She froze; the closing door flapped again and smacked her on the bottom. She fumbled the tray, dropped it. Food flew onto her blue-and-yellow flowered carpet. He still couldn’t move. What a fool he must look like standing there, with his champagne glass in midair, his mouth open while the hostess spilled her food all over the carpet.

There were quick movements from guests on couches and chairs, cursing from the maid who came out of the kitchen, and laughter from Amy—all of which covered his complete and utter stupidity in standing like a frozen statue.

He recovered and placed his empty champagne glass on a table. He reached the scattered food in time to pick up only one squashed sausage, the job already accomplished by Amy and much faster, obviously more agile guests.

As he crouched down on the carpet, he found himself staring at her face-to-face.

“Hi, Nick.”

“Hey, Ame.”

“I’m smooth, aren’t I? The perfect Christmas hostess.” She picked up the last piece of food and stood, looked down at him.

He stood up and held out the crumpled appetizer. “I don’t like these things, anyway.”

She smiled. Thank God, she smiled. “Neither do I. I always wonder who actually eats them, but they’re always gone.”

He held up his hands. “I know it was not me.”

She looked around the room. “I think Eliza and Lisbeth are looking for you. Plus the entire OWP, who are only here to see you.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late. . . . I need to talk to you.”

She smiled, but it was not a smile as much as a nervous shake of her lower lip against her teeth. “Shoot,” she said.

Nick looked around the room, which had resumed its previous rhythm. “Not here, outside maybe—is there somewhere?”

“If this is about Oystertip, I can’t discuss it tonight. Rev already embarrassed the hell out of me with Phil’s boss, Phil is pissed and I’m not in the mood to talk about it.”

“No, this is about us.”

“No way, Nick. Please don’t do this. This is my house, my Christmas party.”

He leaned closer, used all his willpower not to touch her.

“It’s about the telegrams.”

Amy glanced around the room, waved at someone he didn’t turn to see, as it didn’t matter at all to him who else was there.

“Please just mingle, Nick. Have a glass of wine. Come meet my friends.” She spoke through clenched teeth.

The door behind them opened. He wanted to carry her to another room, outside, another house—damn—another state where he could pull the papers from his pocket; someplace where a door did not open.

Carol Anne, like the ghost of Christmas protection, appeared in the doorway. “Oh, Ame, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” She glared at Nick.