Gene handed us each a glass. I stuck my nose in it, inhaled deeply, pulled it away and gave the glass a swirl, stuck my nose back in.

“Get your nose in there, babe, like this,” I said to Carolyn. She did. “Now breathe it in. You smell that?”

“It smells like wine.”

“You bet it does. Wine with hints of black currant and smoke and a little pepper,” I said. Gene held his glass up and we all clinked and drank. I sighed. A long finish, slightly sweet.

Gene nodded, looked at his glass. “That’s what kills the ghost that haunts us all.”

“You stealing my lines now, you bastard?” I said.

“It was a good line.”

“Of course it is. Took me a hell of a long time to come up with it.”

There was enough food to feed four families. We sat and ate and drank and talked for nearly two hours. Carolyn and I cleaned while Gene split the leftovers in half and placed our portions in large freezer bags to take with us. I’d be eating well for days. Carolyn was beginning to slur. She continually giggled though nobody had said anything funny. We went into the living room. Carolyn sat in the recliner and closed her eyes with the glass of wine on her tummy and her hand around its stem. I removed it and set it on the coffee table. Five minutes later she was out cold.

“She’s a sweetheart,” Gene said. “Other than your anxiety on Friday, how’s it going?”

“It’s been good so far.”

“She has a big heart. I’m sure you know that’s a rare find these days.”

“I know.”

Gene reached beneath the coffee table and removed a wooden box, from which he took two cigars and handed one to me.

“Christ, Gene, you’re full of surprises today.”

“Don’t get used to it. I feel charitable around Christmas,” he said. I thought he was pretty damn charitable all the time but I didn’t say so, and instead lit the cigar and the two of us sat there smoking and drinking and relishing the fact that neither of us was alone on Christmas.

“How’s the book coming?”

“It’s not really. But I’m going to start again on the first of the year and write like hell until it’s done. A thousand words a day, every day.”

“Sounds like a plan. You think you can keep the pace?”

“I’m going to keep that pace even if it kills me. I think I can finish the first draft by March. I’ll write at work if I have to, which reminds me that I have to go back tomorrow. God, I hate work, and I’ve only been at it a month.”

“It doesn’t get any easier, kiddo. Keep on writing is my suggestion.”

“How long have you been retired?”