“I loathe gingerbread. What’s that white on it?”

“I guess some of the tissue I wrapped—”

“Hand it over.”

I went on rummaging while he munched. His eyes widened as the pile of edibles mounted up. An apple, two-thirds of a fruit-and-nut chocolate bar (large size), more gingerbread, little packets of sugar (with pictures of Alpine scenes) and artificial sweetener, and two tea bags. I’m sure it was the tea that wrung an involuntary exclamation of admiration from John.

“O goddess! Lady of the Sycamores, Golden One, who gives food to the hungry and water to the thirsty—”

“It’s nothing,” I said modestly. “I thought I had…Oh, here it is. I’m afraid it’s a little stale, and some of the jelly seems to have oozed out…. If you can find a container, we might have a spot of tea.”

John surged to his feet. “There are a few broken flower pots in the sacristy. And God knows there is plenty of snow.”

I don’t think he got all the encrusted dirt out of the pots, but as he said philosophically, it gave a spurious look of strength to the tea. He was fascinated by my hoard.

“Are you clairvoyant, or do you always prepare for blizzards?”

“I always carry artificial sweetener. Not all restaurants have it.”

“Then why the sugar?”

“I can’t resist the pretty pictures on the packets. I’m making a collection.”

John nodded gravely. “Of course. And the apple—the chocolate—?”

“Doesn’t everybody carry things like that around?”

He dropped his head onto his raised knees, sputtering with helpless laughter.

“Have another piece of gingerbread,” I said hospitably.

Life never ceases to amaze me. In my wildest dreams or nightmares, I had never expected to spend Christmas Eve in an abandoned church with an unreformed and unrepentant thief, dining on stale gingerbread and muddy tea. And I certainly would not have expected to enjoy it.

We talked for hours, huddled in front of the little fire, wrapped in cobwebby curtains and sipping tepid tea. He kissed the crumbs from my lips and held me close, for warmth, but we didn’t dare lie down for fear we’d fall asleep and the fire would go out. It was as if two opposing armies had declared a temporary truce. He talked more easily than he had ever done, and I tried to avoid questions that would raise the barriers again. We talked about everything under the sun—even the weather.

“I’ve never seen anything like that moving wall of snow.”

“And you are from the wintry wastes of Minnesota.”

“Have you?”

“Once. That’s why the sight of it petrified me. It was in the so-called mountains of western Virginia.”

“What were you doing in Virginia?”

I slipped then, but instead of clamming up, he answered readily, “Visiting a friend. I do have a few, you know. I was only a few feet from the lodge—bringing in wood—when it hit, but for a few memorable moments I didn’t think I was going to make it back.”