She spoke to a neighbor and two of her daughters; to the man who ran the pharmacy and an acquaintance from Oneonta. Bernard came over to thank her for piling the apples on one of his decorative platters, and she told him how much she loved the grass-green lizard skirting the rim. She greeted four vineyard owners from Bully Hill, who were talking glumly with some growers from the valley, and then she refilled the punch cups of two high school boys. Friends of Charlie’s? In the hall, snow boots leaned against each other on the metal trays, and ridges of hats and mittens snaked along the bench. The backyard, visible through the long parlor windows, looked exactly as it was meant to, the deep unbroken snow shining beneath the lanterns, the gazebo as stark as if it were carved in ice, the dark trees beyond the light suggesting miles of mysterious woods.

The door opened again—Henrietta Atkins, with her niece Alice, windblown and red-cheeked—and outside the trees swayed. “We snowshoed down from my house,” Henrietta announced. “We saw wild turkeys!” Alice added.

From her place near the Christmas tree, Chloe listened with what, for a moment, looked to Opal like envy. And from the dining room—had he been watching out the window for them to arrive?—her floppy-haired, long-fingered grandson Charlie bounded across the hall, knocking down boots like bowling pins as he rushed toward the new arrivals.

THE TEDIOUS GARAGE owner caught Charlie near Nana’s favorite sofa. His buildings, his automobiles, the difficulties of finding a new mechanic—what was Charlie planning to do after graduation? Was he interested in engine repair? His chin mole wagged with his words. Alice and Miss Atkins were less than twenty feet away, his teacher so oddly dressed that Charlie hardly recognized her. At school she wore white blouses and dark skirts, practical clothes that wouldn’t catch on a microscope or brush the flame of a Bunsen burner, but tonight she’d celebrated with a scarlet dress lumpily tiered from hip to calf and frilled around the low neck. Old-fashioned, like something his grandmother might have worn when he was a boy. Or maybe just old—Alice had told him that her aunt bought clothes at the church jumble sale.

“Would you excuse me?” he said. “I have to talk to my teacher.” A few strides and he was there, trying not to look at the freckled slice of chest revealed by Miss Atkins’s dress.

“Aren’t I ridiculous?” she said gaily, pointing down. At least she wasn’t wearing pants. “I forgot to bring shoes.” She wiggled her toes, clad only in stockings—but the next toes over, demure in black ribbed cotton, were what made him blush. “Alice left hers behind too.”

With an effort Charlie looked up and complimented Alice’s dress.