They had changed their echoes.
That moment had been a kind of revelation for her, a reminder that the echoes a person leaves behind are the by-products of the choices she makes—and perhaps, more critically, that changing those echoes is always possible. Now, seated on the edge of the bed, she opened her palm, tracing a fingertip along the puckered line of flesh bisecting her life line. Before and after. It was another reminder—one she vowed never to forget—that people’s lives were defined not by the scars they acquired but by what lay on the other side of those scars, by what’s done with the life they have left. She’d been given a second chance at love—a second chance at family—and she intended to make the most of both.
She stood when the mantel clock struck four. She should go now and join Ethan and the rest of the family. The sun would be down soon, nearly time to light the menorah. She gathered her armload of gifts from the bed, then added one more to the pile—a special gift meant for Marian.
MARIAN
The sun is nearly down and the menorah gleams brightly, waiting to be lit. I run my eyes around the parlor, my heart near bursting at the sight of our blended family all gathered in one place. It’s our second Hanukkah together, but this one feels different, whole at last.
The house is fragrant with the mingled aromas of holiday cooking. Brisket and latkes and sugary, jelly-filled sufganiyot. I smile at the girls, flitting anxiously around Ilese and Jeffrey. In their matching blue sweaters, they look like something straight off a Hanukkah card, eagerly awaiting the opening of presents and after-dinner games.
Zachary and Rochelle have come up from Boston to spend a few days. It’s good that they’ve moved closer. The twins are due in March, and while they don’t know it yet, they’re going to have their hands full. Zachary and Hemi are discussing plans to assemble the cribs and hang the nursery wallpaper. Being a grandfather wasn’t something Hemi ever expected, but he’s absurdly happy about the idea of being called Saba—Grandfather in Hebrew.
We were married in August. We waited until after Zachary’s wedding was over, then snuck off to the courthouse like a pair of young lovers. Forty-three years later than we planned, but we finally made it. I watch him now, on the other side of the room, so like his son. He rakes the hair back off his forehead, then glances up, as if he suddenly feels my eyes on him. He throws me a wink and sets my heart skittering. After all this time, he can still leave me dizzy.
On the opposite side of the room, Ethan and Ashlyn are in a huddle. Unless I miss my guess, I’ll soon be giving them a honeymoon. To France, perhaps, to meet the cousins.
Zachary clears his throat and announces that it’s time to light the menorah. Hemi comes to stand beside my chair, his hand warm on my shoulder. We stand and everyone goes quiet, watching as Zachary places a candle on the far-right branch of the menorah, then lights the shamash—the helper candle. The girls hold their breaths as the shamash is held to the wick of the first candle. There’s a faint, collective sigh as it catches.
We sing the blessings then, three on the first night, and I smile at the sound of all our voices blending together. My eyes slide to Ethan, sober and respectful in his borrowed yarmulke. He and Ashlyn know all the words this year, and my heart swells with gratitude that they’ve become part of our family.
Finally, it’s time to eat. Ilese hurries the girls to the powder room to wash up for dinner. The parlor empties but I linger, relishing the rare moment of quiet. I’m tired but happy as I take in my surroundings. The menorah reflected in the darkened window, the stack of gifts wrapped in pretty paper waiting to be opened, the carpet littered with abandoned Barbies and coloring books. How could anyone want for more than this?
Hemi appears suddenly. As if in answer to my question, he holds out a package wrapped in shiny silver paper. “Hanukkah sameach.”
I frown as I take the box, wondering why he’s giving me my present before supper. There’s a curious weight to his gaze as he watches me tear at the silver paper, a sense of expectation that makes me self-conscious. I lift the lid from the box, then peel back several layers of tissue. For a moment, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It’s a book bound in smooth brown leather. I stare at the letters stamped in gold on the front—H.L.T.
Helene Louise Treves.
It can’t be. But as I lift the book out onto my lap, I see that it is—my mother’s album beautifully and painstakingly restored. I run my hands over it, astonished. The leather is supple and buttery soft, the once-broken spine seamlessly mended, the pages intact with no sign of the ghastly rubber bands. It’s Ashlyn’s work, of course, and the transformation is nothing short of miraculous.
I hold my breath as I turn back the cover, my throat tight with threatening tears. And then suddenly she’s looking up at me, the woman I remember from those special afternoons. Young and fresh and beautiful. The Maman of my memories. My hands tremble a little as I turn the pages, slowly, wonderingly.
From the dining room, I can hear them gathering around the table, the clink of plates and silverware, the trill of girlish laughter and the hum of conversation—the sounds of family. They’ll be calling us soon, wondering where we’ve gotten to. I close the album reluctantly and return it to its box. There’ll be time later to savor my gift. Right now, supper is waiting.
I push to my feet, smiling at Hemi through a shimmer of tears, grateful for the memories he’s given back to me—and for the new memories we’ll make together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
And now, it’s time to say thank you to everyone who made this book possible while building a house and orchestrating a cross-country move. Every book takes a village （this one took an especially large village）， a group of dedicated individuals willing to stand in the creative fire with you and make sure you come out whole on the other side, people who believe in your project and in you—even when you don’t—and somehow help you keep your head on straight. There’s absolutely no way to thank them all, but I’m about to try.
First, to my amazing agent, Nalini Akolekar: it’s been a wonderful journey. Thank you for every step of it. I can’t wait to see what’s next! And of course, a huge shout-out goes to the entire Spencerhill team, who are always working behind the scenes to make sure the trains are running on time.
To my original editor, Jodi Warshaw, who believed in this book from the start and has always been an enormous pleasure to work with: thank you a million times for all your faith in me. To the lovely Chris Werner, who stepped in midproject and was nothing short of amazing in his support and dedication down the homestretch. And to Danielle Marshall, with whom it has been my absolute delight to work. I couldn’t ask to be in better hands! Also, a huge shout-out to Gabe Dumpit, Alex Levenberg, Hannah Hughes, and every single member of the Lake Union / Amazon Publishing team. From marketing to design, you guys are without a doubt the best in the biz.
To my developmental editor, Charlotte Herscher, without whom I would be completely lost. （It’s true, I would!） Thank you for the gentle nudges and all your wonderful insights—and for managing it all with such grace. As Hemi would say, you help me find the pulse in each and every book.