“Reckon you won’t have trouble getting rid of candy.” The kids had enjoyed the party the Rangers had thrown, with Santa Claus, cartoons, and gobs of candy mailed from the States. Since sweets were heavily rationed in Britain, the children were thrilled.

Clay picked up a brown-paper parcel from Leah, postmarked November 1 and labeled “Don’t open until Christmas.” He’d obeyed and hauled it over on the Queen Elizabeth.

Inside lay an olive drab scarf. He looped it around his neck and tossed one end over his shoulder. In her note Leah stressed that she’d purchased the yarn from her library earnings. When would she feel comfortable spending his money—their money?

She’d also written him a Christmas poem, decorated around the edges with crayon bells and candles and angels and mangers, compliments of the Bellamy girls.

Light on the snow, through a Child, in our hearts,

On the hearth, in his words, in ours.

Song in the bells, by the Host, on our lips,

Ringing bright, winging high, bringing hope.

Life in a tree, through the Cross, in our souls,

Ever green, evermore, ever His.

My, how he preferred that to a necktie. In the hands of his dreamy wife, words were more than just playthings.

He found the next letter, dated November 15. It wasn’t like her to leave long gaps between letters. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?

Clay ripped open the envelope. Was something wrong?

Dear Clay,

This is a difficult letter to write. You have given me your good name, your money, and your family. You’ve also given me your kindness, trust, and respect. With this letter I am prepared to lose many, if not all, of these.

Clay’s eyes hazed over. Had she cheated on him? Had she found someone else and cheated on him? They might not be in love, but their vows meant something, didn’t they?

He bolted to standing. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Sounds good.”

“By myself. See you later.” He marched out, tossed a wave to elderly Mrs. Trevithick in the kitchen, and jogged downstairs from the flat above the fish-and-chips shop.

He ran alongside the Bude Canal, past holiday cottages and tourist shops. The locals were used to seeing Rangers running. Even if it was Christmas Day.

Clay ran faster, hating himself for getting fooled by another woman—and hating himself for thinking the worst of Leah before he had the facts.

He crossed the footbridge over the lock at the end of the canal and jogged onto the beach. The tide was way out, and Clay sank to his knees on the sand under the overcast sky. Waves crashed before him, and low green bluffs curled around the beach.

“Lord, please let me be wrong.” He opened Leah’s letter again.