I gasp. “You’re with Hank? What? How long? Why hasn’t anyone told me?” They all turn to stare at me, and I can’t speak, my body so light I think I’m hovering above the seat, overcome with happiness. “Oh, have you? Sorry.” I’m combing through my notebook, but the lines blur together from my smile, and I look up, not needing to read about it, wanting to enjoy the moment with them. “That’s so great, Ruth.” I was only seven when her husband left, but I can still remember the sadness reflected in her eyes for months afterward.

Ruth’s face softens and she gives a relaxed smile that makes her instantly younger. “I have you to thank, Claire.”

“Me?”

She nods and I think her eyes are wet. “I’ve watched you living your life no matter what was in your path, making the best out of every single lemon life gave you. One day I just decided it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with it.” She shrugs. “And Hank was right there, so.”

This I do write down, in detail, because I never want to forget the happiness that smooths her skin, illuminates her eyes.

Mom’s phone rings. “Hi, Tate. Oh no . . . yes.” She visibly softens. “I’m sure she’d love that. Okay, send her up.” She presses end, meets my eyes. “Tate is in Anchorage and is going to miss the tunnel. His daughter, Maree, is at a friend’s house, but she doesn’t want to spend the night there. She asked if she could stay here.”

My mind spins. Tate. His daughter. I wait for the information to settle. “With me?”

“Yes, Tate’s daughter, Maree, the girl you teach guitar and volunteer with at school.”

My shoulders lift with a sudden rush of excitement. “I’d love that . . . oh”—a sudden wave of insecurity hits me—“do you think I can do it?”

A knock at the door, and Sefina rises. “No time like the present to find out, hey, Claire?” She opens the door to a little girl, who immediately hops into the room, shouldering a full backpack, a white teddy bear squeezed between her arms. She’s wearing pajamas with little rabbits bouncing from the sleeves to the legs. A silver name tag is affixed to the front pocket of her jammie shirt. Maree.

“Hi, everybody. Hi, Ms. Claire.”

I get her a chair and sit her right beside me. “Hi, Maree. I’m glad you’re here.”

Mom brings over a spongy brown cake; rings of pineapple glisten yellow across the top.

“Oh, yum. What’s that?” Maree asks.

“A pineapple upside-down cake. Have you had one before?” Mom says.

Maree shakes her head. “I’d remember a cake like that.”

“Who wants coffee?” Harriet asks.