Fear changed everyone and everything, and yet, as always, life went on. Hour by hour, day by day, while politicians and military personnel were looking for bombs and terrorists, and while the Justice Department was tearing down Enron’s papery walls, families went on with their ordinary lives. Kate continued to run her errands and raise her children and love her husband. If she held on to all of them a little more tightly and kept them closer to home, everyone understood: the world wasn’t as safe as it had been before.

Now Thanksgiving was a week away and Christmas lurked just around the corner.

It was the holiday season, the time of year that turned women into card-carrying split personalities. Torn between the joy of the season and the amount of work that joy required, Kate often had trouble slowing down, remembering to savor the precious moments. There was baking to do—for the school parties, for the ballet bake sale, for donations at Helper House—and shopping, of course. As magical as Bainbridge Island was, when it came time to do serious gift-combing, one was reminded forcibly that this was a body of land surrounded by water. Thus, malls and department stores were far away. She felt like a mountain climber sometimes, setting out for a vertical ascent without oxygen; the summit was Nordstrom. When you had three kids, it took time to pick out their presents, and time was in short supply.

Now, as Kate sat in the driver’s seat of her car, parked in the first position in the carpool lane, she began her Christmas list. She’d only gotten a few items down when the bell rang and kids poured out of the middle school.

Marah usually came out of the brick building in a clot of girls. Like killer whales, preteen girls traveled in pods. But today she was alone, walking fast, with her head down and her arms crossed tightly.

Kate knew something was wrong. The question was: how bad was it? Her daughter was twelve years old. That meant hormones were boiling through her body, turning her emotions into a witch’s cauldron. Everything was big drama these days.

“Hey,” Kate said tentatively, knowing one wrong word could cause a fight.

“Hey.” Marah climbed into the front passenger seat and reached for he seatbelt, clicking it into place. “Where are the brats?”

“Evan’s birthday party. Daddy’s going to pick them up on his way home.”

“Oh.”

Kate pulled out of the parking lane and merged into the stop-and-go traffic on Sportsman’s Club Road. All the way home she tried to begin a conversation, but all her pitches turned out to be strikes. At best Marah offered a one-word answer, at worst an eye roll or a dramatic sigh. When they pulled into the garage, Kate gave it one more try. “I’m making cookies for the boys’ Thanksgiving party tomorrow. You want to help me?”