Amy sighed, dropped the pine needles to the carpet and strolled slowly down the steps; her legs felt like yarn unraveling. How had she thought that no one, absolutely no one, would notice what she was going through? How could she have assumed this mess with Nick could occur in a bubble, that backlash would not shake her world?

She had considered the ancient desire that was rumbling deep within her to be her own personal struggle. But as though she were tied to her family by more than blood, by an invisible sinew as well, they, too, sensed that struggle. Jack and Lisbeth were quarreling. Jack thought his mother . . .

She walked into the bedroom and found Phil waiting for her.

“Do you like this shirt or this one?” He held up what looked like two identical shirts.

“They’re the same, Phil.”

“No, one is navy and one is dark blue.”

“They are the same.”

“Which one, of the same shirt, do you like better?”

She rolled her eyes. “The one on the right.”

“The dark blue it is.”

“I thought that was the navy one.”

“It might be.” He leaned across the space between them and kissed her. “Thanks for the fashion advice. What’re you wearing tonight?”

“I bought a new dress.”

“Can’t wait to see you in it.” He walked toward the bathroom, humming “Jingle Bells” as he moved.

The music—it’s what she’d meant to do before she heard her children—the music and now a much-needed glass of wine.

She went downstairs and pulled the Christmas CDs from their labeled box. She laid them across the floor and picked her ten favorites and arranged them in the CD changer. She pushed the RANDOM button and started the stereo, then checked that each speaker button was pushed to ON for each room in the house, from the dining room to the kitchen. Garth Brooks began to sing about the most wonderful time of the year . . . caroling out in the snow . . . and Amy walked to the kitchen to grab a glass of wine.

Celia looked up and squinted. “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds.” “Something wrong?”

“I thought you were going to get dressed.”

Amy looked down at her robe, her fuzzy red Santa-hat slippers. “Whoops, I was.” She looked up at Celia. “You don’t think this is a very nice outfit?”

“If you want it to be a well talked-about party, why yes, I do.”

“No, I just need a glass of wine—white—then I’m finally off to dress.”

What she really wanted was for her legs to tighten beneath her; she couldn’t walk around all night with the sturdiness of a tumbling toddler.