Ethan had not told Hope that the Lantern House might close. There were enough difficult truths in her life already, and he wanted one building in their town to remain exactly where she expected it to be. The director, Rebecca Shaw, had assured everyone that funding discussions were ongoing, although Ethan noticed the way she checked the heating thermostat whenever she thought nobody was watching. On nights when the building was full of children, she sometimes turned down the heat in her office to keep the classrooms warm.
"I heard the Hartwell people are making a decision about that block after Christmas," Tom said. "Tonight's gala is supposed to bring in money for the Lantern House," Ethan replied. He had seen the posters at the grocery store, each one showing the Grand Alder Hotel glittering under lights, with WINTER LIGHTS GALA printed in elegant gold letters. The smallest line on the poster mentioned the community programs the money would support, almost as though the cause were an inconvenient footnote to the evening's gowns and champagne.
Tom gave a humorless laugh. "Good luck getting those folks to pay attention to anything with peeling paint." Ethan looked toward Hope, who was gluing her paper star to a folded piece of blue construction paper. "Some of them probably mean well," he said. Tom shrugged. "Meaning well keeps people warm right up until the furnace quits."
By noon the delivery truck was finished. Its driver handed Ethan a check, shook his hand twice, and promised to tell his friends he had found a mechanic who wouldn't take advantage of Christmas Eve. Ethan put away his tools, swept the floor, and tried not to calculate how much of the check was already owed to someone else. Before they closed up, Hope placed her paper star on his workbench and asked if he would take it home carefully because the glue wasn't dry.
"It's a very important star," she told him. "I can see that," Ethan said. "What's it for?" Hope studied him, deciding how much to reveal. "I was going to hang it where Mommy could see it from heaven, but I don't know which window is closest."
He crouched beside her, feeling the familiar pressure behind his ribs. "We can put it in the front window," he said. "That way it will be the first thing anybody sees when they come up the path." Hope considered the arrangement and then shook her head. "Maybe we should hang it outside," she said. "Mom would know the way home better if it was outside."
Ethan had learned that grief in a child did not travel in a straight line. Hope could go three days without mentioning Mara, then ask while brushing her teeth whether people in heaven got cold. She remembered her mother cutting apple slices into moons, but not always the sound of her laughter. She remembered the blue scarf Mara wore to the library, but sometimes asked Ethan to remind her whether her mother's eyes had been brown or green. He answered every question because each one was a thread he could still hold.