Two Christmases had passed since Mara died. The first was scarcely a holiday at all, a series of casseroles left on the porch, well-meaning relatives speaking in hushed voices, and Ethan struggling to remember which boxes held the ornaments. The second had been a little better, because Hope had asked for a tree and he had managed to get one before Christmas Eve. This year he intended to do it properly, even though the money was worse, the house felt smaller, and the empty chair at dinner still had the power to make him catch his breath.
Ethan's friend Tom Alvarez came through the shop door carrying two paper cups of coffee and a cardboard box full of used tools. Tom was sixty-two, a retired municipal mechanic with silver hair, a bent nose from a long-ago hockey game, and the stubborn conviction that no person should have to choose between paying a bill and fixing their car. He had worked with Ethan's father, knew the exact sound the shop's old compressor made before it failed, and often stopped by under the pretense of needing somewhere to drink his coffee. Hope called him Grandpa Tom, although no one had ever formally suggested it.
"Still here? Tom asked. "Most decent people are already home pretending they enjoy wrapping presents. Ethan climbed to his feet, rubbed grease from his hands, and accepted the coffee.
"Somebody had to keep the holiday economy running," he said. Tom looked through the office window, where Hope was cutting a paper star with children's scissors. "And somebody ought to remember that kid's been here since eight."
Ethan knew he was right. He had promised Hope that they would buy marshmallows, drive by the decorated town square, and watch the church choir sing outside the bakery before heading home. Nothing about the evening was expensive, and that was part of why he had felt safe promising it. Hope had learned to be careful about asking for things, a habit Ethan wished she had never needed to acquire. Some nights he caught her studying price tags at the grocery store with the gravity of an accountant.
Tom followed him into the office and noticed the white envelope beneath the invoice pad. "That the landlord again?" Ethan did not answer immediately, which gave Tom the answer. The owner of the shop building, Frank Dwyer, was seventy-four and wanted to retire to Arizona; a developer had offered to purchase the whole Maple Street block, including the repair shop and the old community center next door. Frank had been patient about Ethan's late rent, but patience did not change the terms of the sale or the fact that Ethan's lease expired in April.
"You talked to Dwyer? Tom asked. "Yesterday," Ethan said. "He's got an offer on paper now.
Tom's eyes narrowed. "From Pierce Development? Ethan nodded. The proposed project was called North Ridge Residences, a cluster of luxury short-stay apartments marketed to people who came to ski and could afford to leave whenever the weather stopped being charming.
The old brick building next door was called the Lantern House. For almost forty years, it had hosted after-school tutoring, winter coat drives, free suppers, job-search help, and whatever else Bellwether needed when help was hard to find. Mara had volunteered there every Wednesday, reading to children while Ethan repaired its temperamental boiler and patched leaks in the roof. After her death, the Lantern House became one of the few places where Hope could talk about missing her mother without adults going still and changing the subject.