There was expectancy in the aunt’s wide eyes and parted mouth. Maggie’s stomach sank. She wished she could say, Good news. Mom’s sorry. She misses you. She’s seen the light and even plans to attend the exhibition.

But she couldn’t.

Wren searched Maggie’s face, caught her lower lip in her teeth, and looked away.

When they gathered in the kitchen, the aunt bent to give the dog a pat, then welcomed Maggie with a pat, too. “Did you have fun?” she asked with deliberate cheerfulness. “Do anything special?”

“We tried. Wish it had been more productive.”

Caleb nodded distractedly. He hadn’t seemed at ease since returning from Mary Tate’s. Linnie had noted his shock on their way out of the diner and said, “Nice neighborhood, hmm?” He had only shaken his head. If he’d learned anything important, he hadn’t shared it. All he’d said was “I don’t think Sam has a right to this letter, Linnie. It’s yours.” But she’d just rolled her eyes and turned away.

Now Linnie yawned. “I wouldn’t call the last three days a barrel of fun. But I’ll say this—” She stretched and let an arm land heavily across Maggie’s shoulders, pitching her off-balance.

Maggie squeaked.

With a laugh, Linnie hauled her into a tight hug. “Your niece here is pretty awesome.” Just as abruptly, she released her, then rested her forearm on her brow like a Victorian maiden preparing to swoon. “Fucking A. Am I glad to be back.”

19

WHILE MAGGIE WAS unpacking her duffel bag, her father called to make sure she’d gotten back safely. He repeated his offer to collect her on Saturday or “at least for Thanksgiving, honey. It’s a family holiday!”

“Wren’s family, too,” Maggie said. “Is she invited?”

Dad didn’t answer right away, then said, “Considering how your mom’s feeling about your aunt right now and that whole mess, whatever it is, I would have to say … um, no.”

“Then I’m sorry. I can’t make it.”

He didn’t ask again.

November slipped by, a frantic spell for the aunt, who was scrambling to mix and apply glazes and fire her last sculpture in time for the exhibition. But for Maggie, the days were quiet and shrouded in snow. Though Dad called every now and then, her mother only texted—and infrequently, at that. Maggie read bitterness and hurt in the stretches of silence. Mom wanted Maggie to team up with her, and Maggie just wouldn’t. Taking her mother’s side in this conflict was wrong.

The doses of the silent treatment from Mom, the letter Linnie wouldn’t read, and Jane Cannon, with her carefully made-up face and styled hair—the snow might as well have fallen on these problems, too. One issue after another, utterly unresolved, frozen under the cloak of cold denial.