The elevator arrives at their floor. Ruth gathers her parcels together and stands. The door opens onto the bright light of the foyer; it smells like Christmas tree and coffee. She hangs her coat on the coat stand and steps out of her shoes; her bare feet are white with cold, she notes, toeing at the residue of salt on the floor just inside. She can’t remember how many times she has asked Wilson to please take his shoes off before he comes through the door. “Belle!” she calls out. “I’m home!” She doesn’t expect an answer, but sometimes when she calls out Isabelle will appear from the kitchen or her bedroom or the study, wherever it is she’s been spending her time. Ruth listens for a moment for the sound of footsteps; she hears none. “Isabelle!” she calls again, heading toward the kitchen. She pauses in the hallway to examine large, wet shoe prints. “Wilson?” she calls, hoping that the shoe prints are his, wishing that what she felt was more annoyance than concern. “Isabelle?” she calls, hurrying now, then she stops short in the kitchen doorway. “Jimmy!”

Her brother and her daughter are seated at the kitchen table, each with a mug of coffee. “Coffee!” she says, and she snatches Isabelle’s mug away. “Do you ever want to grow?” she asks, splashing the coffee into the sink. She whirls around, her heart pounding. Isabelle is looking up at her with wide, bewildered eyes, a look of interrupted happiness on her face; instantly, Ruth feels awful. Her brother isn’t Isabelle’s fault.

“It was decaf.”

Ruth turns to face her brother at the sound of his voice. “Jimmy,” she says. She clears her throat. “What are you doing here?” She tries to ask this nicely, with an inquisitive rather than accusatory tone.

“Isabelle and I were just having a nice chat.”

“I see. And what brings you to the city?”

“Business. Also, you asked me to come. You said any old weekend, so since I was here anyway…”

“Of course,” Ruth says. She wants to point out that it’s really not any old weekend, that they are meant to go visit Wilson’s mother, that Sunday is Christmas Eve. She holds her tongue.

“Coffee?” Jimmy asks.

Ruth smiles tightly. “No, thanks,” she says. “So, what were you guys talking about?” She looks nervously toward Isabelle; her daughter glares at her.

“Well, I was doing most of the chatting, actually,” Jimmy says, and he winks at Isabelle. “Jungle stories, mostly.”

“Ah,” Ruth says. “And what did Isabelle have to say?” She looks again at her daughter, who is looking at Jimmy.

“Lots,” Jimmy says. “Lots and lots, but I don’t know what it was.” He leans toward Ruth. “Because she didn’t say it.” Their eyes meet; they stare.

The doorbell rings with startling suddenness; all of them jump, as if an electric jolt has pulsed through the room.