“It tastes fine to me,” Meg said.

“I meant for us.”

Meg laughed. “There’s wine in the pantry. Left over from Thanksgiving.”

Pinot noir. Trey could say what he liked about his grandfather, but the old boy knew how to buy wine. I opened a bottle and poured some vino into glasses. Splashed some into the sauce.

“I meant to go shopping before you came,” Meg said.

“I’m a week early.”

“Christmas shopping,” Meg said. “I was going to buy a tree.”

Oh. I looked around at the faded hydrangea wallpaper, the salt and pepper shakers shaped like birds, the windup kitchen clock. Everything the same, dear and familiar. The air even smelled the same, of old wood and books and, faintly, of the barn. But now that Meg had pointed it out, I could see neglect lying over the house like the patina of woodsmoke. A pile of mail instead of the Christmas village on the lowboy. A film of dust on the piano where the Nativity scene should be. No wreath, no tree, no candles shining welcome from the windows.

A longing for our mother pierced me. And for our father, although making the house ready for Christmas had never been his thing. Or mine, either.

“I could do it. Decorate, I mean,” I said. “Now that I’m home.”

Meg smiled. “We’ll do it together. Like we used to.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said.

“I’m glad you’re here, too.”

“Whatever happens, you have each other,” Momma used to say. I’d never been more grateful for my sister’s presence.

We ate dinner together in the kitchen. Anyway, Meg and I ate. The twins dropped noodles on the floor and smeared red sauce on the table.

“They had cookies for lunch,” Meg explained, mopping a milk spill. She turned her gaze on me. “What will you do now?”

I swallowed, my appetite gone. “I figured I’d stay here.”

“For Christmas,” Meg said.

“For Mom’s surgery and Christmas.” I shoved pasta around my plate. “Maybe longer. Until Mom’s out of rehab.”

Meg’s eyes were full of doubt. “That could be weeks. What about your apartment?”

“I can’t afford the rent as it is. I was going to have to let it go anyway. Move to the Bronx. Find another roommate.” I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll sublet.”

“Won’t that make it harder to go back?”

“What happened to, ‘I’m glad you’re here’?”

“I am glad. It wouldn’t feel like Christmas without you. Especially with the girls gone this year.”

“The house is awfully quiet.” I grinned. “No Amy drama.”

“No Bethie singing.”

“I can’t believe our little Mouse is a YouTube sensation.”

“Jealous?” Meg asked.

“No.” Maybe. I drank more wine. “I’m proud of her. It’s time she spread her wings.”

“You don’t think this Colt Henderson is taking advantage of her?”

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” I’d told Eric.

“Maybe I am taking advantage of you,” he’d said, kissing my neck.

The memory made me squirm. “He’s using Beth’s song in his show,” I pointed out. “I’d say the advantage is on her side.”