The big green house at the edge of the village still had all its porches then, along with the fanlight above the front door. The gazebo where Jasper had once kissed Raney stood at the back of the garden, across the path from the cliff; the fountain worked, the flagstones were level, the tools in the garden shed gleamed. The broad downstairs hall connected library to double parlor, dining room to kitchen to pantry: a useful arrangement for this gathering held each year to thank the Durands’ employees and please their neighbors.

Afterwards a notice would appear in the Gazette. Who’d attended (half the village stopped by during the long hours of generous food and drink, along with people from vineyards and wineries around the lake). What was served, what the weather was like. The elder Mrs. Durand—Opal, as designated by the Gazette—wearing an ink-blue dress and patent leather pumps, presided graciously as always, welcoming guests to the beautifully decorated reception rooms.

The doors opened, opened, opened again—and there were the Perrottes, and Walter Fontaine, and three young men from the packing line at the winery. The fire flared each time. The ancient aunts, holding court in their special chairs, complained as they had for thirty years about the draft. In the early days, when Opal’s sons were small and Nana, her mother-in-law, was strong and healthy, still handsome in the violet gowns she favored, she’d shown off her grandsons like a litter of prize pigs. Nearly twenty years later, when Didier returned from France with Chloe and their little boy, Nana had paraded Charlie from cousin to neighbor. Now Charlie was nearly grown and Nana refused to come downstairs. Still, Didier and Jasper had hung the wreaths and arranged the racks for the coats, suspended lanterns from the gazebo and the trees, tied back the drapes so the rooms could beckon to the street.

Or maybe, Opal thought, watching the delivery truck move slowly past, so that anyone who’d decided to skip the event could be seen. As evening fell, the rooms brightly signaled all passers-by, promising good cheer and good company. No one could afford to offend her family. Crates of extra glasses migrated up to the house from the winery just for this, and she’d hired several of the girls who did seasonal work in the vineyards. Two were clearing the coffee things now and returning with platters of savory canapés. Later the drinks and hors d’oeuvres would be replaced by a big buffet and then by dessert, ending finally with brandy and wine.

So many hours still to go. So many conversations. If she’d worn her gray pumps, her feet wouldn’t be so sore. If she turned this all over to Chloe, if she could take Didier aside and say—