally had been Bobby's tradition, begun after he'd met his Aunt Agnes, heading to Michigan for Thanksgiving. They had already checked into the Bridgeton Suites in York, Pennsylvania, settled Bandit--with the television left on, of course--and Sam in the motel room, had an early lunch, and now were wandering some of the same places in nearby Lancaster as they had the previous year without the restrictions of pouring rain. Of course, Bobby and Olivia, with Randall also chiming in, wanted to stop at the book outlet they'd found last year.

Randall, ironically, had already been distracted from the book outlet, which was the last store of the strip outlet mall, because, across a small swath of overgrown and swaying weedy brown grass next to the mall complex, was a five-foot-tall wooden fence surrounding a farmer's field. He seemed fascinated by a man at work there.

"Hou la, Papa, is that the same farmer as last year?" Olivia asked, amazed enough to lapse into French slang, and the family as a whole strolled to the fence.

"Very possible," Bobby said, leaning on the sturdy horizontal upper rail and watching the straw-hatted man in a long-sleeved blue flannel shirt and dark pants riding a small cultivator behind two dapple-grey plowhorses.

"Why's he using horses? Did his tractor break down?" Randall asked.

"He's Amish," Olivia told him. "They don't use modern equipment. They farm the way their ancestors did."

"Why?"

"Because they prefer to keep the old ways," Bobby explained, watching the farmer halt the horses before taking a long drink out of a glass bottle stored on the platform of the cultivator next to a wooden bucket. Then he hopped off the cultivator, picked up the bucket, and gave each horse a small swallow of water, then returned it to its place and continued working. "Their religion teaches them to live simply and follow the customs of their forefathers."

"But what if they don't want to?" Randall asked, curling his nose at the acrid smell of manure scattered in lumps across the field, which the farmer was harrowing deep into the soil to enrich it for the next growing season.

"No one forces them to be there--well, maybe there's some family pressure. But they're allowed to choose," Alex said. "When they're teenagers, they're allowed a season to decide if they want to stay on the family farm or if they want to join 'the English.'"

"That's what they call people who aren't Amish," Bobby continued. "It's a big decision for them because it decides their future. But I've read that eighty percent of the teens eventually decide to live traditionally."

"But it smells bad," he protested.

"That's the way horses smell." Olivia shrugged. "They can't help it. Besides, horses are nice and jolly fun to ride. C'mon, let's go see the books!"

"You...k-know how to ride a horse?" Randall asked in awe as they headed for the door.

"Of course!" Olivia said as if it were an everyday thing. "Maybe Sandy will let us ride Bessie when we get to the farm."

"I can't ride a horse!"

Alex observed, "You don't have to ride a horse. But you can do anything you want to do."

. . . . .

Bobby had just closed the door to their bedroom. Randall only waited a minute before whispering, "'Livia-"

"What?" she answered with a yawn. "Remember what Papa said."

"We need your help," Bobby confided as he closed Eight Cousins for the night. "Tomorrow will be a long day of driving for your mother and me, and it'll be raining as well. Probably twelve hours total with stops for lunch and bathroom breaks. I know you'll be antsy back there, but if you can stay patient and help take care of Bandit, it will be a big help."

"We'll try, Papa," Olivia had promised.

"No kicking the seat," Bobby reminded Randall with a tousle of his hair. "And I know from experience that's a hard one to keep."

"I know," Randall whispered, "but...do you think she'll like me?"

Olivia almost burst out laughing but clapped her hand over her mouth so that all that emerged was a smothered snort. "I'm sorry, Randall. That sounded mean. But, pinky swear, I said the same thing last year!"

"But you were adopted," he hissed.

"Not officially. Not yet. And I was from France and talked like Maman." The room was only dimly lit by a low-lumen nightlight so they could trek to the bathroom safely and the thin line of the door crack, but even in the dimness, Randall could see Olivia's eyes shine. "Aunt Agnes is totally sick, I swear. And so are Sandy, Paul, and Molly, and even the dog, Micah. Papa says they're training a puppy to take over for Micah when he gets too stiff to herd the sheep. And Aunt Agnes promised me last year that she would name a ewe lamb after me, and we get to meet her."

"Do you think she would name a boy sheep after me?"

Olivia giggled. "I don't think you want one named after you, Randall."

"Why not?"

"Because unless you're the ram or the bellwether, all the male sheep become lamb chops!"

"Bedtime!" Alex reminded sternly through a crack in the door, but she was smiling as she did.

