"A little," Ashley said. "Egret Pointe isn't paradise, but it's as close as you can get to it, I think. Most of the crime is kid stuff, and when you live in a small town like this you get found out pretty fast. Everybody knows who you are, who your parents and family are, and what you did."

"Drugs?" Kevin McGuire asked.

"The kids get what they want, but they aren't getting it in the village. It's probably at the nearby mall," Ashley said.

When they had finished dinner, which concluded with Ashley's homemade plum pudding, mince and apple pies, and an ice-cream bombe created from chocolate, vanilla, and raspberry sherbert, along with coffee and tea, they returned to the living room, where the tree's glow reflected itself in the window, and the fire crackled. Ashley went to the library table, now set with a tray of liqueurs, and offered her guests an after-dinner drink.

"That's a beautiful engagement ring you're wearing," Bride noted.

"Ryan had it made for me in Venice when we were there last month," Ashley said proudly. "He gave it to me on my birthday. And I got this necklace for Christmas." She held up the gold chain with the ruby heart.

"Did you like Venice?" Elisabetta asked.

"Very much," Ashley responded. "We stayed with the Contessa di Viscontini in her palazzo. It's gorgeous, and she was so nice to us. Ryan is restoring a family piece that she found in an Austrian village shop."

"I think you're very broad-minded," Deirdre said softly.

"Why on earth would you say that?" Ashley asked her.

"Staying with your husband's former mistress," Deirdre replied. "I'm afraid I couldn't be that sophisticated, Ashley." She smiled a small smile.

The room had grown deathly silent, but before Ashley could even consider what she could possibly say to her sister-in-law, Ryan was on his feet.

"Bianca di Viscontini was never my mistress," he shouted. "Jesus, Dee, I was sixteen the last time I saw her. I haven't seen or spoken with her in twenty-three years!"

"You fucked her, Ryan," Deirdre said calmly. "All summer long that year."

"Deirdre Mary Mulcahy!" Angelina exclaimed. "I don't want to hear language like that coming out of your mouth ever again. How dare you! And in front of your nephew to boot. Apologize to Ryan and his wife at once!"

"Why? Are you going to pretend it didn't happen, Ma?" Deirdre asked.

"The contessa seduced your brother that summer. She should not have done such a thing, but sometimes women do things they should not. She apologized, and sooner or later your brother was going to gain carnal knowledge. If the truth be known, and God only knows I never thought I should say this aloud, but if your brother was to know a woman-and I knew he wasn't going to be a priest-I am just as glad it was Bianca di Viscontini who initiated him. Italian women know how to love and be loved. But she was hardly Ryan's mistress, and as soon as you came and told me what was going on we left Venice." Angelina's color was high with a mixture of distress and anger.

Ryan was obviously furious. "Why the hell did you bring this up now?" he demanded of his sister. "Is it impossible for the Mulcahy sisters to get through a family gathering without starting a riot?"

"I told you that one day I would get back at you for Carlo," Deirdre said.

"Uncle Ryan had a mistress when he was sixteen?" young Michael O'Connor said admiringly. "How cool is that? Just wait till I tell the guys in my dorm."

Frankie began to giggle, and even the withering look her mother sent her couldn't stop her laughter.

"Who the hell is Carlo?" Ryan wanted to know. "And what the hell did I do to him? You are off your nut, Dee. You need serious help."

"You don't even remember, do you?" Deirdre said dramatically. "Carlo Fabiano was the love of my life, and you told Dad some filthy lies about him. If you hadn't I wouldn't have told Ma about you and the contessa. We wouldn't have left Venice! Maybe I would have never left Venice."

"Are you talking about the slimeball you dated that summer? The one who had bets all over Venice with his friends on how long it would take him to get into your pants?" Ryan snapped at his older sister, astounded. "I saved your stupid butt, sis."

"I didn't believe that story you told Dad then, and I don't believe it now. Carlo loved me. He wanted to marry me," Deirdre said angrily.

"You were to be a notch on his bedpost, stupida ," Ryan told her. "He had no intention of marrying you. Dad questioned him about that. Know what he said? He said he had to finish university first, and then he was going to law school. And his own father told Dad that the family was arranging a marriage for Carlo with a distant cousin when he finished his education. She was an heiress, and guess what? It all happened just the way we were told. The little prick is a big-shot lawyer in Milano, and is married to his fat, rich cousin. You only escaped with your virtue intact because one of the young men who knew Carlo and had met you thought Carlo was no gentleman, but that you were a proper virgin and needed to be protected. So he told me. And I told Dad. You don't have to thank me, Deirdre," Ryan finished sarcastically.

