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  But for now, Mara would play it cool, in case Kevin was acting as a double agent. “Did your father already buy a crate and everything?”

  “Nope. Just food and a leash.”

  “Well, we’ll have to go shopping, then.” Mara had recently found a credit card in Tom’s name that she hadn’t used in a few months, tucked inside an old wallet. The dog would need lots of things. Lots of expensive things. The most expensive crate she could find, for instance. And toys. And a plush monogrammed bed. Maybe it would also need obedience training. Tom would quickly discover how costly his gift was—even without vet bills—and if he complained about it, they would need to give up the dog. I’m sorry, Brian, Mara would say, but we can’t afford to keep him. Talk to your father about that.

  “And what about you, Kev?” she asked, injecting cheerfulness into her voice. “What did your father give you?” Tom wouldn’t give Brian an extra Christmas gift without keeping the boys even.

  “Some surfing stuff.”

  Predictable. Tom had probably planned some expensive summer vacation for himself and the boys. Hawaii, maybe. But she wouldn’t think about that now. For now, she had two things that needed her immediate attention: finish baking for their family dinner and get to Crossroads by ten thirty with Kevin.

  She was proud of him. Very proud of him. Though Coach Conrad had given him ten mandatory hours of volunteer service when he picked a fight with a teammate after a December basketball game, today Kevin would serve hours eleven, twelve, and thirteen at his own suggestion. “’Cause I won’t get to see the kids as much after school starts again,” he’d told her. “And I bet some of them will be leaving soon, don’t you think?”

  Kevin had surprised Mara by how quickly he’d taken to playing with them. At fifteen, he had never spent much time around young children. He was a toddler in diapers when Brian was born, and Mara, aware of his jealousy of the new baby, had been hypervigilant about supervising him. But at Crossroads she’d watched him with delight from the corner of her eye as he read books to preschoolers who clambered on him like he was a jungle gym, their limbs fastened around his freckled neck and sinewy shoulders, clinging to him like Velcro. She’d seen the flash of his colored metal braces (currently Packers’ green and gold) when his mouth stretched into an uncharacteristic broad grin. Even though he’d tell them in a firm big-brother voice, Now sit down and listen to the story, he didn’t try to disentangle himself from their happy chaos. For some of these homeless kids, Kevin was one of the few male figures they had access to, and they slurped up his attention with thirsty, frenzied gulps. Jeremy, her oldest son, had been one of those clamoring preschoolers twenty-seven years ago.

  She checked the clock on the microwave. She still had enough time to set the dining room table with her best china, whip up a batch of her famous snickerdoodles, and slice some raw vegetables for an appetizer. Crudités, the neighborhood women called them—the same women who boasted about growing their own herbs in their gardens to make their dips, dressings, and sauces. If Mara used anything other than Hidden Valley Ranch dressing or Skippy creamy peanut butter for veggie dips, the boys would mutiny.

  Once the cookies were in the oven, Mara ironed her green-checked tablecloth and napkins. Years ago, after her mother died, Mara inherited her grandmother’s china, one of the few treasures Mara retained from her childhood. Mara remembered a few family gatherings—all the more special because they were so rare—when her grandmother pushed two rickety card tables together at her apartment, covered them with linens, and set them with her floral English bone china and crystal stemware. Though Mara’s older cousins had the privilege of lighting the candles, Nana let Mara fold the napkins and arrange the silver, two forks to the left of each plate. Mara also got to arrive early to help her cook. None of the other cousins were granted such intimate access to Nana’s culinary secrets.

  Mara could still see her in her polka-dot apron, stoop-shouldered at the stove, adding brown sugar and ginger to the melting butter. Nana supervised the yams until they reached just the right consistency for Mara to mash. Then they would spread the creamy mixture into the casserole dish and sprinkle marshmallows on top. Nana always let her eat three marshmallows from the bag.

  Another tradition Mara could pass along to her granddaughter, Madeleine, someday.

  She smoothed the tablecloth, picturing her own family gathering in a few hours. Though Brian would be his usual surly self, at least Tom would not preside at the head of the table, criticizing the meal, provoking Jeremy with barbed insults, or targeting her daughter-in-law, Abby, with sexist and racist jokes.