Wednesday was a long day, and four Gorens, a collie, and a budgie were well sick of the road as darkness fell. The rain had been steady and unrelenting; there had been a traffic accident west of Pittsburgh and a mystery traffic jam just south of Cleveland, and it looked like clear sailing until they reached Toledo and holiday traffic. While inching through bumper-to-bumper traffic, Bobby filled time by telling them facts about Thanksgiving, including how it was originally considered a winter holiday and, in Christmas-adverse colonial New England, a chance to reunite with family. They sang "Over the River and Through the Wood," and he mentioned another famous Thanksgiving song, "We Gather Together." Olivia, the professed atheist, was surprised to find out there were different lyrics depending on whether you were Catholic or Protestant.

Lunch had been delicious, eaten at a build-your-own hamburger place where a waiter had covertly seated them in a discreet corner so they could keep Bandit in his carry box with them; both kids had collected postcards at the various state welcome centers; and they had played car games for a while, but by sundown, everyone was drooping, and Olivia cheered, "Huzzah! Finally!" as they turned in the farm gates and the blazing lights of the house came into view. The mellow old farmhouse was decorated at both entrances with pumpkins and cornstalks and artificial autumn leaf garlands and strung with several hundred lights in dark red, orange, and gold like the leaves.

Micah came bounding to meet them, barking, with a half-grown black-and-white border collie next to him ("Pip," he was called), and the Pilot began to sway with eighty pounds of Sam bouncing in the back. Bandit, whose constant song had quieted once it got dark, let out a volley of alarmed chirps.

Molly Fry, her brother/cousin Paul, and their father Sandy all emerged from the back door in heavy jackets, making way for Aunt Agnes, bundled in a puffy jacket and a green pom-pom hat, who limped out with the help of a cane. Her right foot was bound up in a walking boot.

Bobby hit the brakes, shifted into park, and popped out of the car so fast that Alex said later he must have had crime scene flashbacks; he only barked, "We'll come up there, auntie--wait there! What happened to your foot?"

Agnes Fry retorted just as loudly, "Don't you dare treat me as an invalid, Robert Oliver Goren! I was silly enough to twist an ankle on the way to the barn yesterday morning, but I'm not wrapping myself in cotton wool for the likes of you!"

Curly-haired graduate student Molly, laughing at her pugnacious great-aunt, skirted the elderly woman as she dignifiedly made her way down the three porch steps and took Bandit's carry box from Alex's grateful handoff. "Let's get you inside, little guy. It's cold tonight. See you in a couple of minutes, Olivia and Randall!"

Bobby enfolded his aunt in a bear hug. "I guess we'll see who's more stubborn, Aunt Agnes."

The pom-pom hat tumbled off as Agnes popped her head up from her nephew's embrace. "Nothing doing, Bobby. I want to see my new nephew right now."

"See!" Olivia said to Randall happily. "Didn't I tell you?"

The evening was a warm, happy haze: warned of Randall's culinary bugaboos, Agnes had made a simple chicken stew with thigh meat, carrots, and celery, served with homemade biscuits and butter from the Diamante dairy farm down the road; dessert was chocolate peppermint cake with real whipped cream. Bandit sang happily from the front parlor watching the news. After supper and a hasty huddle initiated by Paul, they bundled up and went outside. Molly had shut off the porch lights and all but the front room lamp, so they were stumbling in relative darkness, guided by flashlights, the three collies gamboling around them, huffing and woofing.

"Here," said Paul, who was in his late thirties and taller than his widower father. The family sheep provided his living, hand-dyed Wool by Frys. "Stop. Turn off your flashlight, Bobby."

Randall emitted a startled grunt as the darkness enveloped them. Olivia, remembering the Grand Canyon, urged, "Look up, Randall." Then, with a giggle, "Not look at me, daftie. Look up!"

His head went up and back, and they could hear his breath hitch and gasp. "What...what..."

Olivia said enticingly, knowing the family was aware of Randall's passion for Star Trek from her blog, "It's where Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock explore." She pointed out the gossamer swath of light above them. "See, it's the Milky Way. Look at all the stars."

"What are their names? Where's Vulcan?" Randall panted, rotating to look at the sky from all angles.

"That's 40 Eridani A," Bobby said, having anticipated the question. "See Orion's belt--the three stars in a row? Just down and a little right is the Eridani system."

"And Orion, where the pirates are from, and they have green skin," Randall breathed.

Bobby squatted next to him and began to point out more stars. "See, there's the Big Dipper. The handle and the dipper itself. It's part of a larger constellation called Ursa Major, or the Great Bear."

Randall said in surprise, "Grandpa Nat talked about the Great Bear!"

