Phil, Jack and Molly appeared at the table, preoccupied with their own thoughts of what the day had held, with their own activities and desires, so they didn’t notice the family’s traditional meal for birthdays, victorious tennis matches, anniversaries or excellent report cards. They all sat down at the table and Amy was warm, surrounded. Talk circled about school and tennis, of Phil’s work and their Christmas schedule. No one had yet noticed the obvious celebratory hint of the dinner.

“Mom.” Jack put his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “You know the Christmas open house you have every year?”

“Yep. Invitations already printed. Why?”

“Lisbeth . . . well, Lisbeth and I were wondering if you could invite her parents. She really wants them there and, well, they could take the place of the Stevensons, who never show up.”

He was referring to Phil’s boss, and Phil disagreed this time. “No, buddy, this year they’ll come.”

“Good.” Jack looked at his mother. “Can the Lowrys come, too?”

“Sure,” she said, picking up the wine bottle and wanting to drink the entire contents at the thought. “No problem.” She was anxious to change the subject, to tell them her news.

Molly punched her brother on the side of the arm. “Are these gonna be our in-laws?’”

“Not yet.” Jack smiled and shoved a pile of mashed potatoes in his mouth.

“Well, then.” Molly swept her hands over the table. “This dinner must be because you’re here.”

Ah, so Molly had noticed.

“No,” Amy said. “Well, a little. I’m celebrating Jack being home for the weekend, but I also have some good news.” She looked at Phil; he scooted his chair closer to the table. She wanted him to ask, just ask.

“What is it?” Phil asked.

She poured wine into his glass and leaned back, savoring the suspense. “Well, it seems that we may have found an endangered plant on the island that can possibly get us a Heritage Trust—and even better, I heard from Joe today that there’s a way to find out the name of the buyer.”

Phil leaned back in his seat and folded his arms over his chest. She should’ve felt the trembles of regret already rolling toward her—and she might have if she weren’t so prepared to have Phil join her in celebration, if she hadn’t been so geared up for the expectation of his joy and willingness to help her.

She plowed on. “If we can get the name of the buyer, we can go to him, put the heat on through media and—” Phil held up his hand; she stopped, and her heart sank—he didn’t want to hear her news.

“Amy.” He closed his eyes.