  Happy New Year!

  Mara opened her china cabinet and removed her grandmother’s dinner plates from the top shelf, humming as she counted out five, not six. Just as she was pivoting toward the table, her foot caught on something, and she stumbled forward. Before she could regain her balance, two plates catapulted out of her hands and landed with a devastating crash on the tile floor.

  What the—

  Cowering beneath a dining room chair was Brian’s dog.

  “Brian!” she shouted, shaking with anger.

  She had been so absorbed in meal preparations, she had forgotten about the new four-legged squatter. She glared first at the animal, then at her grandmother’s plates in pieces. “Brian!” She yelled so sharply that the dog fled behind the sofa. Kevin came to the top of the basement stairs, took one look at his mother, another at the mess on the floor, and shouted down the stairwell to his brother. Brian eventually appeared.

  “What?” he demanded, arms crossed against his chest. At the sound of Brian’s voice, Bailey crept out from hiding.

  “Get. Your. Dog. Now.” Before Brian could grab him by the scruff of the neck, the dog lifted his leg and peed on an armchair. “Now!”

  Brian lunged forward, the mutt evading his grasping hands with bounding, barking circles and zigzags through the family room and kitchen. Too angry to speak, Mara lowered herself into a chair at the partially set table and buried her face in her hands.

  Hannah

  Hannah Shepley stowed away her phone and, with a deep breath, returned her attention to the checkout counter, where a white-haired employee, his dark wide-rim glasses askew, was trying to figure out how to ring up mascara the customer insisted was on sale. “It says so, right above the display,” the woman said, her multiringed hand perched on her hip. “Buy two, get one free. Count them.” She pointed a well-manicured, emphatic finger at each package on the counter. “Ooooone, twoooo, threeee.”

  In reply, the man retrieved a sales circular from beside the cash register, flattened it slowly, and scanned the pictures for a match, his shoulders hunched forward, his left hand atop his head, scratching in thought.

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” the woman snapped, snatching the paper away from him. “Here! See? Right here. Here’s the picture, here’s the offer. Maybelline mascara, buy two, get one free. What’s so hard about that?” She spun away from him to grant a commiserating grimace to the customers waiting in line behind her.

  Satisfied that the details on the flyer matched the products in front of him, the clerk typed the code into the register and completed the transaction, offering a “Have a nice day” as the woman yanked the receipt from his hand, shoved it into her plastic bag, and stormed out the automatic sliding doors in a rush of cold air.

  None of the next three transactions proved any more straightforward, and as his microphone pleas for backup went unheeded, the customers became increasingly hostile. By the time Hannah reached the counter, his brow was beaded in sweat. “Did you find everything you need?” he asked, a weary sigh in his voice.

  “All set,” Hannah replied with a smile she hoped communicated she was unruffled by the delay and unlikely to lose patience with him. Thankfully, nothing in her shopping basket was listed in the weekly ad flyer.

  A young sales associate, her lips and eyebrows pierced with multiple rings and studs, sauntered by and opened another register. Mutteri
ng their relief, the customers behind Hannah leapt to the other line.

  Meanwhile, the elderly clerk scanned each item from Hannah’s cart with a slow, almost reverent touch. “My granddaughter loves to color and draw,” he said, holding up the packs of colored pencils, pens, and crayons Hannah had found on the Christmas clearance shelves. Later, when she had more time, she would stop by the hobby store and buy more sophisticated art supplies for Meg, who had mentioned how much she enjoyed sketching at her neighbor’s house when she was a little girl. But it had been years, Meg said, since she had done anything artistic. All the more reason to do it again, Hannah had replied, hearing the invitation to herself in those words.

  He was still scanning items. Cough suppressant and decongestant. Honey lemon throat lozenges. Vitamin C tablets. Tissues. A book of sudoku and crossword puzzles. And Yahtzee, because Hannah hadn’t played it in years, and she could still hear the rattle of the dice as her father vigorously shook the cup, calling, “C’mon, sixes!” Maybe Nathan would play with them.

