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snow piles and pecked at the fallen pine needles. Snowstorms were for children: cold red noses peeking out from between scarves and hats; bright-colored snowsuits wrapped around small legs like pillows; saucers and sleds careening down hills while the children screamed in excitement.
    Tommy and Annabelle would’ve had children by now. They’d planned to have a “truckload of kids,” as Tommy had put it. Victoria could almost see the bright blond hair sticking up and the aqua eyes of their father sparkling with excitement while the children told Grandma stories of ice-skating on the pond and she made them hot chocolate.
    Annabelle had wanted these things, the winters that she hadn’t experienced growing up in Malibu. Victoria had taken her granddaughter on ski trips to Tahoe and Aspen, but it wasn’t the same as having school canceled because the sky had dumped a winter playground on your front lawn.
    The vacuum cleaner hum went silent and then restarted farther down the hall. Victoria took her coffee into the front sitting room. The furniture was still covered with sheets and the carpets needed to be cleaned, but other than that, this room hadn’t changed since the day Victoria had left for California when she was nineteen. This was her mother’s space. While the rest of thehouse had a modern flair, this room had been decorated similarly to the Boston residence where they’d lived when Victoria was a toddler.
    Familiar pictures hung on the walls. Victoria scanned the frames: a black-and-white photo of the family, ancestors’ portraits dating back to the 1800s, and in the middle, above the fireplace, the largest portrait of all—her thirteen-year-old face captured by a painter.
    Victoria turned on the Tiffany lamps and the light created a soft glow that illuminated the dust as she removed a sheet from the furniture. She could almost see her mother in the high-backed chair. A crisp shirt and a pencil skirt had been her mother’s favorite outfit, lipstick and a touch of rouge her only makeup. She kept her curly blond hair short, and tucked it behind her ear whenever she read. The epitome of grace and decorum, she never raised her voice over a speaking tone. She didn’t need to—one improper move by Victoria and her mother could impose wrath with the “look.” Victoria hated the “look,” and she’d received it often as a child.
    She walked to the window and watched the raindrops dance in the puddles on the road. She tried not to look across the beach to Joseph’s home, but her heart defied her mind as she gazed at the warm light coming from his study.

    T he day after Victoria and Joseph made love for the first time, he became a sailor. That year, the women of Nagog had endured World War II together as the men of the community fought in Europe. Seventeen-year-old Victoria waited for the postman,always hoping for a letter. Sometimes they came daily; at other times, weeks would pass without word. She tended the victory gardens and collected tin for the drives. Then she walked the country road, under the green-leafed canopy, to the small white Episcopal church where she sat in the pew alone and prayed, “Please God, bring him home to me.”
    When she finished her prayer, she stood and walked to the alcove in the back of the church. The sun came through the stained glass and the colorful prism light reflected across Victoria’s skin as she lit a candle and pressed her hands together. From her heart she sang, performing for God so he might hear her prayer over the millions of other women who asked for their loves’ safety.
    At night, she, Molly, and their friends Evelyn, Maryland, and Sarah curled under a mountain of lace in Victoria’s canopy bed. They pretended to sleep, but their minds were active, recounting the news and searching for hidden messages that the war would end.
    During the second summer of Joseph’s absence, the heat blistered the porch paint and burned the grass tips. The temperature reached