Halfway to the lobby, she remembered she was still wearing J.J.’s gaudy rhinestone ring, which she snatched off, dropped into her handbag, and tried to forget.

The Dutchman had walked across Central Park, ignoring the falling temperature and the lightly falling snow. Children on the plastic things they now used for sleds laughed as they passed him; he ignored them, too. He crossed Fifth Avenue and continued along East Seventy-ninth to Madison and up several more blocks, until he came to a little bake shop with white-trimmed windowpanes. Inside, the display of Dutch wooden shoes filled with chocolates and tiny gifts made it look as if St. Nicholas had already been there. Sint Nicolaas. Hendrik hadn’t thought of him in years.

Catharina’s Bake Shop the sign read in simple delft-blue letters. The Dutchman lingered in front of the window. Small round tables covered with delft-blue cloths were crowded with customers, laughing, happy customers indulging themselves with hot chocolate, silver pots of coffee, china pots of tea, fat cream puffs, perfect tarts and trays of scones, tiny sandwiches, assorted jams and cheeses. Glass cases were stocked with good things to take home, and smiling white-aproned waitresses bustled among the customers.

For the first time in more than forty years, Hendrik de Geer felt himself swelling with nostalgia. He had to blink away hot tears-him! A couple hurried past him, and when they opened the door, he heard the tinkle of a little bell and smelled cinnamon, nutmeg, anise, butter, and fresh coffee. It was almost more than he could bear. They were the smells of his youth, and he choked with emotion, unable to hold back the memories.

He didn’t venture inside. He shoved his cold hands into the pockets of his cheap overcoat and stared through the window, watching a couple torture themselves over which cake to choose. The chocolate or the buttercream? If only his choices were that trivial.