Mare had scarce crossed the threshold before she was swept up in warm, perfumed hugs.
Matilde was already declaring an itinerary for the west coast journey, and Medley was demanding the completed novel while Aaron accused her of accosting Mare, and Mollie was gathering her boys as they tackled Mare's legs, and Madrigal was lamenting the sheer volume of the reception, and Mare's mother was commanding them all to give Mare space.
Mare could hear barely a thing. She could not have cared less. She welcomed every embrace, falling from one sister's arms to her husband's to the next sister, to her nephews, to her mother, to her father. It was chaos, and it was home. These were the Atwoods.
By the time Mare had made her first round of greetings, the Christmas Eve table had been laid and Mare was famished. She was seated between Matilde and her father, who held her hand on the table, his cheeks red from the heat of the fire and the family together, his eyes bright and crinkled with glee. He looked proudly at his family, and Mare's heart soared. She squeezed his hand and he leaned over to kiss her hair.
She could have cried at the picture: all of them, together. The dining room was much too small for so many people, and Mare's mother might have scoffed at this a year before. But Harriet simply fussed over the boys and their Christmas clothes, and Medley's hair—it was so finely braided, could her maid teach Jenelle?—and Madrigal's cross-stitching, she must show mother how it was done—and Matilde's direction of the business, by God, how did she manage, it was terribly impressive—and Mollie, her boys were so well-behaved, so kind, just like their mother and father—and Mare, oh, Mare, how in the world did the book end?
Silence fell over the table at this, and every head but the boys' swung toward her. Matilde chuckled. "Mare's quite good at keeping secrets, isn't she? She hasn't even told me, and I'm the one who discovered her talent."
"Oh, you are not," said Medley, pointing her fork accusingly at Matilde. "If anyone's to be credited it's that terrible and handsome Theodore Bridge."
The silence that fell then put the last to shame. Mare could have heard the blood in her own veins for it. She simply smiled, cutting into her pork and taking a bite before replying, "I'd have to agree."
As though a trigger had been pulled, the family returned to its chaotic jibing and chatting. The relief in the air was palpable, and Mare wondered at it. For over a year she'd not mentioned once Theodore Bridge, but to Geoffrey and Meredith here and there.
Was she so transparent that even across an ocean, her family knew where her heart truly lay?
He didn't write, Mare reminded herself as she ate. Not one word. Not a word! But the way she'd left him, why would he? Perhaps he was courting, or married, or had a child on the way. Perhaps Teddy Bridge had all but forgotten Mare Atwood, and could she begrudge him that? She'd struck out to find herself, and she had.
Mare thought everything in her would change, and much had. She'd grown and shifted. She'd learned her mind. But in the end, it turned out she'd already known her heart.
And now, all was lost. No, fool girl, not all. Love was not everything. Hadn't she said this very thing on the night she left Teddy Bridge?
No, love was not everything—but it was something, and Mare, even now, believed in it. It was no secret, she supposed.
Mare enjoyed every bite of her meal, every morsel of conversation. In her travels she'd met many wonderful people, writers and literary agents and artists. Friends of Meredith's and Madrigal's and the Watts. But there was nothing quite like this. Nothing like the warmth of a fire in one's own hearth, or the expression on one's mother's face as she looked upon her family, and was entirely at peace.
Mare loved it. She suspected she loved it more for its absence. A year apart made every second precious. Every shout and barb, every argument and compliment, every laugh and sigh.
As Christmas Eve wound down and the boys were put to bed and the Atwoods began to retire to their crowded rooms, Mare sat beside her parents in the parlor. They did not speak, and Mare was reminded of that day as a girl, when she declared she would be a writer. Then, she was denied with every word her mother could think of.
But they'd been to war and battle, the Atwoods. They'd made it out the other side. And now, in the silence, Mare heard praise and permission. She didn't need either anymore, but both were fine in equal measure.
After some time by the fire, sipping tea in her woolen socks, Mare's father began to read The Iliad aloud. She closed her eyes and leaned her head onto her mother's shoulder.
We've still got time, she thought.
So much time.