Intellectual Property: The characters are wholly my own. Any similarities drawn between them and any persons, plants, or animals, living and dead, are figments of your imagination. However, some places and products mentioned in the story do exist. No infringement is intended.

If you have any feedback, suggestions, or comments, please let the bard know at sarkel_bard@yahoo.com Constructive criticism is accepted

Part 4

"Now let's see what you've got in those boxes." Caught up in an after-dinner glow, Charlene sat on the floor, baby in her lap, as they set about the decidedly entertaining task of unwrapping presents.

Twenty minutes later, Gareth nearly invisible amidst the fortresses of wrapping paper and boxes, was industriously ignoring most of his newly acquired gifts, and was instead busily making noises with the wrapping paper and a couple of the noise-making toys. "Geeh!" he burbled happily.

Watching the two from her vantage point in the doorway after clearing the dishes, Morrisey felt her first twinge of jealousy and of being left out. Charlene interacted so beautifully and naturally with her grandson, laughing and giggling with him. He smiled more around her than around his mother.

The blonde looked up and caught sight of the taller woman hovering, an almost painful look on her features. "Don't dawdle!" she called, gesturing. "We need your help. Come see what Santa got you and Gareth." She wished Morrisey would join them of her own accord, instead of waiting to be invited. But of course, that was her type. Charlene made a mental note to involve Morrisey thoroughly.

Sluggishly, the dark-haired woman sat down a few inches away from the blonde and the redhead. Charlene grinned, placing Gareth between them. "Want to show mommy what you got?" She held up a drum set.

"Oh, cripes." Morrisey rolled her eyes. "Good-bye, peace and quiet."

"Mommy's just being a spoilsport 'cause she hasn't opened her presents," Charlene explained knowingly. "Open this one!" The blonde eagerly thrust an oblong carton in Morrisey's hand. Charlene eyed the other woman brightly. "Let's see what Gareth got you!"

"Ok." Morrisey spoke without enthusiasm, in a monotone. Arising, she headed to the couch and sat. She chose the top gift, one from "Gareth, to Mommy."

She opened it quickly, revealing an array of bath supplies.

"Wow!" Charlene chirped, looking admiringly at her grandson. "How thoughtful of you, Gareth!" Clambering to her feet, she hastened to the sofa. Plopping next to the baby's mother, the blonde proceeded to explain each item in the package. "Okay, see. This is lavendar-scented bubble bath. This one's melon scented. Oh, and this lotion is the best! It never dries up your skin and it smells sooo good!" She closed her eyes adoringly, then pointed eagerly to another gaily decorated container. "Okay, and this one is summer breeze body spray. But personally, I like lilac scent better." She pointed to the bottle at the far left, then looked expectantly at the other woman.

Morrisey was tempted to snap at the peppy Charlene with a remark like: "You saying I smell bad?" but instead bit her tongue and managed a polite thank-you. For some reason, she just couldn't be mean. Charlene was genuinely trying so hard. It wasn't the blonde's fault that she, Morrisey, was crabby most of the time.

Charlene was beaming. "See what Santa got you." She eagerly handed Morrisey the next gift, a rectangular box.

Morrisey unwrapped it briskly, revealing a red sweater. It was too lacy and frilly for her tastes.

Charlene frowned, noticing the expression on the other woman's face. "You don't like it?" Hurt was evident in her voice and her face fell.

Morrisey held up the sweater at arm's distance and looked into disappointed green eyes. "I like it." She smiled, meaning it. Charlene's crestfallen reaction had touched the dark-haired woman. She studied the sweater again; actually, it wasn't so bad. She could get some use out of it.

"Wonderful!" The blonde grinned. "Oooh, see what else Santa brought." Bouncing in her seat, she seized the third gift.

"Okay." Unable to maintain her bad mood, Morrisey tore the wrapping paper off the present.

"Wait a sec!" Charlene stopped the other woman, preventing her hands from unpeeling the tape that secured the box. "Half of the fun is guessing what your gifts are."

"Right." Morrisey grinned, shaking the box lightly. "Nothing breakable in here?"

"I hope not or it'll be in pieces by now. Remember, I don't know what those are. They're from Santa." Charlene brushed a stray piece of blond hair out of her eyes, a gesture that was so beautiful and adorable. The taller woman, captivated by the movement, realized, with some embarrassment, that Charlene had caught her watching.

Morrisey, attempting to be nonchalant, stumbled through the rest of the unwrapping, finally revealing a pile of gift certificates to various stores. No certificate was made out in an amount less than $50.

