For the next hour, the photo album occupied much of the party. The girls asked question after question about their father as a child, and Celeste answered without turning the conversation into a complaint about his estrangement. She told them he had been afraid of deep swimming pools until he learned to dive, that he once built a crooked treehouse with his grandfather, and that he had always checked the time on his watch even when there was nowhere he needed to be.
Grandma Bell sat across from her, observing carefully. The two women had belonged to the same extended family for years without meeting, and the knowledge sat between them like a fragile cup neither wished to spill. When Celeste asked about Savannah, Grandma Bell answered warmly but without pretending they were old friends. A relationship might be possible, she thought, but it would have to begin with the truth about how that relationship had been prevented in the first place.
At seven, Grace brought out the airplane cake. Blue frosting covered the wings, little candy windows ran along the sides, and two number-nine candles stood on top. The children crowded around the table, singing loudly enough that the dog retreated under it. Ruby and Pearl closed their eyes, made private wishes, and blew the candles out together, just as they had planned on the phone from Savannah.
Celeste watched with tears in her eyes. Her own hand was wrapped tightly around the folded napkin she had carried home from the flight, the one on which Daniel had been too hurt to answer. When Ruby opened her eyes and caught her grandmother looking emotional, Celeste gave a small smile and mouthed, Happy birthday. Ruby hesitated before smiling back, but the smile was real.
The second extra chair remained empty. Every so often Ruby glanced at it, not quite sure whether she was relieved or disappointed that no one had claimed it. She had heard the adults use the words boundaries and responsibility, and she was beginning to understand that a person could both want someone to say sorry and not want to see them until they actually meant it. Those feelings seemed contradictory only because she was nine and still expecting emotions to stand in tidy lines.
At 8:40, as the last guests collected their party bags, a quiet knock came at the front door. It was not the bright ringing of the bell but three careful taps, separated by long enough pauses that the person outside seemed unsure whether to continue. Ruby, who was closest, reached for the handle before Daniel could stop her.
Richard Ashford stood on the porch. He had changed into a plain shirt and dark trousers, and without the business jacket and first-class seat he looked older than Daniel had ever remembered. In his hands he held a small velvet box, the nap of its fabric worn smooth at the corners. His expression was nothing like the confident man who had laughed at two children in an airplane aisle.