My father met us at the door, his neck thrust forward from a lifelong effort to peer closely at things. He hugged me and gave Alison a dignified squeeze around the shoulders; they had met once before. Strangers, bashful people, strays, and underdogs always received his special attention; he was like Robin in that respect. I thought I saw Alison nestle into him for an instant before pulling away. From what little she said, her father had been abusive or neglectful or both. She kept her family apart from whatever went on between us; or maybe the truth was I had not shown a great deal of interest.

In the living room, I was assailed by the sharp sweet smell of pine. Gloves and mittens had been spread to dry on the raised hearth. Maddy’s straw angels, each one playing a different instrument, were arranged as always on a silver tray. The tree in the corner was strung with unlit lights and tinsel, but as of yet no ornaments. It was our tradition to decorate the tree together, lifting the ornaments one by one from the segmented boxes. Remember the gingerbread man, Mom? Remember the reindeer I made in second grade? I love the glass bell. Don’t you love the glass bell?

I had resolved not to prepare myself for the reality of Christmas, and now I pushed away the voices. I forced myself to see through the eyes of Alison, who had never been here and could not miss Maddy: the front window filled with lake; my mother smiling her way from the kitchen, wiping her wrists on a hand towel sewn to her apron, a gracious, old-fashioned mother who could move with the times; Barney prancing around, on everybody’s side.

I had warned my mother things were rocky between Robin and me. After welcoming Alison, she kissed the two of us and scanned our faces, intensifying the wattage of her smile. I felt she was taking my little hand and putting it in Robin’s little hand and urging us to make up before lunchtime.

My father went down to the dock to check the depth of the ice, taking Rose, Alison, and Barney with him. Robin stayed behind. He lowered himself into an armchair; he got up and scurried to the utility room, deciding finally to shovel the deck while I withdrew to the kitchen. I was putting peanut butter and spaghetti on the shelves when a knock came on the back door, so soft that I mistook it at first for a tapping branch.