By the time Frank woke up on Saturday, Joe was gone. Kick off was at 12:30 and the team had to report in almost three hours before. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Frank saw his clock said it was just after ten. He sat up and made for the shower, pausing to enjoy the scent of hot gingerbread that filled the house.  

After a leisurely shower he went downstairs to scrounge up some breakfast and decorate gingerbread men.  

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Laura greeted him as she placed a cookie sheet in the oven.  

“Morning. Where’s Dad?” Frank asked as he sat down at the kitchen table.  

“He had to run over to Bridgeport to pick up some papers for a case. Since Joe has a game today we’ll go tree shopping tomorrow.”  

Frank nodded and buttered two biscuits from the basket in front of him. They were still just warm enough to melt the butter evenly. He then laid them out flat on his plate and covered them with honey. Eating slowly, he savored the taste of his aunt’s made from scratch biscuits. “Where’s Auntie?” he asked.  

“She ran out of yarn.” Laura flattened a ball of cookie dough and began rolling it out.  

Frank smiled and shook his head, buttering a third biscuit. Gertrude was an avid knitter and constantly “running out of yarn”. She made beautiful sweaters and afghans and had even been featured in a couple of magazines. It was a closely guarded secret that she had taught both of her nephews how to knit.  

Once Frank finished eating and brushed his teeth, he got busy decorating gingerbread men. The act of decorating gingerbread was one of Frank’s first memories as a Hardy. Laura and Fenton had done everything in their power to make Frank’s first real Christmas a special and magical one, filled with memories that he would treasure for years to come. And it had worked. Frank and Joe had spent days “helping” Laura bake and decorate cookies and then the three had delivered them to the other tenants in the building and to the precinct where Fenton worked.  

“How come your family never comes to see us?”  

Laura looked up at her oldest son. He was gently pressing miniature M&M’s into a strip of white icing, his gaze intent on getting them lined up just right. His dark brown hair was in need of a trim and fell over his forehead, brushing in his eyes.  

So far she’d managed to avoid this conversation, but this time there was no way out of it. “They thought adoption was something we shouldn’t be looking into.”  

“You mean foreign adoption.”  

“Yes.” The oven timer beeped and Laura removed the last sheet of gingerbread. “I think they didn’t like the idea in general, but I’m not really sure. They grew up in a different time, Frank, when Russia was the enemy. They heard we were adopting from Russia and never gave us- you, a chance.”  

“Dad said it might have something to do with me looking like your brother.”  

Laura nodded. “I agree with him that that’s part of it. You also look a lot like your father.”  

Frank smiled. Those words would never cease to give him a little thrill whenever he heard them. “What happened to Uncle Michael anyway?”  

“I don’t really know. But that’s how your father and I met. That was his very first case as a police detective. The only one he’s never solved.”  

“He just completely disappeared?”  

Laura sighed and nodded. “He’d been talking about joining the Navy, but he never did unless it was under another name. Your dad has always thought he saw something he shouldn’t have and decided to take off rather than risk one of us getting hurt.”  

“Would they come over very much before I came along?” Frank switched the subject back to his mother’s parents.  

She shook her head. “Not really. They didn’t approve of me marrying a cop, especially one who’d been in the Middle East in the Marines.”  

“I didn’t know Dad was ever over there.” Frank looked up from his cookie in time to see his mother nod her head. The motion set her ponytail to bouncing.  

“The intel foul-up in Beirut was the last straw for him and he got out.”  

Frank thought over that little detail for a little while. It revealed an awful lot about Fenton. The man was a bit of a loner, having only a handful of close friends, and only one, Sam Radley, that he was particularly close to. He never saw or talked about his old Marine buddies, and Frank realized now that it was because most of them were dead. “Was he hurt?”  

“Some shrapnel in his back. He’s never really gotten over the whole thing though. You never forget something like that.”  

Frank thought about the fireball that had claimed the life of Iola Morton, and his mother’s death, and silently agreed.  

Comfortable silence fell over mother and son as they decorated. Gertrude came in a little while later with her yarn, rhapsodizing about a sweater pattern she’d seen at the needlework shop. Frank and Laura shared a secret smile and let her talk.  

***  

At dinner that evening Joe gave a blow-by-blow account of the game, which Bayport had won. He ended with “We might even get a bowl spot if State loses tonight!”  

“We know who you’re rooting for,” Frank commented dryly.  

Joe tossed a wadded-up paper napkin at his brother, then reached for another helping of mashed potatoes, beating Frank to the last spoonful.  

Frank tossed the napkin back across the table. “I’ll just have more room for dessert,” he smirked. “It’s pumpkin pie.”  

Fenton and Laura snickered as their younger son’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Why didn’t you say that sooner?” he demanded.  

Frank shrugged as he stood to help Gertrude clear the table. “More for me.” He scooped up the empty bowl that had held the potatoes two minutes earlier and sailed into the kitchen.  

***  

The next afternoon after church, the family went tree shopping. Frank and Joe were even pickier than Laura, and Fenton and Gertrude heard a never-ending chorus of “Too skinny”, “Too short”, “Too crooked” and “Not full enough”.  

At the fourth stop, Fenton spotted it, the tree that would meet his wife and sons requirements. Perfect height, perfect shape, and perfect scent. He held it up for them to inspect as Gertrude tried to contain her giggles.  

The three examined it slowly and critically. Laura brushed the straw from the branches, Joe inspected the top and Frank knelt to check the trunk.  

“It’s perfect!” they chorused in perfect unison. That did Gertrude in and her laughter followed the tree all the way to the van.  

 

Late that evening, Frank sat on the couch staring at the twinkling lights. The ornaments wouldn’t go on until Wednesday to give the branches a chance to settle and fan out.  

Fenton walked by on his way to the kitchen, but on seeing Frank he made a short detour to join him on the couch. Frank scooted in close and laid his head on Fenton’s shoulder. “It’s the most beautiful tree we’ve ever had.”  

“You say that every year,” Fenton said, smiling.  

“Because it’s true. It’s one of the things that makes a place home.”  

“Yes, it is.” Fenton agreed. “Home is not a place on a map, Frank. Home can be anywhere. A home is made by the people who are in it. As long as we are together, wherever this family goes is your home.”  

“Would your parents like me if they were alive?”  

“Yes.” Fenton put every ounce of his conviction on the subject into that one word. “You are just as much my son as Joe is, and they would have agreed. It just took a little longer to get you here, that’s all.”  

Frank smiled and hugged his father. “Thanks, Dad.” Then he stood and went upstairs to bed.  

Fenton sat and watched the lights for a long time, thinking about Frank and how he had completed their family. When he finally went to bed around midnight , he checked on his sons first. Joe’s covers were half on the floor, so he put them back on the bed. Frank had fallen asleep with his reading light on, so Fenton closed the book and turned the light off, pausing for a minute when he saw Frank’s bear was absent from it’s usual spot. He didn’t stop to ponder it though, just went to bed himself.  

He wouldn’t think of the bear again until his cell phone rang Tuesday evening and Sam told him Frank had been shot.

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.