The Christmas List by Richard Paul Evans

entrance’s stucco wall, flanked on both sides by grapevine-covered trellises.
    Under Kier’s direction the homes had been marketed as villas—overpriced, stucco-slathered homes built on lots barely large enough to accommodate them. The streets allhad Italian names: Via Masaccio, Santa Maria del Fiore, Giuseppe Garibaldi, Via Di Sera, Bagno a Ripoli ; names difficult to pronounce and even harder to spell, forevermore the bane of every homeowner who moved to the subdivision.
    Three blocks from the entrance, at the furthest end of the development, was a house that didn’t fit in with the others. It was a small red-brick ranch that looked more like it belonged in Tulsa than Tuscany. The only thing Italian about the home was the faded tricolor flag that hung from the garage and a sign in the driveway that read, PARKING FOR ITALIANS ONLY. It was ironic that the only house that didn’t look indigenous to the development was the only one that was. It was the Wysses’ original home and at one time all sixty-four acres of Il Pascolo had belonged to them.
    The first time Kier saw the Wysses’ property it was an operating dairy with more than a hundred black and white Holsteins contentedly roaming the grounds. Estelle Wyss had told Sara that she and Karl were getting too old to run the dairy and, unable to compete with the larger, more high-tech dairy operations, were looking at selling or developing the land. Unlike her husband, Karl, a Swiss immigrant, Estelle had never liked the dairy life (too many flies and cow pies, she told Sara) and looked forward to finally fulfilling her dream of retiring to the northern Italian countryside. It was because of Kier that her dream never came true.
    Kier recognized the underdeveloped land in the middle of an established suburb as a rarity and, a gold mine. Kier convinced the trusting couple that rather than sellingtheir property outright, they would make money faster by leveraging their property against the development. Spurred by greed, Kier rushed the construction, wagering with the Wysses’ property. Kier built more than two dozen spec homes and waited for them to sell; the venture couldn’t have been more poorly timed. As the homes were nearing completion, the local real estate market took a sudden plunge and the homes sat, overpriced and unsold. When the construction loans came due, the Wysses lost everything except their own home and three quarter-acre lots they had excluded from the deal near the back of the development. Also lost was Sara and Estelle’s friendship.
    As Kier sat in his car rehearsing his speech, he glanced at himself in the car’s rearview mirror. It had been a decade since he’d seen the Wysses and they were unlikely to recognize him even without his black eyes and bandage. He took a deep breath, climbed out of his car, and hobbled up to the house. Blue grains of ice melt had been scattered the length of the shoveled walk, like seeds sown into the packed ice. Above the door was a painted plaster sign: La Vita è Bella .
    Kier knocked and a woman’s voice sang out, “Just a minute.” A moment later an elderly woman dressed in a colorful knit sweater and blue jeans opened the door. Kier recognized her immediately. Estelle Wyss’s hair had turned gray, and she had new wrinkles, but the bright eyes and smile were the same. She looked at the bandaged man suspiciously but still managed to smile warmly. “May I help you?”
    â€œMrs. Wyss, you probably don’t recognize me with the bandage.”
    She squinted. “I’m sorry, my eyesight is a little fuzzy today. Sometimes my diabetes will do that. Are you the new fellow from the congregation?”
    â€œI’m James Kier.”
    She repeated slowly, “James . . . Kier . . .” Her smile faltered. “Mr. Kier. What can I do for you?”
    â€œI was wondering if we could talk.”
    â€œI was just about to take