When we pull up to the house, Daddy’s Tahoe is parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Now, why would he do that?” Mom says, and parks on the street.

“Probably wasn’t thinking.” I defend Daddy, even though I’m mad we’ll have to walk in the cold instead of going straight into the house from the garage. But right now, it’s not about me. If Mom and Daddy have any chance of reconciling today, she can’t start off with an attitude. “You need help carrying anything?” I ask Mom to try to help better her mood.

“Yeah, can you grab those plans off the backseat? Thanks.”

I turn around, get on my knees, and grab two giant rolls of architectural plans. Barbara A, the name of Mom’s interior design business (her first name and middle initial), is stamped in red on the outside. “Are these for the new boutique?”

“Sure are,” she says, smiling. “We start the build-out next month.”

Inside, Daddy’s keys are in the singing bowl on the side table near the front door. I stop and smile at them for a second before going into the breakfast room where he and Cole are at the table playing chess on our vintage chessboard. Well, actually, Daddy looks like he’s trying to decide his next move and Cole is taking pictures. Not even with his iPhone; he brought out the Nikon—the big dog. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am—There’s hope!

“Hey,” Cole says, and comes to give me a hug. But he has on entirely too much cologne. Don’t know what girl he was trying to impress, but he’s not about to have me smelling like that.

I duck his arms. “Dang, bathe in cologne much?”

Cole pinches his shirt as if poppin’ his collar. “Don’t hate. Appreciate,” he says, and laughs.

“Brought some Ethiopian food,” Daddy says, and stands up out of the deep-seated bench flanking the window.

Behind him the wind whips through the big tree in the backyard, making the antique brass bells hanging from its branches softly ring out.

“It’s in there on the island,” he adds.

He knows Ethiopian is Mom’s favorite. There’s definitely hope.

Mom looks over at the white plastic bags sitting on the kitchen island—teal with a butcher-block countertop. “Thanks, just give me a minute to put all this down,” she says, referring to the stack of catalogs she’s carrying.

“I’ll get ’em,” Cole says, offering to take them from her.

“No, it’s fine,” she says, and walks past the kitchen and down the hall to her office.

Before I hug Daddy, I place the plans down on the table next to the chessboard. Man-oh-man-oh-man, does it feel good to be hugging him in our house.

“What are these?” Daddy says, and lets go of me. He reaches down for one.