with it at all, and I’m supposed to respect that?” Kyla suggested testily.
“She did deal with it,” Zweli said. “I was there a few times when Chiara was on the phone with Claire in the hospital. Claire’s the one who told her not to come home. Maybe there were some things your grandmother knew about your sister that you didn’t.”
“Like what?” Kyla scoffed.
“Like maybe Chiara wouldn’t have gotten through it as well as you and the rest of your sisters did. Chiara might just be one of those people who are better off alone, doing their own thing, instead of being in the thick of everything.”
In the next moment of silence, Kyla seemed to contemplate her husband’s words of wisdom. “Chiara’s always pulled away from us,” she said.
Not pulled, Chiara thought. I was pushed.
“All right,” Kyla sighed. “I’ll let it go. This is Niema’s first Christmas. I don’t want her hearing her aunty and her mama fighting.”
The light under the door disappeared with a faint click, and Chiara heard the bedsprings twang in response to the movement atop them.
“You’d better go to sleep, Mrs. Randall, or Santa won’t bring you any presents,” Zweli said.
“Santa won’t mind if we stay up a little longer,” Kyla replied. “Not if he knew what I plan to give you tonight.”
“I don’t want to wake up Niema,” Zweli protested weakly.
“Then you’d better be quiet, Dr. Randall,” Kyla whispered. The rest of her words were too soft for Chiara to hear, but there was no mistaking the meaning behind Kyla’s silky laughter and Zweli’s moaned responses. Embarrassed by her intrusiveness, Chiara moved on to the second set of stairs.
Abby had remodeled the attic, converting most of it into a spacious bedroom suite complete with a master bath, and the rest of it into well-organized storage area. Chiara recalled the e-mail her sister Cady had sent her, bemoaning the loss of the chaos of disarray and dust-covered junk that she had loved all her life. Once she reached the top of the attic stairs, Chiara saw that Cady hadn’t been too distressed by the renovation since she and her family were firmly settled in the “penthouse suite” for the night.
After knocking softly on the trapdoor and receiving permission to enter, Chiara raised the unlatched door and climbed up. Keren and Cady, snug in the new brass queen Abby had bullied two deliverymen into transporting up the two steep, narrow staircases, both held index fingers to their pursed lips. Chiara followed Cady’s pointed look toward the opposite side of the room, where Cady’s three-and-a-half-year-old twins, Samuel Keren and Claire Elizabeth, slept in the matching brass trundle bed. Cady regularly sent Chiara e-mails containing photos of the twins. Seeing Sammy and Claire nestled together like a yin and yang symbol—to Chiara’s eyes—the twins couldn’t possibly look more adorable.
The contents of the ancient crib next to Cady’s side of the bed quickly stole Chiara’s full attention. Virginia, almost a year and a half old, slept on her chest and knees with her tiny round backside pushed into the air. Cady’s youngest had her mother’s honey-gold complexion and her father’s full, sculpted mouth in miniature. Her black curls were all her own.
“She’s so beautiful, Cady,” Chiara sighed, thinking that the baby looked as compact as a packaged meatloaf in her long-sleeved Onesie. The side of the crib, the same crib she and her sisters had used in infancy, squeaked in protest when Chiara rested her forearms on the rail and leaned on it.
“Let sleeping beauty lie,” Cady advised in a soft voice. “If she wakes up, the twins will get up and think it’s time to open presents.”
“Time to open the ones they haven’t already opened,” Keren said, closing the book he’d been reading. He moved a pair of heavy, black-framed glasses from his nose to the crown of his shaved head. “Clarence organized a raid of the tree after
“She did deal with it,” Zweli said. “I was there a few times when Chiara was on the phone with Claire in the hospital. Claire’s the one who told her not to come home. Maybe there were some things your grandmother knew about your sister that you didn’t.”
“Like what?” Kyla scoffed.
“Like maybe Chiara wouldn’t have gotten through it as well as you and the rest of your sisters did. Chiara might just be one of those people who are better off alone, doing their own thing, instead of being in the thick of everything.”
In the next moment of silence, Kyla seemed to contemplate her husband’s words of wisdom. “Chiara’s always pulled away from us,” she said.
Not pulled, Chiara thought. I was pushed.
“All right,” Kyla sighed. “I’ll let it go. This is Niema’s first Christmas. I don’t want her hearing her aunty and her mama fighting.”
The light under the door disappeared with a faint click, and Chiara heard the bedsprings twang in response to the movement atop them.
“You’d better go to sleep, Mrs. Randall, or Santa won’t bring you any presents,” Zweli said.
“Santa won’t mind if we stay up a little longer,” Kyla replied. “Not if he knew what I plan to give you tonight.”
“I don’t want to wake up Niema,” Zweli protested weakly.
“Then you’d better be quiet, Dr. Randall,” Kyla whispered. The rest of her words were too soft for Chiara to hear, but there was no mistaking the meaning behind Kyla’s silky laughter and Zweli’s moaned responses. Embarrassed by her intrusiveness, Chiara moved on to the second set of stairs.
Abby had remodeled the attic, converting most of it into a spacious bedroom suite complete with a master bath, and the rest of it into well-organized storage area. Chiara recalled the e-mail her sister Cady had sent her, bemoaning the loss of the chaos of disarray and dust-covered junk that she had loved all her life. Once she reached the top of the attic stairs, Chiara saw that Cady hadn’t been too distressed by the renovation since she and her family were firmly settled in the “penthouse suite” for the night.
After knocking softly on the trapdoor and receiving permission to enter, Chiara raised the unlatched door and climbed up. Keren and Cady, snug in the new brass queen Abby had bullied two deliverymen into transporting up the two steep, narrow staircases, both held index fingers to their pursed lips. Chiara followed Cady’s pointed look toward the opposite side of the room, where Cady’s three-and-a-half-year-old twins, Samuel Keren and Claire Elizabeth, slept in the matching brass trundle bed. Cady regularly sent Chiara e-mails containing photos of the twins. Seeing Sammy and Claire nestled together like a yin and yang symbol—to Chiara’s eyes—the twins couldn’t possibly look more adorable.
The contents of the ancient crib next to Cady’s side of the bed quickly stole Chiara’s full attention. Virginia, almost a year and a half old, slept on her chest and knees with her tiny round backside pushed into the air. Cady’s youngest had her mother’s honey-gold complexion and her father’s full, sculpted mouth in miniature. Her black curls were all her own.
“She’s so beautiful, Cady,” Chiara sighed, thinking that the baby looked as compact as a packaged meatloaf in her long-sleeved Onesie. The side of the crib, the same crib she and her sisters had used in infancy, squeaked in protest when Chiara rested her forearms on the rail and leaned on it.
“Let sleeping beauty lie,” Cady advised in a soft voice. “If she wakes up, the twins will get up and think it’s time to open presents.”
“Time to open the ones they haven’t already opened,” Keren said, closing the book he’d been reading. He moved a pair of heavy, black-framed glasses from his nose to the crown of his shaved head. “Clarence organized a raid of the tree after
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