She had done the same thing years earlier, when Claire was in third grade, had received a failing math grade, and was terrified to go home.
“There,” Margaret whispered. “That’s better.”
Marina said nothing.
She simply filled the kettle and set it on the stove.
Claire stayed the night.
They made up the guest room for her, with its pale walls, tall bed, and enormous feather quilt.
She could not sleep for half the night.
The silence of the countryside was nothing like the silence of the city.
City silence was empty.
This silence was full of sounds.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
A floorboard creaked in the entryway.
The wind moved over the new roof Ethan had installed.
In the morning, Claire got up at six.
For some reason, everyone in the village woke at six.
She had no idea what to do with herself.
Ethan silently handed her a bucket.
“Feed the hens. If you want.”
So Claire went outside in her city boots and scattered grain for the chickens.
Feather was the first to approach her, as though they had known each other all their lives.
Claire left after lunch.
At the gate, she stopped.
For a long time, she searched through her handbag as if looking for something important.
In the end, she took nothing out.
“I’ll come for the holiday weekend,” she said. “With Sophie.”
“Come,” Margaret answered. “But don’t stay for only two hours.”
Claire nodded.
“Not two hours.”
She took Lily’s drawing with her.
On the drive home, she placed it beneath the windshield so she could see it the entire way.
Lily ran after the SUV almost to the bend in the road, waving both hands.
Claire watched her in the rearview mirror and waved back until the village disappeared behind her.
That evening, for the first time in four years, Margaret did not cross the day off on the calendar.
She simply forgot.
And somehow, that small act of forgetfulness became the best thing that had happened to her during the long winter.