Preview from FIRESIDE CHRISTMAS

I was sitting in the library in my favorite oversized chair when the front door burst open and I felt a blast of cold wind. My heart lurched. I was afraid that Christmas of 1925 would be one I'd never forget.

"Is it them, Millie?"

Eighteen-year-old Millie Box squeezed into the chair with me so she could peek around its high back and spy into the foyer. One glance and she whispered, "It's them all right, Julie. All of 'em red and chapped with cold. She giggled. "I wonder which one is Honey's beau.

"Sh-h-h! They'll hear you."

"Help me off with this coat, Bob," a shrill voice whined, "so's I can go in by the fireplace. My toes are icicles."

I stiffened. Would they choose the library or the parlor across the hall? Both had blazing fires.

"I'll help you, Lucy," boomed a mellow male voice, "Bob's busy with his own coat." He sang off key, "Oh, you beautiful doll..."

"Cut it out, Tubby," the girl said, exasperated. "We've listened to you for three hours straight. You should be on the radio..."

"... then we could turn you off." A tenor male stole the punch line. Several people groaned.

Millie giggled. I jabbed a forefinger towards her middle. "You'll give us away, goosey." Mother bustled down the central hall, her heels clacking on the oak floor. Short and wide with a sensible manner, she might have been a matron from a girls' school. "Honey, dear!" she cried.

Millie said, "She's hugging Honey and snifflin'. Say, Julie, Honey got her hair bobbed. She's got bangs and red lipstick."

In a moment, Mother said, "Come into the parlor and get warm." She called loudly, "Millie!"

Millie scooted away, leaving me to eavesdrop alone. Millie was more of a little sister to me than Honey was, though they were the same age. When her mother, our cook, died eight years ago, Mother kept orphaned Millie and trained her as a housemaid. Millie and I were pals. Honey and Millie had never been close.

Honey had just arrived home for her first Christmas holiday since she entered the University of Vermont. Being Honey, she'd organized a house party at the last minute. With five friends in tow, she phoned a message to Shegog's Grocery, telling Mother and Dad of her plans. Shegog had the only telephone in the village. Lucky for us, it was a five-minute walk away.

Honey's message arrived with the meat delivery. Mother threw up her hands and scolded, but an hour later she was making lists and chattering about gifts and activities.

Our cook, Esther Quin, grumbled through the menu planning, the pie baking and the cookie cutting. But that was nothing new. Esther was forever grouching about something.

Dad took the news in stride. A family crisis rarely rattled him. He spent most of his time at his sawmill across the road from our house. He left most things to Mother -- especially Honey.

I wished I could overlook Honey's shenanigans, too. I should be used to her scheming by now. When she was ten and I was twelve, she got inspired to start a glee club in Athens, our tiny village. Worst of all, she made her big sister sing "Snookey Ookums."

I hated every note. I still sang, of course. I was dying inside, but I sang with all my might. Maybe that's why the glee club dissolved after its first performance.

The next day Honey apologized for embarrassing me. Then she started planning a backyard rendition of Romeo and Juliet. Guess who got to be Juliet?

I pressed my head against the upholstery and closed my eyes as Honey said, "Mother, meet Lucy McDowell and Alice Stuart." Then a deep, resonant voice said, "Good evening, Mrs. Simmons. I'm Jim Clarke."

"I'm Tubby ...uhm... Michael Adams." The singer.

"Bob Barton," said the tenor, sounding younger than the others. He spoke like he'd practiced every word in front of a mirror.

"Honey," Mother said, "after your friends warm up, take them upstairs to their rooms -- the boys in the back and the girls in your old room. You'll be in with Julie."

Her voice faded as she called, "We'll have dinner in an hour."

I chewed my lip. An hour till dinner wasn't nearly long enough. If only I could get upstairs to my room. Too late now. Someone would surely meet me on the stairs or in the upper hall. So I held my breath, dreading the inevitable.

The farmhouse smelled rich with mingled scents of linseed oil, the giant fir tree in the parlor, wood smoke from two fireplaces and tantalizing aromas wafting from the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, a man's expensive cologne touched my sensitive nose. I tensed.e armchair is comfortable," I said, gulping, "and it's near the hearth."

"Pardon me. I didn't know anyone was here." It was the gent with the deep voice. "Mind if I sit near the fire? This cold gets into one's bones."

"The blue armchair is comfortable," I said, gulping, "and it's near the hearth."

Across from me the chair made a faint scrishing sound. "I'm Jim Clarke. You must be Honey's sister, Julie."

I wet my lips. "Yes."

"She told me about you. I'm glad to know you."

I scraped together my manners and asked, "What are you studying at the University, Mr. Clarke?"

"Please call me Jim. I'm a senior at pre-law. My father wants me to join his firm. My brother, Peter, is a partner, and it looks like my younger brother, Ron, will be one, too." His words tightened. "I'm supposed to make it a happy foursome."

"You don't want to?"

He chuckled. "You have your sister's knack for cutting down to the quick."

The dinner bell tinkled, and the chair creaked. "May I escort you to dinner?"

"Why ... surely. Thank you." His warm hand gently lifted my fingers and placed them on the sleeve of his dinner jacket. It was then that I knew ... that he knew ... that I was blind.