Qwilleran looked at it. The title was Ossian and the Ossianic Literature, and it was written by A. Nutt. "I'll take it," he said, thinking he might give it to Arch Riker for a gag. As he left the store, he called out, "merry Christmas, Edd! When I die, I'm leaving you all my old books."
"I'll be the first to go," the old man said earnestly, "and I'm leaving you my whole store. It's written in my will."
He mentioned his purchase to Polly Duncan that evening. They met at her place for their traditional Christmas Eve together. "I bought a book on Ossian today at Eddington's. The author was someone by the name of Nutt. Wasn't there a scandal concerning Ossian in Samuel Johnson's time?"
"Yes, and quite a controversy," she said. "An eighteenth-century poet claimed to have found the third-century poems of Ossian. Dr. Johnson said it was a hoax."
After serving a low-fat supper, the offered Qwilleran a choice of pumpkin pie or fruitcake with a scoop of frozen yogurt.
"Is there any law against having both?" he asked.
"Qwill, dear, I knew you'd say that !... By the way, Lynette has been chiding me for calling you `dear'. She says it's old-fashioned."
"You're the only one in my whole life who's ever called me that, and I like it! You can quote me to your sister-in-law. For someone who hasn't had a love affair for twenty years, she hardly qualifies as an authority on affectionate appellations." They listened to carols by Swiss bell-ringers and French choirs. He read Dickens's account of the Cratchits' Christmas dinner. She read Whittier's SnowBound. In every way it was an enjoyable evening, unmarred by any hostility from Bootsie. (The husky male Siamese, who considered Qwilleran a rival for Polly's affection, had been sequestered in the basement.) Perhaps the occasion was made more poignant by Polly's recent crisis, when they feared they might never have another Christmas Eve together. The blissful evening ended only when the banging on the basement door became insufferable.
On Christmas morning Qwilleran's telephone rang frequently as friends called to thank him for their gift baskets. One of them was a fun-loving, gray-haired grandmother: Celia Robinson. She was his neighbor when he lived in the barn and she supplied meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, and other home-cooked fare that he could keep in the freezer.
"Merry Christmas, Chief! Thank you for the goodies! And Wrigley thanks you for the gourmet sardines. He sends greetings to Koko and Yum Yum. Are they having a good Christmas?"
"They had some of your meatloaf, and that made their day." This mild quip occasioned a burst of merry laughter.
"Guess what, Chief!" She called him "Chief" for reasons that only he and she understood. "My grandson is here for the holidays."
"Clayton?" He knew about the fourteen-year-old science and math whiz who lived on a farm in Illinois.
"I picked him up at the airport yesterday afternoon. Mr. O'Dell came to supper, and we all opened presents and had a good time. Then we floodlighted the yard and built a big snowman. Today Clayton went to your barn on snowshoes and checked it out. Everything's okay. No damage. Today we're having dinner with Virginia Alstock's family. Her kids are about Clayton's age."
While she was talking, Qwilleran was thinking. He had never met the fourteen- year-old science and math whiz who had helped solve the Euphonia Gage case in Florida, and he felt obliged to extend some form of hospitality, although he was not fond of the underage bracket. He said, "Would your grandson like to go along with me on an assignment for the paper?"
"Oh, Chief! He'd love it! He's outside now, using the snowblower, but I'll tell him when he comes in. He'll be thrilled! It might change his life! He might decide to be a newspaperman!"
"Tell him to stick with cybernetics. It pays better. Does he have a camera?"
"Yes A new one his dad gave him for Christmas. And he has the little tape recorder he used in Florida."
"Good! He can pose as my photographer. Tell him to pick up a roll of film, and I'll pay for it. Meanwhile, I'll set up an interview and call you back."
"Shall I cut his hair?" Celia asked.
"Not necessary," Qwilleran said. "Photographers aren't expected to look too civilized."
Her laughter was still resounding as they hung up.
Then Polly called to discuss how they should dress for dinner.
"Arch will be wearing his twenty- year-old red wool shirt," Qwilleran said, "so I suggest we go in sweaters."
Polly's staff had given her a white sweater embroidered with red cardinals and green holly - livelier than her usual garb, but Polly herself was livelier since her surgery. Qwilleran had a new sweater, ordered from Chicago, that looked like an Oriental rug - high style for a man whose peers Down Below used to call a lovable slob.
"I'll pick you up at one o'clock," he said. "Bundle up, and we'll walk. It isn't windy."
"Do you know who's just moved into the unit next to you, Qwill?"
"A husky man. Drives a large van."
"That's Wetherby Goode!"
"No! What did I do to deserve that clown for a neighbor?"
"Do I detect inter-media jealousy?" she said, teasing gently. "Most radio listeners think he's entertaining. It's not all about dew point and barometric pressure. One windy day he sang `Rockabye Baby.' After an ice storm he quoted from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. One of his listeners had sent it in: The ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around. People are afraid he'll run out of quotes."
"Well, if you have to have a gimmick with your weather, I guess that's as good as any," Qwilleran acknowledged. "Who lives next to you?"
"The Cavendish sisters, retired teachers, very quiet."
At one o'clock they started out for the Riker condo in Building Two, muffled in down jackets, scarfs, woolly hats, mittens, and boots. They walked hand-in- hand as they had done during her first post-surgery outings. Now it has become a pleasant custom to both of them; to observers it was romantic grist for the gossip mill.
Polly had a red wool scarf, six feet long, wrapped around her chin and ears and trailing front and back. "A present from Lynette," she said.
"What did you give her?"
"A set of violet-scented soap, bath oil, and cologne. Violet is all she ever wears."
"I always wondered what that aroma was on Pleasant Street. I thought it was furniture polish."
"Oh, Qwill, you're wicked! Violet is a lovely scent. To simplify my Christmas shopping I mailed the same thing to my sister in Cincinnati, and she phoned this morning to say how much she liked it."
"Do people on your gift list ever call to say they hate what you gave them?"
"Now you're being the cynical journalist!"
Arriving at their destination, they were greeted at the door by a committee of three: the beaming host in a red wool shirt, the plump and pretty hostess in a chef's apron, and their cat in his usual tuxedo with white shirt-front and spats. Toulouse looked slyly satisfied with his lot, like an alley-smart stray who has found a home with the food writer of a newspaper. The two women hugged, and each told the other she looked wonderful. The men, friends since childhood, had only to make eye contact to express all that needed to be said.
There was a Scotch pine tree in the living room, trimmed like the one at their wedding the previous Christmas: White pearlescent ornaments, white doves, white streamers. The festively wrapped packages under the tree included those sent over by Polly and Qwilleran. The aromas were those of pine boughs, roasting turkey, and hot mulled cider.
Mildred removed her apron and joined the others around a low party table loaded with hot and cold hor d'oeuvres.
Polly said, "I always feel so secure when I come to dinner here. Mildred doesn't fuss in the kitchen; she doesn't expect anyone to help; and everything turns out perfectly: the hot foods hot and the cold foods cold."
"Hear! Hear!" Qwilleran said.
As the four busied themselves with the hors d'oeuvres, conversation came in short bites: