The Lantern House sat on a piece of land Nolan wanted. The old brick building itself belonged to a nonprofit established by Margaret, while the adjoining shop parcels belonged to private landlords who had signed letters of intent to sell. Together the properties formed the remaining gap in a redevelopment corridor that would connect the Grand Alder's planned conference annex to a luxury residential project. Nolan's proposal was presented as a practical solution: sell the aging community property, invest the proceeds, and move the programs to smaller rented rooms beyond downtown.
On paper, it sounded almost responsible. The roof needed work, the heating system was inefficient, and the accessibility upgrades would cost far more than the annual maintenance budget. Yet Evelyn had walked through the building the previous week and watched a child kneel beside a volunteer to sound out the word "courage." She had seen Rebecca Shaw helping an unemployed father fill out an application while a toddler slept against his shoulder, and she knew that relocating the programs was not the same thing as preserving the place that held them.
At four-thirty that afternoon, Nolan called her from the hotel. "The donor table is set," he announced. "We need you back before six. Evelyn told him she was stopping at the plaza to collect a gift she had ordered for the volunteers.
"Send someone," Nolan said. "It's Christmas Eve, Evelyn. There are people flying in from Boston to sit next to you."
She had refused to send anyone because the gift was not actually for the volunteers. In a small jeweler's shop inside the plaza was a watch Margaret had once owned, its glass cracked and its clasp broken after years in a drawer. Evelyn had arranged to have it repaired for her father, Graham, who had scarcely spoken about Margaret since the funeral. She wanted to place it beneath his plate at the gala and remind him of a Christmas tradition they had abandoned when grief made ordinary rituals seem foolish.
The repair shop had closed earlier than advertised, leaving a note apologizing for the weather. Evelyn stood outside for a full minute, staring at the dark display window, before walking back to her car. She had been so focused on the missing watch that she forgot the station wagon's battery had been slow that morning. When she turned the key, the dashboard lights weakened and the starter made a dry, defeated click.
Her assistant, Willow Bennett, answered on the second ring. Willow was thirty-three, efficient, and one of the few people in Evelyn's life willing to tell her when she was being unreasonable. She listened to Evelyn describe the stalled car, the snowfall, and the hotel's increasingly urgent messages. "I can send a driver," Willow said, "but the roads are getting ugly, and the tow company says at least ninety minutes.
Evelyn closed her eyes. "Ninety minutes? "It's Christmas Eve in Vermont," Willow reminded her. "Everybody's battery seems to have remembered the calendar at once."