"Already has. Which reminds me, I want to make sure we get gender molding into this segment. How society, and parents, continue stereotypes by buying this kind of thing for boys" — she waved the GI Joe—"and this sort of thing for girls." She nudged a Fisher-Price oven with her foot.

"Ballet shoes for girls, football cleats for boys."

"Which leads to girls shaking pom-poms on the sidelines while boys make touchdowns."

"Which," Deanna continued, "leads to men making corporate decisions and women serving coffee."

"God, am I going to screw this kid up?" Fran levered herself out of the chair. The fact that she waddled made her nervous pacing both comic and sweet. "I shouldn't have done this. We should have practiced on a puppy first. I'm going to be responsible for another human being, and I haven't even started a college fund."

Over the past few weeks, Deanna had become used to Fran's outbursts. She sat back and smiled. "Hormones bouncing again?"

"You bet. I'm going to go find Simon and check on last week's ratings — and pretend I'm a normal, sane human being."

"Then go home," Deanna insisted. "Eat a bag of cookies and watch an old movie on cable."

"Okay. I'll send Jeff in to pick up the toys and move them down to the set."

Alone, Deanna sat back and closed her eyes. It wasn't only Fran who was on edge these days. The entire staff was running on nerves. In six weeks, Deanna's Hour would either be re-signed with Delacort, or they would all be out of a job.

The ratings had been inching up, but was it enough? She knew she was putting everything she had into the show itself, and everything she could squeeze out into the public relations and press events Loren insisted on. But was that enough?

The trial run was almost over, and if Delacort decided to dump them…

Restless, she rose and turned to face the window. She wondered if Angela had ever stood there and worried, agonized over something as basic as a single ratings point. Had she felt the responsibility weigh so heavily on her shoulders — for the show, for the staff, for the advertisers? Is that why she'd become so hard? Deanna rolled her tensed shoulders.

It wouldn't simply be her career crumbling if the show was axed, she thought. There were six other people who had their time and energy and, yes, their egos, invested. Six other people who had families, mortgages, car payments, dentist bills.

"Deanna?"

"Yes, Jeff. We need to get these toys down to the…" She trailed off as she turned and spotted a seven-foot plastic spruce. "Where in the world did you get that?"

"I, ah, liberated it from a storeroom." Jeff stepped out from behind the tree. His cheeks were flushed from both nerves and exertion. His glasses slid slowly down the bridge of his nose. His boyishness was endearing. "I thought you might like it."

Laughing, she examined the tree. It was pretty pathetic, with its bent plastic boughs and virulent green color no one would mistake for natural. She looked at Jeff's grinning face, and laughed again. "It's exactly what I need. Let's put it in front of the window."

"It looked kind of lonely down there." Jeff centered it carefully in front of the wide pane. "I figured with some decorations…"

"Liberated."

He shrugged. "There's stuff in this building nobody's used — or seen — for years. Some lights, some balls, it'll look fine."

"And plenty of yellow ribbons," she said, thinking of Finn. "Thanks, Jeff."

"Everything's going to be okay, Deanna." He put a hand on her shoulder, gave it a quick, shy squeeze. "Don't worry so much."

"You're right." She pressed her hand on top of his. "Absolutely right. Let's get the rest of the crew in here and decorate this baby."


Deanna worked throughout the holidays with the plastic tree glowing behind her. By juggling appointments and putting in three eighteen-hour days, she made time for a frantic, twenty-four-hour trip home over Christmas. She returned to Chicago's bitter cold on the last plane on Boxing Day.

Loaded down with luggage, gifts and tins of cookies from Topeka, she unlocked her apartment. The first thing she saw was the plain white envelope on the rug, just inside. Uneasy, she set her bags aside. It didn't surprise her to find a single sheet in the envelope, or to see the bold red type.


Merry Christmas, Deanna.

I love watching you every day. I love watching you.

I love you.


Weird, she mused, but harmless considering some of the bizarre mail that had come her way since August. She stuffed the note in her pocket, and she'd barely flipped the lock back in place when a knock sounded on the other side of the door. She tugged off her wool cap with one hand, opened the door with the other.

