Winter Garden

But why would her father bring them back up now? Surely he knew it would end badly. Meredith and Mom hadn’t been able to leave the room fast enough.

She went to stand beside him. They were alone now. Behind her, the fire snapped and a log crashed downward, crumbling to orangey black bits.

“I love the sound of her voice,” he said.

And Nina suddenly understood. Her father had employed the only device known to actually make Mom talk. “You wanted us all to be together. ”

Dad sighed. It was a sound as thin as tissue, and afterward, he seemed to grow even more pale. “You know what a man thinks about . . . now?”

She reached for his hand, held it. “What?”

“Mistakes. ”

“You didn’t make many of those. ”

“She tried to talk to you girls. Until that god-awful play . . . I shouldn’t have let her hide. She’s just so broken and I love her so much. ”

Nina leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “It doesn’t matter, Dad. Don’t worry. ”

He grabbed her hand and looked up at her through watery brown eyes. “It matters,” he said, his mouth trembling, his voice so weak she could barely hear him. “She needs you . . . and you need her. Promise me. ”

“Promise you what?”

“After I’m gone. Get to know her. ”

“How?” They both knew that there was no way to get close to her mother. “I’ve tried. She won’t talk to us. You know that. ”

“Make her tell you the story of the peasant girl and the prince. ” As he said it, he closed his eyes again, and his breathing turned wheezy. “All of it this time. ”

“I know what you’re thinking, Dad. Her stories used to bring us together. For a while, I even thought . . . but I was wrong. She won’t—”

“Just try, okay? You’ve never heard it all. ”

“But—”

“Promise me. ”

She touched the side of his face, feeling the prickly white outcroppings of a beard that hadn’t been shaved and the wet trail of his tears. She could tell that he was almost asleep. This afternoon, and maybe this conversation, had cost him too much and he was fading into the pillows again. He’d always wanted his daughters and his wife to love each other. He wanted it so much he was trying to believe a nice story hour would make it happen. “Okay, Dad. . . . ”

“Love you,” he whispered, his voice slurred. Only the familiarity of the words made them decipherable.

“I love you, too. ” Leaning down, she kissed his forehead again and pulled the covers up to his chin. Turning off the bedside light, she slipped her camera around her neck and left him.

Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, she went downstairs. In the kitchen, she found her mother standing at the counter, chopping beets and yellow onions. A giant pot of borscht simmered on the stove.

Of course. In times of trouble Meredith did chores, Nina took photographs, and Mom cooked. The one thing the Whitson women never did was talk.

“Hey,” Nina said, leaning against the doorway.

Her mother turned slowly toward her. Her white hair was drawn back from her angular face and coiled in a ballerina bun at the nape of her neck. Against the pallor of her skin, those arctic-blue eyes seemed impossibly sharp for a woman of her age. And yet, there was a brittle look to her that Nina didn’t remember noticing before, and that new fragility made her bold.

“I always loved your stories,” she said.

Mom wiped her hands on her apron. “Fairy tales are for children. ”

“Dad loves them. He told me once that you told him a story every Christmas Eve. Maybe you could tell me one tomorrow. I’d love to hear the rest of the peasant girl and the prince. ”

“He is dying,” Mom said. “It is a little late for fairy tales, I would say. ”