Serafina leaned closer. The girl's grin was contagious, and her small front teeth showed beneath the paper crown. For an instant Serafina's expression softened so completely that Everett almost failed to recognize the formidable guest he had been warned about. Then she asked, "Where is your daughter this Christmas?"
"With our neighbor," he replied, and found that his voice did not sound like his own. "Mrs. Alvarez. She's like family to us. I had to pick up this shift because the hotel was short-staffed. I'll be back before dinner."
"She must miss you today."
"Probably. She knows I have to work."
He intended to say that calmly, but the photograph in his hand showed a child looking as though she believed life would always answer her smile with kindness. He thought of her standing in the doorway that morning, straightening his collar, and of the way she had tried not to look disappointed when he left. He pressed his thumb against the edge of the photograph and looked away.
Serafina did not reach across the table or offer comforting words that would require him to pretend he felt better. She waited, letting the sounds of the orchestra occupy the space while he steadied himself. That patience surprised Everett more than any expression of sympathy could have. Most people became uncomfortable around grief and hurried to cover it with advice.
"My wife died three years ago," he said at last. "Marlo was four. I'm still learning how to be enough for both of us."
"You don't have to be two people," Serafina answered.
"I know that in my head. The rest of me hasn't caught up."
She asked his daughter's name, and he said it again as though naming Marlo properly would keep his emotions in order. He told her about the apartment, the stubborn radiator, the school drawing of a yellow house with a green door, and the small art set wrapped in brown grocery paper. The details came out slowly at first, then more easily because she listened without interrupting. He described how Marlo wanted a garden, a dog, and a kitchen where they could bake cookies without first worrying whether the heat would be shut off.
He did not mention the watch immediately. It felt private, a transaction between the memory of his wife and the needs of their daughter. But when Serafina asked what gift Marlo had opened that morning, Everett answered honestly and found himself explaining how close he had come to leaving the package in the store. His voice tightened when he described his daughter's delight and how quickly that joy had turned into a picture of a home he could not yet provide.
"I can fix almost any appliance you put in front of me," he said. "Give me a dead motor or a machine that won't start, and I'll find a way to make it work. But I can't seem to fix the one thing she actually needs. A place where she doesn't have to worry about what happens next."