The silence around my kitchen table is good, punctured only by the clink of forks and knives on plates. I’m hosting dinner tonight, and it’s a perfect evening to be inside with friends and my mom, who joined us because she lives in Whittier now. I am surprised to find that her presence feels natural and easy, and I bask in a welcome sensation that she is back in my life. Outside, a winter storm batters the coastline, and the snow is falling thick and fast.

Sefina sits back, pats her stomach. “I’ve got to save room for dessert. That was delicious, Claire.” She’s older than when we first met—I can tell from the shallow lines that spider out from her eyes—but always beautiful, still exuding a contentment that she didn’t have when she first got here. A contentment she credits to my dad for making sure her abusive ex-husband left Whittier for good.

Harriet barks a laugh that is laced with a roughness that comes from years of smoking. “Best chicken parm I’ve had in ages, and that includes the one I had in a trattoria in Manarola when Pete and I backpacked through Italy years ago.”

Ruth groans and keeps eating, and I just smile while I scan my talking points. There aren’t many on the page, as though I was too busy to prepare, but I don’t feel panicked by it, at least not in their company. “Ruth tells me that some of the townspeople aren’t too happy with all the proposed development at the harbor.”

Mom laughs and I’m struck by how alive she looks—so different from the woman who left. “That townsperson happens to be Ruth herself. She goes to every single council meeting to voice her opposition.”

“Last time she had protest signs,” Sefina adds. “It’s a wonder Tate’s even speaking to you, Ruth.”

Ruth raises her eyebrows, sniffs, and eats the last bite of her chicken. “Must be my sparkling personality.”

I smile, look at Ruth, who is as sturdy and dependable as a lighthouse in a storm. She’s been alone since her husband left, I think, and suddenly, I can’t bear the idea of her without someone to care about her for once. “When are you going to share that sparkling personality with someone, Ruth?”

Her mouth hangs open, and the lines in her forehead deepen with surprise.

Harriet points a pasta-laden fork at Ruth. “See, we all know about it, Ruth. Even Claire.” She smiles at me. “No offense.” Ruth presses her lips together, her cheeks colored pink, and gives Harriet a look.

“You and Hank are terrible at hiding your feelings anyway,” Sefina adds.