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she could, considering her condition. She was out of breath when she found Toby sitting on the floor in the room that was decorated as a child’s nursery, surrounded by that valuable collection of antique toys. The toys, and Toby, appeared to be unharmed.

“Isn’t it sweet?” trilled a sister.

“He found the toys!”

“I hope nothing’s broken,” said Lucy, pulling him to his feet and leading him to the stairway. She took a deep breath.

“We’ll pay if there’s any damage.”

“Oh, no, no, no damage,” chorused the sisters. “No harm done.”

As Lucy zipped up Toby and buttoned her coat and headed straight for the door, she had the feeling that a tragedy had been barely averted. “Thanks for everything,” she said, as the door closed behind her and she let out a big sigh of relief.

Toby didn’t see it quite the same way, however. Once outside he yanked himself free and threw himself on the brown grass, shrieking and kicking his heels in a full-blown temper tantrum. “Horsey! Horsey!” he repeated, over and over, at the top of his lungs.

Lucy had read about two-year-olds and their famous temper tantrums in the child care books, but so far she hadn’t experienced one. She stood there, in the middle of town, trying to remember the recommended course of action. Nothing came to her except an acute sense of embarrassment. Thank heavens nobody seemed to be on the street, at the moment, but if Toby continued screaming that was sure to change.

The last thing Lucy wanted was to attract a crowd.

“Toby, stop it!” she said, in her firmest, most authoritative voice.

He kicked his heels harder.

Maybe bribery? The experts discouraged it, but it had been remarkably successful on the few occasions she’d tried it. “Toby, stop fussing and be a good boy and I’ll buy you some ice cream.”

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The screams grew louder.

It was time to bring out the big guns. “Toby, if you don’t stop that this minute I’m going to get in the car and leave you here all by yourself.”

Not a good idea. The shrieks were now punctuated with hysterical sobs. Lucy felt her cheeks reddening, she felt angry and incompetent and frustrated and embarrassed, all at once.

And now, she saw, a group of women were advancing down the sidewalk. Mature, matronly women who had mastered the art of motherhood. She had to get out of there. Adrenaline surged, she grabbed Toby by the hood of his jacket and the seat of his pants, and, tucking the screaming and kicking boy under her arm, she hauled him to the car and wrestled him into the car seat. Once he was securely strapped in, she slid behind the steering wheel and caught her breath.

The group of women, she noticed, nodded approvingly.

One even smiled sympathetically at her and she gave them a little wave. Then, resolutely closing her ears to the din coming from the backseat, she started the engine and pulled onto Main Street, right in the path of a battered blue pickup truck.

The driver honked and swerved, missing a collision, but Lucy’s heart was racing when the truck braked and the driver turned to glare at her. To her horror it was Kyle Boott, and he looked as if he was spoiling for a fight. Stomach churning, she rolled down the window and stuck her head out, stretching her lips into a smile. “I’m soo sorry,” she yelled. “I didn’t see you. No harm done, I hope.”

He didn’t answer and for a moment Lucy thought he was going to get out of the truck, but instead he slammed it into gear and took off, leaving rubber. Weak with relief she turned round to face Toby “It’s all your fault!” she declared. “How can I drive with you making this racket?”

Confronted with his mother’s anger, Toby ratcheted up his screaming, which was now punctuated with sobs and hiccups. By now Lucy was sobbing, too, and all she could think of was to get home. So once again she gripped the steering CANDY CANES OF CHRISTMAS PAST

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wheel with trembling hands and turned on her blinker and checked her mirrors and very slowly and carefully pulled out of her parking spot.

The drive home was nightmarish. Lucy drove slowly and extra carefully, concentrating on the road as if she were taking a driver’s test, and trying not to worry about Toby. How long could he keep this up? Could he stop? Maybe she should go to the emergency room? But then they’d probably call in social services, maybe they’d decide she couldn’t cope and would take Toby away from her. Maybe she was a bad mother, maybe she shouldn’t have children.

She was following this train of thought when she turned onto Red Top Road and the house came into view and Toby fell asleep, all at once. By the time she’d turned into the driveway he’d sunk into a deep sleep, punctuated by hiccups. He didn’t even stir when she lifted him out of the car seat and carried him into the house.

“Look at that sweet little guy,” cooed Bill, who was fixing himself a cup of tea in the kitchen.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” muttered Lucy, lugging the baby upstairs and settling him in his crib.

Bill had followed and watched as she slipped off Toby’s jacket and shoes and covered him with a blanket. “He’ll probably wet the bed,” she observed, with a sniffle.

“So what’s the big deal?” asked Bill, leaning against the door jamb and sipping his tea. “He’s just a baby.”