  The clerk examined the Yahtzee box, trying to find the barcode. “I think it’s on that side there,” Hannah said.

  He spun the box several times, his fingers fumbling. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No problem. You’re doing fine.” All three customers in the other lane had already left, and Hannah fought the temptation to tap her fingers on the counter. Hadn’t she just chastised Nathan a few weeks ago for his impatience while waiting in line? She had reminded him that he could practice the spiritual discipline of being attentive to the people around him, praying for them while he waited. If Nate were with her, he’d be elbowing her right about now. Her words always had a way of coming back to bite her.

  She offered a silent prayer, both for her irritation and for the clerk. Maybe he was new on the job. Or maybe he had been working at this store for decades and was developing senility. Maybe—

  “My granddaughter’s real sick,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “Leukemia.”

  —he was distracted by other, more pressing concerns.

  “I’m so sorry,” Hannah said, her impatience evaporating.

  “We thought she’d be able to be home with us for Christmas but—” His voice cracked, and he returned his attention to scanning and bagging. Hannah watched him pack up the items, then swiped her credit card. “Receipt with you or in the bag?” he asked.

  “I’ll take it,” Hannah said, reaching for the bags. “What’s your granddaughter’s name?”

  “Ginny.”

  Hannah withdrew the crayons, colored pencils, pens, and Yahtzee box from one of the bags and handed them back to him. “Please take these to Ginny.”

  “Oh—I can’t—”

  “Please,” Hannah said. “Just a little something.” Such a very little something. But from the look of astonishment and gratitude on the cashier’s face, you’d think he had been given a kingdom.

  Everyone has a story, her father often said. Everyone. You just need to know how to ask the right questions.

  Her father, a retired salesman, had always known how to ask the right questions to establish rapport with potential customers. He had elevated small talk to an art and had a knack for making people feel valued, all of which translated into impressive sales numbers. He was the proverbial ice salesman to Eskimos. But when it came to disclosing his own story, he was Fort Knox.

  Like father, like daughter, Hannah thought as she drove back to Meg’s house. And now that her own vault had been unlocked, it was time to explore whether or not her dad was willing to open up.

  She had promised her parents before Christmas that she would fly to Oregon to see them in January or February. She hoped to have an honest, face-to-face conversation with them about the family secrets that had turned septic within her because of years of trying to conceal them. After disclosing the truth to Meg and then to Nathan, Hannah was beginning to feel ready to voice the truth to her parents, to tell them about how she had felt responsible for her mother’s nervous breakdown and hospitalization when Hannah was fifteen, about how she had tried to obey her father’s command not to confide in others about their family’s pain. Determined not to betray his trust, Hannah had stuffed the shame and the fear and, without realizing it, had become an internal bleeder. But with radical and precise surgery, the Great Physician had begun the deep, healing work of exposing and cleansing the wound. Maybe he would also bring healing to her family.

  She would need to decide—and soon!—about her travel plans. Or maybe she would try to persuade her parents to visit her in West Michigan. She would turn forty on March first. Maybe she would invite them to come celebrate her birthday with her. She would love for them to have an opportunity to meet Nathan and his son, Jake. Or was that kind of introduction premature?

  She exhaled slowly. So many unresolved issues to address before she returned to Chicago.

  The driver in the car beside her at the traffic light held a phone in one hand, a coffee cup in the other. A few short months ago Hannah would have been shoveling raspberry yogurt into her mouth at stoplights or stalking a microwave because even minute rice took too long. Could she really duplicate the unhurried rhythm of her sabbatical once she returned to work? The slowing down, the paying attention, the deliberate rest and unplugging, the transition from the driven life to the received life—all of this was a paradigm shift she still needed time to process and integrate. All of this was a shift that would be severely tested once she reengaged with ministry. Now that the new year was upon them, thoughts about next steps would inevitably press in and demand her prayerful attention.

  Her phone rang as she pulled into Meg’s driveway. Nate. “Hey!” he said. “Just checking to see what time you want to come over. I was thinking maybe an early dinner and game night before we go to the service.”

