“Fine.”

I snorted. “You sound like Mom.”

“Yeah.” Meg looked away.

“We should tell the girls about her surgery on Friday.”

“I know. But what good would it do? It’s not like they can come home.”

“They still have a right to know.”

“It’s not our place to tell them.”

“Have you talked to Dad?”

“To Mom and Dad. She doesn’t want to worry them. And he doesn’t want to upset Mom.”

“I could e-mail them,” I offered.

“Because that’s reassuring,” Meg said dryly.

I shrugged.

“Fine. I’ll tell them,” Meg said, taking Mom’s role as she always did. Taking responsibility. Thank God. “I’ll tell them everything’s fine and they don’t need to come.”

“Thanks.”

Her smile flickered. “It’s what I do.”

“Make everybody feel better?”

“Pretty much.” Her tone was light.

I peered at her, trying to read her expression in the dark. Trying to imagine how it would be to have everyone depending on me all the time, to be responsible for everybody’s feelings. “So, what’s this about you going to work for Carl Stewart?”

“Oh, that. It’s just part-time. A couple hours a week, helping out with the books since his parents retired. I can do most of it from home.”

“Following your passion,” I said, half joking.

“I don’t have a passion. I’m an accountant.”

“But you like numbers.”

Meg nodded. “I like the clarity. The responsibility. And I’m not going to lie—I like getting paid.”

“What does John think about you going back to work?”

“John says it’s my decision. Whatever I want, he said.”

“Well, that sucks.”

She laughed. “A little. Like it’s all on me. But, really, he just wants me to be happy. He gave up teaching so I could stay home with the kids. He doesn’t want to take that choice away from me. I think maybe because his mom didn’t have a choice, you know? She had to work.”

“Whatever you want,” Eric had said. Because he didn’t want to take advantage of an employee. Because he trusted me to say no. Like I could be myself, and it would be okay. Me telling him what I wanted freed him to say what he wanted.

Until he wanted me to go.

Headlights swung up the drive. I raised my head, squinting against the glare. “Dad’s home.”

But he wasn’t.

A white Mercedes pulled up to the barn, and a well-upholstered woman in a purple car coat climbed out, a plastic cake saver in one hand, her little dog cradled in the other.

“Aunt Phee,” Meg said. “What a surprise.”

“I could say the same.” Our aunt’s gaze swept the glowing lights and the bottle of wine before narrowing on me. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s Christmas,” I said.

“Not for another week. But I suppose there’s nothing to keep you in New York now that you’ve lost your job.” My job at the paper, she meant. But her words stabbed anyway. She was right. I was twenty-eight years old, underemployed, unattached, and back where I started. “Unless you’re finally dating someone,” she added, twisting the knife.