But still he hadn’t written Charlie. Maybe she’d worn out his goodwill? Across the room, the fire flared as someone rearranged the logs, and Leon, the head of the family, in a faded vest that made her appreciate again her festive red, moved from guest to guest with two open bottles of some special vintage. When she was—twelve, perhaps? The age when she used to see Izzy; her hair in braids, like Alice’s; her teacher drawing a map of Brazil on the board—she’d seen from her seat near the window a beautifully dressed little boy being walked by his even more beautifully dressed mother to his first day of school: Leon at the age of five or six, a little prince. Over the years, as he doubled the size of the winery, he’d expanded similarly and assumed an almost comic dignity. Now all he’d made of the family business was threatened.

Charlie’s father, Didier, stopped near her elbow—accidentally, she thought; Mrs. Couperin had turned into his path as he’d tried to glide by—and she braced herself.

“I wondered when you might grace us with your presence,” he said. He gestured toward the table, where the appetizers were making room for great platters of turkey and ham. “Won’t you have some supper?”

“Soon,” she said. Another of her former students emerged from the kitchen balancing two big ovals along each arm: how graceful she was, and how strong! Miranda, carrying carrots. And holding the door open for her was Bernard, who’d been teaching Charlie some of the techniques he used to make casts of bones, seedpods, even live animals for his plates and vessels. She reminded herself to ask if he’d visit her classes next year.

She smiled at Bernard over Didier’s shoulder and then, since Didier said nothing, complimented the table decorations. “I wanted to say hello to your grandmother,” she continued. “Do you know where she is?”

“Upstairs,” Didier said. “Sulking. I don’t know what else to call it.”

That strong-willed woman, sulking: she hadn’t expected that. Diplomatically, she said, “It’s a hard time for everyone.”

“No one’s thrilled to be doing this,” he said. “But after last year—we had to make the effort.”

They’d skipped the open house last year, Henrietta remembered. The worst wave of the influenza had passed by then, but everyone had been exhausted and grieving. Both schools had closed, the movie theater, most of the businesses. Even the celebrations for the Armistice had been muted. Two of her former students who’d joined up had died of influenza in their camps. And in France two had been killed in action and five had been wounded. Out of respect for them (and perhaps a kind of guilt: Didier and Jasper had been too old to serve and Charlie too young), the Durands had canceled the usual celebration.