Eleanor stared at it with a wrinkled nose, then popped open the can and took a deep swig. “Dreadful,” she said. Then she reached over and shoveled a handful of my Cracker Jack into her mouth. “And this is like scraping out the inside of a candy bar,” she said. Then she grinned. A popcorn kernel was stuck in one of her incisors. “How marvelous.”

She tugged on the pristine Cubs hat I’d brought her from my US trip, which I documented for Nick. My head was awhirl with elation and sadness; I felt full and empty at once. My dad should have been here. But in his stead, we’d adopted Eleanor, and to a lesser degree Marta, and having them as surrogate Porters moved me more than I expected. Eleanor clutched my arm and gazed adoringly at Ben Zobrist’s postgame interview, that pesky Cracker Jack still wedged between her teeth, the beer resolutely refusing to wash it away. Part of her long silver hair had tumbled free of its bun; she evoked a witch who’d overslept. And she was, without a doubt, having capital-F Fun.

“Rebecca,” Eleanor said to me, cupping my face in her hands and then patting one of my cheeks with something approaching affection. “My dear, if I ever read about this in one of those Andrew Morton travesties, I shall strip you of your title.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

Given England’s propensity for wetness even in the mildest of months, Lacey and I had made several jokes about her getting married in the cold November rain. (“Should we have candles?” I’d asked. “It’d be hard to hold them,” she replied, and our mother looked completely confused.) But England kindly overlooked the easy Guns N’ Roses reference, and instead served Lacey a jewel of a wedding week. The sapphire sky bore no sign of the wintry gloom that we knew lurked around the corner, and the air was crisp like an apple, with a welcome bite.