“I understand. But we have patients waiting who are willing to do the work.”

“My mother has worked her whole damn life. She’ll get out of bed after her surgery.”

“Jo, it’s all right,” my mother said. “Don’t fuss.”

But after the aide left, she cried, silent tears of frustration leaking from her closed eyes. It was a relief when she slept.

It rained all week, a thin, cold rain that darkened the shortened hours and drove the goats to seek shelter under the lean-to. The days until my mother’s surgery stretched gray and empty. I visited her every day, driving an hour each way past frozen fields and huddled houses, my windshield wipers beating against the gloom.

When I got home, I fed the goats and my father, but he was rarely around.

“The holidays are a difficult time,” he explained. “Particularly for people who are dealing with sickness or loneliness or separation.”

Tell me about it, I thought.

I’d always relished my own space. But the house felt haunted by the ghosts of Christmases Past. I missed my sisters: the smell of Meg’s nail polish, the plunk of Beth’s guitar, even Amy’s messes scattered everywhere. Meg loved me. But she had John and the twins to care for. I couldn’t expect her to babysit me all the time.

There were worse things in life than being alone, I reminded myself. Anyway, it’s not like I didn’t have stuff to do. Laundry. Cleaning. I could haul out more Christmas decorations. Let Trey know I was back in town.

Or . . . I grabbed my hoodie and went out to the barn.

Shoveling straw was like cooking on the line—hard, dirty, sweaty work. After twenty minutes, I paused to pull off my hoodie. It felt good to use my muscles, to occupy my hands, to find my rhythm. To feel appreciated, even if it was only by the goats.

But as I lay in bed, listening to the creaks and pings of the old house at night, a message lit my phone screen. Eric.

Are you all right?

My throat cinched tight. Chefs were egotistical, temperamental jerks. But Eric . . . Despite his unforgiving standards in the kitchen, he had a basic decency, an innate kindness I admired. He looked out for his employees.

Or ex-employees. Ray must have told him by now I wasn’t coming back to work.

Fine. I chewed my lip, staring at the single, stingy word on the screen. Added, You?

He texted back instantly. I want to see you. Let me in.

He must be at my building, waiting at my door, expecting me to buzz him up. My heartbeat quickened. Was he looking for an apology? A retraction? A booty call?

No. You were right, I typed, hoping he’d contradict me. Me working for you was a mistake.

I didn’t say mistake, he corrected. A problem.

Big problem. He thought I was using him. Which . . . Okay, I had. He’d served up his big heart on a plate, and I’d taken his passion to feed my own. But I put myself out there, too, in my words, on my blog. When I wrote about him, I revealed a piece of my heart. And he didn’t see. Or maybe he didn’t care. He’d belittled my blog. And that made me feel small.