  Hannah, who had never attended a watchnight worship service, was eager to join Nathan and Jake for their New Year’s Eve tradition. “I think I’ll finish up at Crossroads around two,” she said. “And then I need to pick up some things for Meg at the store.”

  “So come after that.”

  “What should I bring?”

  “Just yourself.”

  “At least let me bring a dessert or something.”

  “We’ve still got lots of Christmas treats here,” he said. “Seriously. Just come.”

  “I hate coming empty-handed.”

  “I know, but it’s good for you. Think of it as ‘open-handed.’”

  She could hear the smile in his voice as they said their goodbyes. Nate had a point, as usual. She still needed to practice receiving kind and gracious gifts with open hands. Good thing she still had a few months left to practice these new disciplines.

  Her sabbatical, intended as a gracious and exceptionally generous gift, had initially seemed unkind, like a forced exile from the ministry she loved. But then, by the faithful and stealthy work of the Spirit, Hannah had begun to perceive all the ways she had hidden behind her busyness and productivity, all the ways her personal identity had been swallowed up and enmeshed with her professional one, all the ways she had defined herself by what she did for God rather than who she was to him—the beloved. Her senior pastor, Steve Hernandez, had seen what Hannah had been unable to see, and he had taken bold, drastic steps to give her the time and space to die to old, entrenched habits and fears in order to rise again to newness of life.

  “I thought you were going to stay in bed and rest!” Hannah said when she entered Meg’s foyer, which was still brightened by a few Christmas decorations.

  Meg, wrapped in a flannel robe and huddled over a steaming mug at the kitchen table, shrugged one shoulder. “Couldn’t shake the bad memories of being stuck up there sick when I was little, so I decided to come down here.”

  The formality of the first-floor rooms—a parlor stuffed with antiques, an elegant Victorian-style dining room, and a music room where Meg taught piano lessons—weren’t conducive to relaxing. What Meg needed was a comfy couch or
recliner. Hannah set down her shopping bag on the kitchen counter. “How about a change of scenery?” she asked. “We could go to the lake for a few days, stay at the cottage. I know Nancy wouldn’t mind me having guests there.” Nancy and Doug Johnson, longtime friends of Hannah’s at Westminster, had given her their family cottage at Lake Michigan for her sabbatical, another lavishly generous gift she had been reluctant to receive. “I’ll be out late tonight,” Hannah went on. “The worship service doesn’t start until eleven. But we could head there tomorrow afternoon.”

  Meg appeared to be considering this.

  “You’ve hosted me here,” Hannah pressed. “Let me return the favor. Please. I think some time at the lake would do you good.”

  Meg sneezed against her shoulder. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Hannah lathered her hands at the sink. “I got you a couple of puzzle books to keep you going while I’m at Crossroads. They didn’t have a lot of art supplies, but I’ll head to the craft store later.”

  “Please don’t—”

  “Uh-uh”—Hannah held up her hand to cut her off—“we already talked about it. No backing out of play now.”

  She sounded more like Nate all the time.

  Hannah was waiting inside the entrance to Crossroads when Mara and Kevin arrived.

  Mara embraced her. “Where’s Meg?” she asked, scanning the hallway as she wriggled out of her coat.

  “Sick. Coughing, sneezing. She didn’t want to infect anybody here. I told her you’d understand.” Hannah unwound her scarf. “You’ll have to show me the ropes around here, Kevin. Your mom says you’ve become one of their favorite volunteers.”

  Kevin’s fair, freckled skin flushed, and he looked down at his sneakers.

  “I think Kevin’s working with the kids today,” Mara said. “Basketball in the gym, right, Kev?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll be in the kitchen, Hannah, doing some prep work for lunch. Then we’ll help serve, if that works for you.” Mara’s phone beeped with a text. She reached up under her oversized lime-green sweater and tried to pull her phone from her snug jeans pocket, knotting her mouth and twisting her body to accommodate the maneuver. “Charissa’s on her way,” Mara said, glancing at the screen. “Says she’s running about half an hour late.”