Morrisey arched an eyebrow, her blue eyes narrowing. She cleared her throat.

Charlene froze in position, and the effect was heightened as Gareth's gurgling suddenly stopped. The noise of traffic faded, as did the music from the stereo. The whole house was tensely quiet.

"We won't accept this." The dark-haired woman spoke with firm finality, dropping the box back in her companion's lap.

"But…" Charlene faltered. "You can get him some baby clothes and toys… and stuff for yourself too."

"We are not paupers." Morrisey snapped harshly but quietly, her cold gaze boring into the blonde's face. "How much was there, huh? Five hundred dollars worth, Mrs. Sudsbury." She stood up, extending her limber arm out and sweeping the room in a grand gesture. "In addition to the extravagant gifts you've gotten us already."

"If I have the money, why can't I spend it on you and Gareth?" Charlene got to her feet as well, and her voice held nowhere near as much conviction as Morrisey's. She practically cowered under her companion's menacing glower. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize just how much I had spent-"

"Look!" Morrisey held up a hand. "Don't treat us like charity cases." She turned her head abruptly, studying her pensive son.

Charlene intertwined her hands, knuckles becoming white. "Uhh…" The blonde crossed over to the other side of the child, so she could face Morrisey. Baby Gareth's red head bobbed back and forth between the two women and their heated conversation. "You're my friend," she insisted.

Morrisey scoffed. "Friend?"

"Well, yeah." Charlene cocked her head to the side. "Aren't we?"

Morrisey chuckled hollowly. "No, we are not. Let's not delude ourselves, okay? The only reason we even associate with each other is because of Gareth. Also, do you normally spend hundreds of dollars on your friends?"

"No," Charlene argued. "Gareth's how we met, but Morrisey, you're a great, brilliant person and I care about you."

Morrisey was incredulous and becoming increasingly ticked off at the bald-faced lies. "Mrs. Sudsbury," she seethed, "you only care about me because I am Gareth's mother. I'm the mother of your grandson and you have to make nice with me to see him."

"Not true," Charlene protested vehemently. "I like you, period. For who you are. And please call me Charlene."

Morrisey rolled her dark eyes. "Cut the bullshit. We've met two times for a total of what, a few hours? You know nothing about me."

The blonde swallowed, highly agitated. Damn her fat mouth. Now Christmas was ruined. But she needed to at least try to convey to Morrisey that her assumptions weren't correct.

"I liked what I saw in those few hours. And I'd really like to know you better," Charlene said earnestly, gesturing emphatically. "And I hope you can come to think of me as a friend too."

Morrisey shook her head at her own idiocy. She wasn't in the mood for an emotional therapy mumbo-jumbo session.

The dramatics and hanky-panky annoyed her so she changed the subject abruptly, crossing her arms. She didn't appreciate the blonde showering money and presents upon her son, regardless of her so-called pure intentions. Finally, the taller woman blinked, at loss for further words, as was Charlene.

The blonde nodded slowly, allowing herself a small smile when her grandson studied her with his unnerving blue and green eyes. "I'll put those away," she said finally, indicating the gift certificates.

Morrisey did not answer as Charlene hastily made herself temporarily scarce. A single word kept ricocheting around in younger woman's brain. Friend. That comment unnerved her more than anything else, especially since it had settled into her mind. She knew Charlene meant every word too-the sentiments came from her heart. And that scared Morrisey because despite everything, Morrisey found herself yearning to be Charlene's friend too. Not a good thing, was it? She could count on one hand the number of people she'd ever felt the smallest desire to be friends with.

Charlene returned in the living room a minute later, her face pale. She was obviously distressed and her heart clenched when she saw that Morrisey was beginning to bundle Gareth in his coats, mittens, and hat. "Are you going now?" the blonde whispered.

"We should," Morrisey said, but a desperate Charlene heard a trace of reluctance in the rich contralto voice.

The blonde sighed.

Then Morrisey remembered Charlene hadn't opened her two presents yet. "Your gifts," the younger woman pointed out.

Charlene followed the gaze to the lone wrapped gifts still under the tree. "Oh," she said, stealing a glance at her taller companion. Finding a neutral expression there and hopefully, the possibility of a truce, she tentatively ventured: "We didn't have dessert yet. Stay for thirty more minutes, please? And I'll open them."

As much as Morrisey wanted to say no, her willpower and her brain, on a very rare occasion, did not win out. The look of hope on Charlene's face, in her eyes, did Morrisey in.

She contorted her face into a serious and solemn expression. "I don't know," she sighed heavily.

"Oh," said Charlene, deflated.