Holding Alex's hand fast, Olivia said in delight, "Hou la, Mama, he does listen when we watch Molly of Denali!"

Bobby only grinned in the darkness and continued, "That's right. See the two stars at the outside edge of the bowl of the dipper? Follow them in a straight line--see the bright star the line leads to? It's Polaris--the North Star. It's a guiding star that's been used for navigation for thousands of years because it points due north. If you follow it, you get to the North Pole. And it's also the end of the handle of the Little Dipper--or the end of the long tail of Ursa Minor, the Little Bear."

He pointed out the square block with stars at the side. "That's Pegasus, the flying horse. And next to it are three stars you'll recognize from Star Trek: Deneb, Altair, and Vega."

"We're going down to the sheep shed," Olivia said after a while, with a sunny glance upward. "Come on, Randall."

"Deux secondes," he said absently, still staring upwards, and Bobby waved them onward. The pair walked into the sheep shed fifteen minutes later, Randall still looking dazed.

He slipped next to Alex in the shed. Olivia was in the pen with Paul, hugging a white sheep that, to the city family, looked like all the other white sheep, save for Paul having put a red bow on the ear of ewe Olivia. "Mom? Can someone be an astronomer and a profiler?"

Alex said, "I don't see why not."

Later, in bed, she murmured from the warm shelter of Bobby's arms, "Do you suppose we could get him a kids' telescope for Christmas?"

"I was thinking of a ticket to the observatory in New Haven," Bobby said, breathing in the apple scent of her hair, "but no reason that it can't be both."

Before she fell asleep, she heard him whisper, "You're my Polaris, Eames."

Agnes Fry handed her nephew a stack of plates, dessert plates, bread plates, and folded napkins. "Sandy already put the leaves in the dining room table. You go set it. All this first, then the silverware."

Bobby silently counted the stacks. "There are eleven plates here, Auntie. Who else is invited? Some of the neighbors?"

Agnes, still needing the cane, said briskly, "No, no, not neighbors. Do set the table, Bobby."

He took three steps toward the dining room, then wheeled. "Some of Andrea's family?" he asked, referring to Sandy's late wife.

"Will you...shoo?" was her impatient reply, and Bobby gave up and did as he was told, then returned to the kitchen to make the gravy for the turkey. Alex always joked that Bobby's gravies should be a separate food group.

The vintage kitchen with its gloss yellow paint, pale yellow tiling, and white cupboards was eventually filled with the scent of fresh roast turkey, cooked vegetables, and steamy mashed potatoes. The children wandered the room sniffing appreciatively and asking when it would be dinnertime, and Aunt Agnes, keeping a close eye on her cell phone, would say, "Just a bit longer." Just as they were ready to sit at the table to say grace--Olivia would be keeping her hands very primly under the table--the front doorbell rang. Agnes' eyes flashed to Alex, who arched an eyebrow at her, and then the older woman said briskly, "Molly, go answer the door; there's a lamb."

"Yes, Auntie." Molly was grinning as well.

Bobby gave her a sideways glance. "Eames, you're behind this."

Alex said, "No, you see-" and then she laughed. "Okay, maybe I was."

A voice boomed out, "Où est ma petite soeur?"

Olivia's eyes turned into saucers, then she jumped out of her chair so quickly Bobby had to catch it from tipping backward and pelted for the front door. "Laurent!"

She burst into French, then finished in English, "Come, come meet Randall!" and in a moment had marched back into the dining room with three adults in her wake, a handsome man in his early 30s with thick, wavy, very dark hair, one who Alex always said reminded her of 1960s film star Jean-Pierre Aumont, but with brilliant sapphire eyes which contrasted strikingly with his hair; a sweet-faced woman about his height and age with a round face and brown eyes the same shade as Alex's, framed with nearly ebony curling hair below her shoulder blades; and, at the very rear, a mischievous looking, almost elfin-faced man with bright auburn hair haloing his face, his nearly leaf-green eyes behind square wire-rimmed eyeglasses. The latter still wore a vintage hat pulled low over his face but tipped it off when Bobby noticed him.

"Just in case, Bob," Sebastian Anhouilh said as soberly as possible, "I have worn my fedora."

Bobby's response was a hearty laugh that made Olivia chortle aloud, and then quick introductions were made all around.

Alex, helping Noemie Pepin remove her ski jacket, finally asked Laurent, "How is the newest employee at Énergies du Bouclier?"

"He is doing well for a man who now must truly work for a living," Laurent Pepin chuckled. "There are rumors that a promotion is in my future and a commensurate raise. Noemie and I are 'making do,' as you say, thanks to my father."

