"I remember the spelling bee," he said. "I remember because I was going to go, and Diane said it would hurt Madison's feelings if I wasn't at the recital, and I thought, well, Claire's tough, Claire won't mind. I thought that a lot. Claire won't mind." He shook his head slowly. "God. I was proud of that. I thought it was a compliment. You were the easy one. You never needed anything."
"I needed things," Claire said. "I just stopped asking."
He turned to look at her then, really look, and she saw his eyes were wet.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That's not enough. I know that's not enough. But I'm sorry, Claire. I'm so sorry."
She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. But she let him put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned, a little, into the warmth of his bathrobe, and they sat there together in the snow like two people who had just met and found they had something in common.
The door opened again, and this time it was the cane.
"Gregory, you'll catch pneumonia in those socks and then your wife will blame me," Grandma Ruth said. "Go inside. I want to talk to my granddaughter."
Greg stood, wiping his face. At the door he paused and looked back at Claire as if he wanted to say something more, and then he went in.
Grandma Ruth did not attempt the step. She lowered herself instead onto the porch swing, which complained loudly, and patted the space beside her. Claire got up and sat. The swing rocked gently. They watched the snow.
"I owe you an apology," her grandmother said.
Claire looked at her, startled. "You? For what?"
"For not seeing it sooner. Or for seeing it and telling myself it wasn't my business." Grandma Ruth folded her hands on the head of her cane. "Every year I came down here and noticed things. The stockings. The presents. The way your mother talks over you at the table. And every year I thought, it's not my house, it's not my place, I'll only make it worse for her. So I sent you books and I called on Sundays, and I told myself that was enough." She shook her head. "It wasn't. I taught teenagers for thirty-one years. I know exactly what it looks like when a child has decided she isn't worth the trouble. I should have said something years ago."
"You said something today."
"I did. Better late." Her grandmother smiled faintly. "The look on your mother's face, though. I'll confess I enjoyed that more than a Christian woman ought to."
Despite everything, Claire laughed. It came out wet and surprised, and her grandmother laughed too, and the swing creaked under them.
"What happens now?" Claire asked.
"Now? I don't entirely know. That's up to your parents, mostly, and they're going to have some long nights. But I know what I'd like to happen, if you'll let me." Grandma Ruth turned to face her. "I'd like you to come back to Vermont with me after Christmas. Stay through the