Morrisey smiled then, illuminating her perfect and even teeth. Lightening her tone, she remarked: "It depends on what's for dessert."

Charlene chuckled as relief flooded her body. "You know me, Morrisey," she said, turning her palms upright. "I raided the store. Whatever you can imagine is there."

"Hmm." Morrisey's lips crinkled slightly upward as she unbuttoned her son's coat. "Oh, I need to get something else for you from the trunk of the car. Be right back."

When the taller woman returned, Gareth had been unbundled and was sitting in an eager Charlene's lap near the tree as she turned a box over in her hands. "Be careful!" Morrisey called. "One of them's fragile."

Charlene glanced up, furrowing her forehead. "Goodness, Morrisey," she exclaimed, taking in the large package her companion had heaved from the car then laid next to her. "What is that?"

The dark-haired woman shrugged, then winked. "You might find out if you opened it. It's from this little bugger here." She playfully indicated her small son.

Charlene giggled, thrilled that the serious woman was showing her lighter side.

As Charlene was unwrapping her gift, Morrisey asked how she came to be named Charlene.

A pair of reproachful jade orbs met blue eyes. An extended sigh. "I ain't tellin' you 'til you promise to never call me Mrs. Sudsbury again. Please?" Charlene repeated her oft-asked request.

Morrisey grinned. " 'Spose that could be arranged."

Charlene let out a relieved breath. "Oh, good. Every time you said that, I felt like some uptight gray-haired schoolmistress." The blonde imitated the whiny, raspy voice of an old woman. "Now, students, it's not nice to throw spitballs." She pointed a long finger at Morrisey, furrowing her brows. "Or like my mother. Besides, I'm not married. Sudsbury was my maiden name."

"So, then… how did you get the name Charlene?" Morrisey was unaware that she was quite well mastering the art of small talk.

The green-eyed woman shrugged. "I don't know. Never asked my mom. It's an old-fashioned name, ain't it? When I was a kid, I hated it but now I don't mind it so much. How'd you get Morrisey? That one's unusual. Pretty too. Nice ring to it."

Morrisey smiled. "I like it too. Unusual. I'm named after my mother's side of the family. My great-grandmother's maiden name was Morrisey and both she and her mother, my great-grandmother, were named Patricia. What's your middle name?"

"Mine's boring," Charlene said, anxious to change the subject. Morrisey had such a lovely and unusual name and her own name was…well, boring.

"Boring?" Raising a dark eyebrow. "Charlene Boring Sudsbury?"

The blonde giggled, her mood easily uplifted, and swatted her companion playfully. "No! It's actually Charlene Lucille. Ugh. Either way, it's an old schoolmistress name."

"Nah, it's not. I like old-fashioned names." Morrisey winked at her companion, then chortled, unable to suppress the laugh. "Charlene Lucille! Haha."

"Your mama's mean," Charlene informed a burbling Gareth as she tore away the last of the wrapping paper on her massive gift. "Oooh! A baby swing."

"Yep." The younger woman grinned. "For you to keep here for when Gareth visits."

Charlene's lower lip and chin quivered. "You're so sweet," she choked out, pulling her cherubic grandson closer to her.

Unnerved by the display of emotion, Morrisey cleared her throat. She hoped Charlene hadn't gotten the impression that Gareth would be at his grandmother's house every day. But, the dark-haired woman had to admit, the swing did symbolize something profound. And to think she hadn't really realized that when she saw it on sale for half off.

Adopting a more gruff voice and topic, Morrisey asked the question that had been pestering her for weeks. "What do you think we should tell Gareth about the circumstances of his conception?" Morrisey had already made up her mind, but was curious to hear Charlene's take.

Charlene tilted her head, adjusting to the new conversation track. "Oh. Well, whatever you're comfortable with. But we shouldn't lie. Lies always come out in the end."

Morrisey nodded and then swallowed. Gareth was produced as a result of rape, but he was a child of love. She would ensure that he knew it. "You going to tell him a lot about your son?"

The blonde shifted her gaze downward, becoming as awkward as Morrisey. "I don't know. If he asks. I don't want Gareth to feel ashamed or… like he can't come to me if he needs help or has a problem." Charlene laid a smooth hand on the other woman's arm. "Rest assured, I'm not going to preach 24/7 the wonders of John Patrick and make him out to be a saint."

"You shouldn't crucify him either. Like you said before, good people do bad things."

The comment surprised Morrisey more than Charlene. Since meeting the blonde and having time to recover from the ordeal as well as the rape, the dark-haired woman had come to a new understanding and realization of the matter.

