Josie reaches the door first, stomps her boots to get rid of the snow. She’s getting tall these days, and even starting to look a bit like Jeff. She’s always been like a carbon copy of Dinah, so it’s odd to see that change.

“Hi, Josie. How’s the snow out there?”

“Good! How are the birds?”

We have a bird-feeder out back which we always let Josie fill when she comes over. She knows it’s a task Oliver saves for her; I’ve sometimes even known him to go empty it before she arrives.

“Hungry,” says Oliver, and she grins at him.

“Josie, you remember Sam, right?” I say. “My nephew?”

Josie looks at him.

“No…Hi, Sam. Are you coming to feed the birds?”

“Uh.” He readjusts the headphones around his neck and I swear I hear his voice get deeper. “Yeah. Sure.”

Oliver leads them off to get the bird food and Dinah and Jeff follow me into the kitchen.

“So…?” Dinah says.

I tell her the latest: how Abigail’s in Miami, and we still haven’t heard a word from her.

Jeff whistles. “Your sister knows how to keep things interesting, Gillian.”

“I won’t argue with that. All I can say is, I’m glad Dennis is flying back in a couple of days.”

Out in the garden, Josie and Sam are getting to work with the birdfeeder. They look so lovely against the snow—so fresh, so young, Josie in her red parka and Sam in his blue one. I feel a small pang in my chest.

As if on cue Sam looks up, gives a tentative wave. I raise my hand in response.

“Earth to Gillian?”

I turn around. Jeff’s smiling at me.

“Sorry, what was that?”

He smiles at me. Jeff, the younger brother, is basically a leaner, taller version of Oliver. He’s the rambunctious one, and has always been the golden boy in that family, but somehow Oliver’s never held it against him. I’ve never liked comparing their relationship to Abigail’s and mine.

“I was just asking,” Jeff says, “how it feels to be free of those rugrats at Birch Bend Elementary for a couple of weeks.”

“I’m not a rugrat,” Josie says, coming in through the garden door.

Jeff reaches for her ponytail, pulls on it affectionately.

“You’re the rugrattiest.”

I can’t help a moment of imagining: of picturing Oliver with his own daughter, teasing her like that. I swallow the thought.

“Oops,” I say, looking around. “Bad hosts. What’s everyone drinking? Juice, beer, seltzer? I could make mimosas?”

Dinah waves away the mimosa offer.

“Seltzer’s great,” she says. “You have those fancy flavored ones, right? I love those.”

“I’ll take a beer,” Jeff says. “None of that goji berry-pomegranate stuff for me, thank you very much.”