Magic Hour

“Yep.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“No idea yet.” Julia stood up. “I’ll go set the table. You’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Ellie felt Julia’s eyes on her back as she walked down the steps across the grass.

Behind her the screen door screeched open and banged shut. At the noise, the birds cawed and flew off. There were so many of them that for a second they were a dark blight against the gray sky.

Ellie stepped on a twig, snapped it.

Alice jumped up and spun around. She remained crouched, looking cornered, although the whole yard lay open behind her. Fear rounded the girl’s eyes, making Ellie profoundly uncomfortable.

She wasn’t used to fighting for affection. All her life, people had liked her.

“Hey,” Ellie said, standing motionlessly. “No net. No shot.” She held her hands out, palms up to prove it. The red measuring cup was bright in her open hand.

Alice saw it and frowned. After a minute or so she pointed and grunted.

Ellie felt the magical pull of possibility unwind between them. This was the first time that Alice hadn’t run from her. “Use your words, Alice.” It was what Julia always said.

As the silence went on, Ellie tried another tack. She started to sing, quietly at first, but as Alice’s frown faded and an expression of interest began to take its place, Ellie turned up the volume. Just a bit. She sang one kid-friendly song after another (the kid could stay motionless forever). When she got to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” Alice’s whole demeanor changed. It was as if she’d been hypnotized or something. A curve that was almost a smile touched her lips.

“Star,” Alice whispered at exactly the right time in the song.

Ellie bit back a grin by sheer force of will. When the song was over, she knelt down and handed Alice the measuring cup.

Alice stroked it, touched it to her cheek, then looked expectantly at Ellie.

Now what?

“Star.”

“You want me to keep singing?”

“Star. Peas.”

Ellie did as she was asked. She was on her third go-round when Alice cautiously moved toward her.

Ellie felt as if she’d just bowled a strike in the tenth frame. She wanted to whoop out and high-five someone. Instead she kept singing.

At some point Julia came out and joined them. The three of them sat in the grass, beneath a graying November sky, while the Thanksgiving turkey browned inside the house, and sang the songs of their youth.

MAX KNEW HE SHOULD HAVE LEFT THE HOUSE A HALF HOUR AGO. Instead he’d poured himself a beer and turned on the television.

He was afraid to see Julia again.

All or nothing.

Go to her, Max.

He could hear Susan’s voice in his head, gently admonishing him. If she’d been here, beside him, she would have given him one of her crooked I-know-you smiles. She knew that, for all of his running, there was a time when it all caught up to him. The holidays. He picked up the phone and dialed a California number.

Susan answered on the first ring. He wondered if she’d been waiting for his call.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey. Happy Thanksgiving.”