Charlene blinked twice at the other woman's unpredictability. "Yes. Well. We'll just see how it goes." She grinned weakly.

Morrisey pegged the blonde with serious azure eyes. "I'm glad you want to be involved. At first, I thought it was the most horrible idea in the world. But we all need family. And I'm happy my son will have you in his life." The admission had embarrassed Morrisey and she averted her gaze.

Tears sprang again to Charlene's eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. "He's a lucky boy to have you."

Charlene smiled at the dark-haired woman, a full smile exposing pearly white teeth framed by perfectly symmetrical and impossibly red, luscious lips. Morrisey felt her knees go weak for a second, mentally chastising herself but at the same time, taking a guilty pleasure from her reaction. She loved the way Charlene's eyes, sometimes so incredibly pure green if she was wearing a green shirt, or sometimes blue or gray, sometimes even brown, crinkled at the corners whenever she grinned or laughed.

"I'm hungry," the blonde announced. "Dessert! Then afterwards, can you help me assemble the swing? Gareth wants to try it out tonight. And I'll open the rest of my gifts."

Morrisey assented. "Sounds good."

"Great! I've made the best brownies ever," Charlene crowed as she dashed into the kitchen. Morrisey heard her scuttling about and heaved the baby up, then took him to join the older woman.

Charlene had a veritable buffet on the kitchen table: the brownies, four types of cookies, two bags of chips, bowls upon bowls of candy. "Ice cream in the freezer too," the blonde was sure to point out, already demolishing a cookie.

"Right. Can't forget the ice cream," Morrisey muttered, gaping in amazement. Charlene opened the refrigerator and pulled out a cake and some chocolate pudding.

"I have news for you…" Morrisey began. "I gave birth to a single baby, not to fifty. And this one baby couldn't eat one-trillionths of that."

"Haha!" Charlene chuckled. "I'll eat whatever you and Gareth can't."

"Oh please," Morrisey scoffed. "No way. You can't eat all that!"

"Oooh, sounds like someone wants to make a bet," the blonde challenged.

"Sure." Morrisey was game. That tiny woman couldn't eat all of that food. Without being too overt, the younger woman studied every detail of the blonde's features-the snub, perky nose, the stubborn chin, the light, barely noticeable sprinkling of tan freckles. Charlene really was a cute woman.

"We'll see, then." Charlene smirked. "Not to worry." Charlene flew a knee-weakening grin in her companion's direction.

"What're we betting on?" Charlene asked as the baby's mother mopped drool from Gareth's chin.

"Hmm. Good question." Morrisey stood, gingerly holding the drool rag by one finger. "This child drools constantly, like he's 99 percent water. Is that normal?"

Charlene beamed adoringly at her grandson. "It's nothing to worry about."

The dark-haired woman tossed the rag into the laundry room, pondering the stakes of the bet. When she returned to the kitchen, the blonde was already hard at work with her side of the bet. "If I win," proposed the green-eyed woman, "you have to pig out with me tonight after we do the swing. We'll pop in a video or two."

Morrisey gasped. "You mean, you actually think you'll still be able to pig out, if, big if, you're able to eat all that?"

"Oh, sure." Charlene was nonchalant. "I'll be hungry soon enough afterwards."

Morrisey raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And if I win, which I will, you gotta do all the cooking and cleaning, grunt stuff, at my house for a week."

"Aren't you kind?" the blonde drawled sarcastically. "It's a deal." The women shook firmly, sealing the bet.

Ten minutes later, Charlene was slumped on the floor, moaning, groaning, clutching her stomach miserably. And one box of full cookies remained on the table. "I'm out of practice," she admitted. "I used to be able to eat a lot more than that and not even feel it."

"Heh." Morrisey crossed her arms as Gareth banged his spoon from his vantage point in the high chair. "What time shall I expect you for chores on the 26th?"

"I demand a rematch soon," the blonde muttered.

Charlene was awakened early, very early Christmas morning, only hours after her two visitors had said good-bye, by the chimes of the doorbell, followed with a sharp rap on the front door. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, the blonde glanced over to her alarm clock-two o' clock. Through her peach-colored curtains, the sleepy form could make out a full moon and a smorgasbord of stars, shining brightly in the winter sky, above the pristine white canvas of Earth.

"What in the world…" the green-eyed woman wondered, sighing heavily as she debated leaving her toasty comfortable bed. Another persistent whistle of the doorbell sent Charlene groaning. "All right, all right," she muttered, dragging herself out of bed, her mind full with the cobwebs of an abruptly interrupted slumber.