"And Madame?" asked Olivia, with her eyebrows narrowed, referring to his autocratic mother, who, thanks to the foresight of Olivia's mother, had not become her guardian.

"France wants her back. Maman does not wish to go--for obvious reasons--and the Swiss say not to bother them, that Monsieur Macron has no dominion over them. Stalemate." He smiled. "Surely we can find something more pleasant to talk about. I wish to shake hands with the famous Randall I read so much about in my sister's blog."

Randall, standing next to his chair, appeared flustered. "That's me, sir."

"'Sir'?" Laurent joked, reaching across the table. "Surely not, since I work for a living."

"Sir?" was the baffled reply.

"Pouf, I make a silly joke," and Randall shook Laurent's hand gravely, finding his twinkling eyes easy to meet. "I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur Shaw."

Olivia giggled, and Randall finally grinned. "I'm pleased to meet you, too, Monsieur Pepin."

Agnes Fry clapped her hands. "Dinner's ready, everyone! Molly made place cards, so everyone take your seats, please. Bobby, if you will help me with the turkey while Sandy and I-"

"Now, now, wait," Laurent protested. "We are the guests, and you have prepared the feast. I shall help with the turkey."

"I have dibs," Bobby said firmly.

"Then we will both go," Laurent said, eyeing him stubbornly, and both men exited the dining room.

"I think I shall follow," said Anouilh with a grin.

"Well, then, Sandy," Agnes said smartly. "Let's let the men do it."

"Suits me," replied her son, a slim, rangy man with grey hair who was Bobby's age. "I was up at five feeding the stock, so I'm happy to be served!" He held out a chair for his mother, and Randall, following his lead, pulled out one for Alex and then for Olivia. The latter curtsied back at him and, laughing, he bowed before taking his seat.

Bobby triumphantly carried in the turkey, followed by Laurent holding big bowls of mashed potatoes and Alex's maple-glazed carrots. Anouilh had snagged the kitchen cart and brought in the rest of the feast: the gravy, Mexican street corn, chestnut dressing and celery stuffing, a plate of black and green olives with celery sticks, marinated mushrooms, green bean casserole, and homemade and canned cranberry sauce.

"Leave the turkey in front of you, Robert," Agnes said. "You're in charge of carving."

"Yes, ma'am," Bobby said smugly, having already laid the carving knife, fork, and sharpening steel next to his plate.

When everything was in place, Aunt Agnes circled the table and poured a little white wine in the goblets at each place setting, with white grape juice for the children. Unexpectedly, Noemie said, "I'll have the juice as well, Madame."

"Pish. Call me Agnes, please. Certainly," and the juice was tipped into her glass. Alex made eye contact with the younger woman, and Noemie dimpled. Bobby tilted his head at her, and a smile played on his lips. Laurent had on such a smug expression that Olivia narrowed her brows watching the facial drama--until Noemie winked at her. "Something wrong, Tatine Mignon?"

"Aun- A baby? You're having a baby?"

"Yes," Noemie laughed. "We just found out yesterday. I'm due around St. Jean Baptiste Day."

"Randall!" Olivia squealed. "I'll be an auntie. And you an uncle."

"But I'm not related..."

"You are family by choice," Paul said firmly, reaching across the table to tap Randall's plate with his fork. "And that's just the same."

As soon as congratulations had gone around, Agnes rose from her chair at the head of the table. Bobby, Alex, Randall, Olivia, and Laurent were lined up at her left, and Sandy, Paul, Molly, Noemie, and Sebe Anouilh were to her right. "I'll try not to be too churchy for you, miss," she said, nodding at Olivia.

"It's all right," Olivia soberly replied. "I don't mind when it's you, Auntie."

"Then we'll sing grace," Agnes responded serenely, and in a strong voice began,

"For the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies,
for the love which from our birth
over and around us lies.

"Christ, our Lord, to you we raise
this, our hymn of grateful praise.

"For the wonder of each hour
of the day and of the night,
hill and vale and tree and flower,
sun and moon and stars of light.

"Christ, our Lord, to you we raise
this, our hymn of grateful praise."

"We saw the night part last night," Randall said shyly when they finished.

"Indeed we did. Now, one more thing," and she raised the wine goblet, to which they followed suit, "and then we can eat. But first, we remember the people who aren't with us today." Aunt Agnes looked down, swallowed, and said, "Gardner Spencer Fry. Horace Vernon Goren."

Sandy's eyes were moist. "Andrea Mary Seckinger Fry."

Molly said softly, "Helena Marie Dumire."

