The helicopter that set us down beside the Kingsley estate was not a theatrical stunt. It was my life. One of the National Guard pilots I worked with, a friend named Captain Reyes, had a training flight scheduled that afternoon and offered to route it past the estate when I explained where I was going. My four sons, in matching dark coats, climbed down into the snow behind me while forty of Adrian’s relatives watched from the tall windows of the great room. I had not warned anyone. Adrian had wanted contrast between his glittering fiancée and his lonely, bitter ex-wife. I decided to give him contrast he would never forget.

Adrian came out onto the terrace with a wineglass in his hand and Sabrina on his arm, ready to perform his victory. Then he saw the boys. He saw four identical faces, his own jaw, his own dark hair, his own gray eyes, multiplied by four and walking toward him across the snow. The wineglass lowered. The color left his face. Sabrina looked between him and the children, confused, then slowly, horribly, beginning to understand. “Adrian,” I said pleasantly, stopping at the foot of the terrace steps, “you invited me to put the past behind us. I brought the past. All four of it. Merry Christmas.”