"I don't think we can," Ethan said. Evelyn's expression changed. "Why not? He gave a small, embarrassed smile and gestured toward the truck.
"It's been a long day. I don't own a tuxedo. She's six, and we've got groceries getting warm in the back. He almost added that a man who could not pay his shop rent had no business showing up at a hotel dinner attended by people who thought a single bottle of wine cost less than a used tire.
Evelyn didn't argue with him about the clothes. She glanced at the red pickup, where Hope was now tracing a little star in the mist on the window. "Come for twenty minutes," she said. "See the lights. If you hate it, you can leave, and nobody will stop you." Ethan watched her for a moment, unsure whether she understood what she was offering.
"You haven't told me what the catch is," he said. Evelyn almost smiled. "You got my car started when everyone else was busy explaining why they couldn't come. I'd like to do something nice for your daughter.
That's all. She lifted her hand toward Hope, who waved back with both arms, and then opened her driver's door. "And Mr. Walker, don't spend one minute worrying about whether you belong in that room."
After she drove away, Ethan stood beside the pickup under a streetlamp haloed with snow. He studied the invitation for so long that Hope lowered the window and called out, "Daddy, did she give you a bill? He shook his head. "No, peanut.
She gave us an invitation. Hope's eyes widened. "To the ballroom? He looked at the gold lettering, then at his daughter, and heard himself say something he had not planned to say at all: "Maybe."
Hope made a sound of pure excitement that startled a man loading groceries into the car beside them. She clapped her mittens together, then stopped and studied Ethan's face. "Are you okay, Daddy?" she asked. He climbed into the truck and started the engine, thinking of the torn lining in his jacket and the muddy boots on his feet. "I'm just trying to figure out what happens when someone gives you a Christmas present that doesn't fit under a tree," he said.
"You open it anyway," Hope replied with the uncomplicated certainty that adults spent their lives trying to regain.
By the time Ethan pulled into their driveway, Hope had already imagined the ballroom in such extraordinary detail that the actual room was unlikely to survive comparison. She expected a hundred crystal chandeliers, a staircase with a velvet railing, and possibly a live reindeer, although she was willing to accept an artificial one if the real animals had other responsibilities. Ethan carried the groceries into their small kitchen while she followed, listing the songs she thought a Christmas ball ought to play. The house smelled faintly of pine from the tree in the front room and the cinnamon candle Mara's sister had mailed them earlier that month.