Noemie nodded, "Marielle Cohen Auerbach, my maman."

Bobby took a deep breath. "William Alan Goren. Frances Beatriz Acevedo Goren. Francis Xavier Goren."

"John Patrick Eames Senior. Elizabeth Kathleen Cochran Eames. Joseph Liam Dutton." Alex took her turn with an introspective face, then noticed the tears dribbling down Randall's cheeks and put her arm around him as he stammered, "R-Rosalind C-Celia Troyer Sh-Shaw."

Olivia's voice sounded choked. "Madeleine Haynes. Marcel Allard Gérard Pepin."

Laurent whispered, "Très bien, petite soeur."

"And one more," Bobby added, clinking his goblet against Alex's. "Bruno Vincenzo Volpe."

"On this Thanksgiving Day, we remember you," Aunt Agnes finished, and they clinked glasses and drank their toast.

"Now," Bobby said a little more naturally when everyone had collected themselves, rasping the carving knife one last time against the steel, "who wants what?"

"I want a wing!" Olivia caroled, and dinner had officially begun.

The table was quiet as they finished dessert: a choice of pumpkin pie, apple pie, mince pie, pumpkin bread, brownies, and chocolate peppermint pudding, with homemade whipped cream for anyone who thought they could fit one more atom of food in their stomachs. Bobby finally sat back, groaning.

"I think I may have hurt myself," Sandy said with a grin, massaging his belly.

"Who's walking with me?" Alex asked.

"Me!" Olivia piped up. "Do you feel like a Macy's balloon again, Mama?"

"More like a Macy's float," Molly giggled. "I'm in."

Randall licked the last vestiges of whipped cream from his lower lip, then said, "Mom, may I be excused for a moment?"

Alex was amused at the question. "Yes, little gentleman."

Randall cocked his head at her. "That's what the kids say on black-and-white TV."

"I know. And it's very polite. Thank you."

They figured he was using the bathroom, but he merely disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a package wrapped in red tissue paper, which he presented to Olivia before sitting back down. "This is from Kenny."

Olivia blinked at him. "Our Kenny? Kenny Shepherd?"

Randall nodded. "He said you should open it after Thanksgiving dinner."

"What is it?" The package was extremely light and completely flat.

"I don't know. He gave it to me a week after you had the sad day. Remember when you felt bad that you didn't have a handprint turkey? I told him the story, and he didn't know what a handprint turkey was, so I showed him a YouTube video. He felt bad and was sorry you were sad. Then he gave me this last Friday. He said his mother and his little sister helped him. Her name's Ivy, you know."

"I didn't know Kenny had a sister," Alex commented.

Randall nodded. "Didn't I mention it? Kenny and Ivy--his sister--are both adopted. She's special needs, too. She has spine...spine something."

"Spina bifida?" Bobby asked.

"That. She's five years old and walks with crutches."

Olivia delicately parted the tissue paper, finding a note written in neat cursive. Puzzled, she read aloud, "Dear Olivia, Kenny asked Ivy and me if we could make this for you. She said you were sad because you'd never done one when you were Ivy's age. I know it's not quite the same, so I thought you would like to draw in the extra parts yourself. Sincerely, Karen Shepherd."

She unfolded the printer paper covering the precious item on a sheet of butcher paper.

"It's a handprint turkey like mine!" Randall said, astonished. "The feather colors are in a different order, and it's the left hand because Kenny..."

"...knows I'm left-handed." Olivia's voice was a whisper.

Molly rose from her seat to check out the item, and her face lit with recognition. "We did those when I was a little girl in first grade! Remember, Auntie?"

"Remember? You and first grade seem like yesterday. I still have yours," Aunt Agnes said sentimentally. "It's in the attic somewhere."

"Let's finish it!" Molly with excitement, as if nineteen years had dropped away. "I have Sharpies in my room!" She pelted up the stairs and returned with a red and a black Sharpie, which she handed to Olivia. With precise movements, Olivia marked a round, black eye on the brown thumb representing the turkey's neck and head, then drew a sharp beak and blacked it in. Finally, she took the red Sharpie and made an upside-down comma under the beak for the turkey's wattle.

When she took up the black Sharpie again, it was in her non-dominant hand, and she produced a tipsy "OLIVIA" underneath.

"I'll have to thank Kenny when we get back to school," she said evenly, but they could see she was brimming with emotion.

"Your very own Thanksgiving icon," Bobby said fondly, rubbing between her shoulder blades.

"It's a brill icon. But you know..." and her eyes drifted from one face to another around the Thanksgiving table and then rested on Randall. "The real thing's even better."