Deirdre's husband had listened to the exchange, surprised. "How soon after this love of your life did you marry me?" he asked her sarcastically.

Ashley had finally regained her composure. She was furious at Deirdre, and angrier at Ryan. "Robert," she said, addressing her brother-in-law, "I would prefer that you continue this discussion with your wife when you get home. Deirdre, if you don't shut your mouth this instant, I will throttle you myself. I will not have discord in my home, and especially at Christmas, which is supposed to be a season of peace."

"Wow," Michael O'Connor said softly. "Uncle Ryan got laid at sixteen."

Angelina threw up her hands in exasperation, but the boy's continued fascination with Ryan's teenage behavior caused enough laughter to break the tension in the room.

"Gimme a little more of that Madeira sherry," Kevin McGuire said. "You keep a good table, Ashley. It's been a wonderful Christmas for us because of you."

Ashley smiled. "Thanks," she said. "It's certainly been the most interesting holiday I can ever remember in this house."

"Who is the distinguished gentleman whose portrait is hanging over the fireplace?" Kathleen asked.

"That's my grandfather, Edward Livingston Kimbrough," she answered. "There are other ancestor portraits hanging all over the house. The one in the front hall is the Kimbrough who built the hall."

The rest of the evening continued on with light conversation, but the tension still lingered below the surface. Finally the guests began feigning yawns and deciding it was time for bed. Frankie practically took her son by his ear upstairs, because she could see he was dying to hang around and question his uncle, but Angelina remained until all of her daughters and their husbands had gone.

"Well, I think I'm ready for bed too," Ashley said.

"Wait," her mother-in-law said quietly. "I want to speak with you."

"Lina, there is nothing to say. It's over and done with. I'm just sorry that Deirdre nursed her anger for so long. She has hurt her husband very much. How soon after your return from Venice did they marry?"

"She had just become engaged to Robert before we left for Venice," Angelina replied. "The wedding was planned for the following spring, and it was celebrated then. I never knew she felt this way. She did not really love him, of course. Carlo Fabiano was suave and charming. Deirdre was very sheltered, and had never met anyone like him. They were never alone, that we knew of, but rather traveled in a group of other young people. We knew his reputation, but assumed she was safe, and in the end she was."

Ashley nodded.

"I told you the truth." Ryan suddenly broke into the conversation. "I hadn't seen or communicated with Bianca in over twenty years."

"We will speak upstairs," Ashley said quietly.

"Cara-" her mother-in-law began, but Ashley held up her hand.

"This is between your son and me, Lina."

And her tone told Angelina Mulcahy that Ashley was not to be trifled with in this matter. The older woman watched as the younger left the room. Then she turned to her son. "You should have stayed at a hotel," she said. "What in the name of God possessed you to accept the contessa's invitation? Are you so insensitive then? That is the Irish male in you, Ryan." She stood up. "I am going to bed, and you had better straighten this out with Ashley immediately." She departed the living room.

He sat alone for several minutes. Then, standing up, Ryan Mulcahy went upstairs to meet his fate. He found his wife awaiting him in their sitting room. "Baby, listen-" he began, but she put up a hand like a traffic cop.

"Sit down, Ryan," she told him.

"You can't be angry at me for something that happened when I was sixteen," he protested, obeying her directive.

"Of course I'm not angry at you for losing your virginity to the contessa," she told him. "I'm angry at you because you didn't trust me enough to tell me before we went to Venice. What a little ninny Bianca must have thought I was, Ryan."

"I'm sorry. You're right," he agreed. "But to be honest with you, I never even considered that summer again after it happened."

"It was thoughtless, Ryan," Ashley said. "I know our marriage began as one of convenience in order for both of us to save our assets, but you've said you love me, and I certainly love you. You know everything there is to know about me. I made no secret of my past with you. Marriage is based upon trust, among other things. That you didn't trust me enough to share that bit of information with me makes me reconsider whether we really have a marriage, or at least the chance of a real marriage."