In about five minutes, Jen Sweetan burst through the door. She smothered Gino with kisses: "Never scare me like that again!" Carl followed a few seconds later, grinning and holding an elegant Christmas centerpiece.

"Swung by the shop to pick this up, just a way to say thanks," he said to Tony. "Not a lot of people would have gone to all the trouble you did."

Jen helped Gino up. Ziti licked the old man's knobby hand one last time, then Gino extended it to Tony: "Thank you, my son. Now go hear your girl sing."

The clock said 6 o'clock. " 'Fraid not, Gino. It's way past time."

"No," Gino said, shooing Tony. "Go, go quick."

With obedience, but no hope, Tony hopped in his car, Ziti next to him. A few minutes later, Tony pulled up to St. Anthony's Church and confronted a strange scene.

Though houses nearby blazed with holiday lights, the church was dark. People stood in clusters by the doorway to the school gymatoriumstet and out in the parking lot; tiny lights flared and disappeared like fireflies in August. Cigarettes being lit.

Tony hustled toward the gym, saw a flare of orange: Josh Nealy's dad taking a drag.

"Sean, what's up? Not over already, is it?"

"Oh, hey, Tony. Nope. Power outage. Darnedest thing. Pageant was just about to start, in fact your Bridge had just walked to the front of the choir, when - poof. Total blackout. So we stumble out here, and see the rest of the neighborhood still all lit up. It's just St. A's, I guess. Father has some of the older kids rummaging the rectory for candles. I think Colleen's inside."

Tony walked into the gymatorium, bustle bordering on chaos, illumined only by the quavering light of a few candles. He spied Colleen with some friends.

Colleen seemed happier that he was finally there than angry that he was late; had to love that woman. "You," she said, jabbing a finger in his chest. "You are the luckiest man in Christendom. With the power out, you didn't miss a thing. You found the old guy's family? I'm glad."

Just then, the lights went back on.

A few minutes later, a slim young girl, long, raven hair tied in a ponytail with a green velvet bow, strode to the front of the stage: Bridget. His Bridget. Tony felt Colleen's hand clutch his.

Grave but unafraid, Bridget looked out at the assembled adults. She began to sing a cappella, voice sweet and clear, bold and unwavering, a voice to make the seraphim smile. The pastor had chosen this first hymn to set the tone for the story of the innkeeper who took pity on a young woman heavy with child - a hymn, not a Christmas carol, but one of Tony's favorites.

"Whatsoever you do" - Bridget's voice filled the drafty room with its basketball hoops raised to the ceiling like hands in prayer - "to the least of my brothers, that you do unto me . . . "

Tony couldn't look at his daughter as she sang; too nervous. He stared at the pageant program in his hands. On the cover was an image of the church's cherished stained-glass window depicting Christ the King.

Tony closed his eyes, the better to let his daughter's voice flood his senses. The image from the program lingered on his retinas, in his mind's eye.