She was pulling her worn light blue robe around her flannel pajamas as another series of loud knocks sounded. "Coming!" the blonde cried, padding towards the front door, some of the mud in her head clearing as she became more awake.

Standing on tiptoe, Charlene squinted through the peephole of her front door and let out a surprised sound as she realized her late-night visitor was Gareth's mother. "Morrisey?" the small woman whispered, her hands automatically flying to her unkempt blond hair, her tongue feeling around in her mouth, removing plaque from her teeth.

Frustration evident on her face even through the peephole, Morrisey extended a slender index finger and pressed the doorbell hard.

"I'm here!" Charlene called, hurriedly and clumsily undoing the deadbolt on the door and unlatching the door lock. All questions about Morrisey Hawthorne's presence on her front step at such an odd time of day had disappeared from Charlene's mind as she worried about her appearance. It was not until Charlene had actually opened the door that she wondered where her red-headed grandson was.

"Morrisey?" The blonde cocked en eyebrow, wrapping the robe tightly around her as blades of chilly winter air rudely knifed into her skin.

Morrisey strode past Charlene into the house, sitting unceremoniously on the living room sofa. The newly assembled baby swing stood out from the blackness, near the tree, gleaming in its pristine whiteness.

Charlene closed the door behind her, not bothering to lock up. Confused by this turn of events, the blonde approached her taller companion hesitantly. "Um… everything okay?" She attempted a tentative smile.

Morrisey looked up at Charlene, and the expression on the younger woman's face chilled Charlene's soul more than a hundred winter snows could. The dark-haired woman's eyes were vacant and her face hollow, devoid of life. Those soulless eyes met a worried gaze for what seemed like eons.

Charlene's heart did not beat. She did not want to find out why Morrisey was at her house in the wee hours of Christmas morning.

Then she noticed Morrisey was not wearing a coat, just a thin sweater, and her maternal instincts kicked in. "You must be freezing!" the shorter woman exclaimed. "Can I get you anything? Cocoa? Hot chocolate?"

Morrisey blinked as if she was slowly coming out of a trance and realizing her surroundings. She stared at the older woman dumbly, then rotated her neck, her empty blue gaze transfixed on the trembling, clasped hands that rested on her lap. She was like a statue; she did not move for minutes, except for her light breathing.

Charlene stood motionless also, her slight form barely piercing the dark blanket of tension that permeated the living room. Holding her breath, afraid to speak and ask questions, the blonde just stared at Morrisey as her dread increased.

Howling, screeching gusts of wind finally broke the silence and Charlene took a step towards the other woman, now within reaching distance, but Morrisey remained still, as if she was unaware of activity around her.

Charlene could stand the stillness no longer; she'd explode if she let this perplexing turn of events go on one second more. She carefully sat down on the sofa next to Morrisey, positioning herself as if she were sitting on eggshells. Taking a deep breath, the green-eyed woman covered Morrisey's frozen hands with her own smaller, sweaty palms. "Morrisey!" Charlene spoke firmly, assertively. "What is going on? Where's the baby?"

Morrisey's eyes flickered to Charlene's, then to some invisible spot on the floor.

"Where's the baby?" Charlene repeated, more shrilly, with a panicky edge to her high notes.

Morrisey leaned back into the couch numbly, but didn't break the physical contact with the other woman. "I remember when I was a child," the late-night visitor said. "My father and I would go fishing early in the morning and watch the sun rise above the lake. Beautiful, magical moment."

Charlene nodded, encouraging Morrisey to continue, hoping her story would lead to an explanation.

"Kids." Morrisey showed a hint of emotion on her pale features, her lips curving slightly upward to form a tiny, wry smile. "Always getting into scrapes. I remember I got into plenty. I used to jump off the roof of an abandoned farmhouse with my brother. Bruises, some bloody knees and elbows, but never a broken bone. It's so amazing what kids will survive without even a scratch."

"Yeah. I remember plenty of escapades myself." Charlene frowned, not quite liking the sound of the conversation in this particular context.

Morrisey stood abruptly, jerkily breaking her hands free of Charlene's. She tucked a dark strand of hair behind her ear, but even though half of her face was shrouded in darkness, in her eyes was the most vulnerable, poignant cry for help Charlene had ever seen. Except for once, in the mirror. The blonde knew that look, recognized it instantly.

It was the look of a mother still in shock about the sudden, unexpected death of her son.

Charlene registered a sharp intake of breath and her hand fluttered over her heart. "Oh, God," she whispered. "Morrisey. Morrisey. Oh, God, no."