"Marshall."

His Burberry coat was neatly folded over his arm. "Deanna, hasn't this gone on long enough? You haven't answered any of my calls."

"There's nothing going on at all. Marshall, I just this minute got back into town. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm not in the mood for a civilized discussion."

"If I can swallow my pride enough to come here, the least you can do is ask me in."

"Your pride?" She felt her temper rise. A bad sign, she knew, when only a few words had been exchanged. "Fine. Come in."

He glanced at her bags as he stepped through the door. "You went home for Christmas, then?"

"That's right."

He laid his coat over the back of a chair. "And your family's well?"

"Hale and hearty, Marshall, and I'm not in the mood for small talk. If you have something to say, say it."

"I don't believe this is something we can resolve until we sit down and talk it through." He gestured to the sofa. "Please."

She shrugged out of her coat and took a chair instead. She linked her hands firmly in her lap and waited.

"The fact that you're still angry with me proves that there's an emotional investment between us." He sat, resting his hands on his knees. "I realized that trying to resolve things right after the incident was a mistake."

"The incident? Is that what we're calling it?"

"Because," he continued, calmly, "emotions, on both sides, were running too close to the surface, making it difficult to compromise and vent constructively."

"I rarely vent constructively." She smiled then, but her eyes were hot. "I don't suppose we got to know each other well enough for you to realize that under certain circumstances, I have a nasty temper."

"I understand." He was pleased, very pleased that they were communicating again. "You see, Deanna, I believe part of our difficulties stemmed from the fact that we didn't know each other as well as we should have. We share the blame there, but it's a very human, very natural inclination to show only your best sides when developing a relationship."

She had to take a deep breath, had to school herself to remain seated when the urge to spring up and strike out was churning inside her. "You want to share the blame for that, fine — particularly since I have no intention of ever moving beyond that stage with you."

"Deanna. If you'll be honest, you'll admit that we were creating something special between us." As a good therapist, he kept his eyes steady on hers, his voice mild and soothing. "A meeting of intellects, of tastes."

"Oh, I think our meeting of intellects and tastes took a sharp division when I walked in and found you and Angela groping each other. Tell me, Marshall, did you have the brochures for our proposed Hawaiian tryst in your jacket pocket at the time?"

His color rose. "I have apologized repeatedly for that lapse."

"Now it's a lapse. Before it was an incident. Let me give you my term for it, Marshall. I call it a betrayal, a betrayal by two people I admired and cared for. Deliberate on Angela's side, and pathetic on yours."

The muscle in his jaw began to twitch. "You and I had not fully committed to each other, sexually or emotionally."

"You're saying that if I'd gone to bed with you, it wouldn't have happened? I'm not buying it." She sprang to her feet. "I'm not sharing the blame for this one, pal. You're the one who thought with your glands. So take my advice, doctor, and get the hell out of my house. I want you to stay away from me. I don't want you knocking at my door. I don't want to hear your voice on the phone. And I don't want any more calls in the middle of the damn night where you can't even drum up the guts to speak."

He stood, standing stiffly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Her cheeks were flaming.

"I only know that I want to make things right. My eyes have been opened during these months since you cut me out of your life, Deanna. I know you're the only woman who can make me happy."

"Then you're in for a sad life. I'm not available, and I'm not interested."

"There's someone else." He stepped forward, gripping her forearms before she could jerk away. "You can speak of betrayal when you so casually, so easily move from me to someone else."

"Yes, there's someone else, Marshall. There's me. Now take your hands off me."

"Let me remind you what we had," he murmured, pulling her against him. "Let me show you the way it could be."

The old fear returned, making her tremble as she fought free of his grip. Struggling for air, she braced herself against the chair. Cornered, she was cruel. "You know what would make an interesting topic for my show, Marshall? Try this on. Respected family counselors who harass women they've dated as well as seducing underage girls." She wrapped her arms tight around her body as his color drained. "Yes, I know all about it. A child, Marshall? Can you imagine how that revolts me? The woman you were seeing while you were supposedly developing our relationship is small change compared to that. Angela sent me a little package before she left for New York."