Jack closed the door, stowed his wallet, and returned to the living room. “Why don’t we talk while we eat?” He continued to the kitchen and set the pizza box on a glass-topped table for two.

When Hannah didn’t follow, he closed his eyes. Filled his lungs. Silently repeated the mantra he’d been cycling through all day.

Don’t spook her. Be nice. Be approachable.

He returned to the doorway between the kitchen and living room/formal dining area. “Do you think you could help me find plates and napkins and glasses? I wouldn’t have a clue where anything is.”

She hesitated.

Lord, don’t let her run to her room and close the door. Please. I don’t know what I’ll do if she refuses to talk to me.

The silent plea spilled out, despite his earlier decision not to bother praying.

But maybe God would listen to a prodigal son, even one who hadn’t yet returned home.

Hannah left her barricade behind and approached the kitchen.

Thank you, God!

He ditched his jacket, backing away to give her space as she edged around to the far side of the island.

“The plates and glasses are in that cabinet.” She pointed to one closer to him. “I can get the napkins. The soda’s in the fridge.” Also closer to him.

He retrieved the plates and glasses. Set them on the table. Opened the fridge and gave it a quick perusal.

The contents looked like an ad for Whole Foods. Every healthy item was grouped by category, each one precisely arranged. Including the organic soda.

“What would you like to drink?” He searched in vain among the black currant, passion fruit, and rhubarb—rhubarb?—flavors for a simple Diet Sprite or Dr Pepper.

Nada.

“Water.”

“I’m with you.” He pulled out two bottles of water and set them on the table. “Let’s see what she ordered.”

She sidled closer, several napkins in hand, as he opened the box.

“It’s pepperoni.” He folded the lid under the bottom. “Do you like this kind?”

“Better than the one with pineapple we had last week.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I like pineapple, but not on pizza.” He extracted two pieces, put one on each plate, and sat. “Come on. Let’s eat while we talk.”

She slid into her chair as he picked up the pizza he didn’t want. But his last meal had been hours ago, and he was operating on fumes. He had to eat.

“Don’t you say grace?”

Whoops.

He set the pizza down. “I, uh, kind of got out of the habit.” And near as he could recall, Natalie hadn’t been the praying type back in St. Louis.

But perhaps having kids compelled you to rethink your relationship—and theirs—with God.

“Aunt Erica doesn’t pray either.”

“It’s a good idea, though. You want to say it?” He folded his hands.