Phil turned around and stared at her. “I don’t ask you to help me with my job.”

“What?” An uncharacteristic yelp came from the well of her disappointment. “Ask me to help you with your job? No, you just ask me to do everything else, so you can do your job. This . . . this I wanted us to do together.”

“Amy, calm down. Don’t I take care of everything for you?”

“It’s not just about taking care of everything, Phil. This time it’s about caring about what I care about.”

She pushed the swinging door and marched into the living room. She wasn’t sure where to go, other than her office. She’d told the OWP the good news already—how she’d found out where the buyer’s accounts were, how she’d deliver the precious information. Now she had to call them and tell them—tell Nick that her husband was unwilling to help.

She sat down at her desk and dropped her head onto the mahogany. Her heart ached with the once-rising hope that plummeted, too quickly, to discontent.

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

The house smelled of pine and cedar. Green boughs hung from the banister, the fireplace, each doorway. Ribbons Amy had made for the art festival, then bought back, hung from every available knob or bend in the home. Candlelight flickered in uneven patterns on the walls. A nativity scene was on the hall table, surrounded by real hay. Because baby Jesus had gone missing at least four Christmases ago, a peanut with eyes and a nose in black marker lay in the cradle. Only two of the three wise men had surfaced this year; they both bowed to the peanut.

Extravagant Christmas decorations filled the halls and rooms of Amy’s home for the annual open house. She’d found a beautiful pattern for Christmas stockings and pulled out her sewing machine to copy them. She’d made too many—there were enough stockings for eleven children and some pets hung around the house. She would offer them as party favors tonight to those who brought gifts.

She checked the house one more time. God, she loved it. She pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and almost knocked over white-aproned Celia, the maid who came once a month and also assisted with entertaining.

Amy hugged Celia. “We all set?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, I’m going to get dressed. I’ll be out shortly to check on things.” Nervous energy thrummed through her body. Thanksgiving had gone smoothly, as long as she didn’t talk about Oystertip and as long as she stayed away in both word and deed from the subject of Nick Lowry. But now the Christmas party was here and certain things couldn’t be avoided.