Judy sticks her head around the doorframe. “Not weird. Very on-theme with a coastal Christmas.” She tries for a smile, but the sight of the shells, the worn and glossy ones Sara picked on walks, some with handwritten dates in her tiny, looping script, refuses to let it materialize.
Cassie eyes her sidelong, all teenage intuition. “I’ll only use the little ones,” she says and drops three purple coquinas into the bowl with practiced care.
The house is still mostly Sara’s, even four months after her leaving us. Her books line the shelves, each with a faint crease along the spine from where she stopped and thought. Her blankets, hand-knit and shedding, drape the backs of every chair. There is an entire cupboard in the kitchen devoted to herbal teas, most of which taste like soap or sadness. But the house is also ours, now. Nathan’s toothbrush is in the bathroom, Cassie’s ridiculous collection of enamel pins are stuck to the corkboard above the stairs, and my own Post-its are stuck to every flat surface. Judy has claimed the bedroom at the north end, the one with the best view of the lighthouse, but only when she comes to visit.
At eleven thirty sharp, the first guest rings the bell. I’m still in bare feet, but at least my pajamas have been swapped for a festive sweater and dark jeans. Nathan wipes his hands on a rag and hurries to open the door.
It’s Barbara, resplendent in navy blue and pearls, her hair set like spun sugar. She arrives with a Tupperware of lemon squares and a hug that almost knocks the air from my lungs. “You look beautiful, dear,” she says.
Cassie comes to stand beside me, arms crossed, wary but present. She is bracing for the parade of grown-up emotions about to flood the house.
Barbara beams at her. “If your hair gets any longer, you’ll need a whole team of hairdressers to tame it.” She offers Cassie a warm smile. "A beautiful young lady you are growing into."
Cassie blushes, mumbling her thanks and darting back toward the kitchen.
Other guests filter in, and soon the house is alive with the sound of voices. Everyone brings something. Scones, a bottle of wine, homemade cranberry sauce. The food piles up on the sideboard, an accidental buffet of memories and carbohydrates.
By noon, the house is full. Voices bounce off the beams, laughter threads through the rooms. The light, filtered through Sara’s favorite curtains, casts everything in a forgiving glow. I stand in the kitchen, watching in awe the people who have become our family, the life we have built from what was left.
Nathan comes up behind me, slides his arms around my waist, and rests his chin on my shoulder. “See? Told you this was a good idea.”
I nod, and it’s the truth.
The last guest to arrive is Roger, the mailman, who helped Sara plant her garden before his back gave out. He hands me a letter addressed to me in Sara’s handwriting. “What’s this?”
“I was given specific instructions not to give this to you until now,” he says. “It didn’t feel right to drop it in the mailbox.”
I thank him, tucking the envelope away for later when I can be alone.
Gradually, the party concentrates in the dining room. I herd everyone toward the large oak table, laden with mismatched plates and cutlery that I've amassed over the years. Cassie watches from the doorway, a look of quiet satisfaction on her face as she takes in our motley crew of friends and neighbors gathered to celebrate the holidays and remember Sara.
“Is it time?” she asks, voice half a dare.
I glance at Nathan. He’s still, attentive, waiting for my cue.
I clear my throat and step forward, feeling the weight of every gaze. “Thank you for coming,” I say, and my voice wobbles but doesn’t break. “I know Sara would have loved this. All of you, together in her home. The first time I met her, she told me that this house was once the center of the universe. I didn’t get it at first, but standing here now, I think I do. It’s not just the wooden beams or the creaking floors that make a home, but people, laughter, shared memories. This house, our home”—I pause here, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat—“has become the center of our universe because of you. Because of Sara, who loved this place and each one of us.”
Barbara raises her glass of sparkling water. “To Sara,” she says. The rest of the room follows, a dozen hands in the air, a chorus of “To Sara!” that fills the space to the rafters.
Cassie sidles up next to me, her head just reaching my shoulder now. She leans in, all sharp elbows and affection. “You did good,” she says, and I nearly lose it right there.
Nathan squeezes my hand, anchoring me.
It’s not until everyone has plates in hand, drinks poured, that I can finally sit and take in the room. From my chair, I can see Cassie, the corners of her mouth twitching toward a smile. She'sholding court with Amaya and a couple of others from school, their voices mixing with the scraping of cutlery and the lull of conversation.
Across the table, Judy is locked in an animated debate with the mailman over the best way to grow basil. From her gestures, it seems she's advocating for a south-facing sunlight, while he insists on regular water. They both wave forks and napkins as if conducting invisible orchestras.
Nathan is beside me, alternating between bites of food and sips of wine. His eyes wander around the room, absorbing the chaos with an unreadable expression.
“Regretting your decision to move here yet?” I tease, nudging him gently with my elbow.
He chuckles. “No way. They’re all mad and it's wonderful."
After everyone has eaten, Barbara stands up and clears her throat. “I think Sara would want us to share stories,” she says, and before long the house fills with voices, some somber, some ridiculous.Sara once broke a window trying to swat a fly. She knew the Latin names for every wildflower in the county. She argued with telemarketers for sport, and once got banned from the town pool for skinny-dipping after hours.
The stories make their way around the room. Some guests laugh until they cry. Others just cry, and it’s okay. No one tries to stop it.
As the light fades and the tide creeps up the shore, I wander into the kitchen to breathe. The envelope is still on the counter. I take it, slip out the back, and walk to the cottage where I can be alone. Now that we’re in the main house, the cottage feels small and strange, like an echo of a dream. I sit at the little desk by the window, the one where I wrote my first chapters. The ones Sara read. In the dim light cast by the little desk lamp, I open the envelope with careful fingers. Inside is a letter, dated three weeks before Sara died. I read it sitting down, heart in my throat.
