TEPPING INTO NOAH’S workshop was like entering a cathedral.

The old mill building had once been part of the lumber industry on which Georgebury was founded. The ceiling was forty feet high, so the place echoed like a canyon. The walls were rough-hewn brick, the floor made from uneven, unvarnished wide-planked oak, worn smooth as glass and stained nut brown from more than a hundred years of footsteps. Along one wall was Noah’s workbench, lit by an old copper pharmacy light; in the corner was a hideous plaid recliner where he sometimes napped and which the health department really should condemn. Fifty feet long, forty feet wide, the room was suffused with the smell of a century and a half of wood.

There were other smells, too, of course…polyurethane, smoke from the woodstove on the far wall, the pleasant, oily smell of Noah’s tools and occasionally that of wet dog, since Bowie stayed with Noah during the day. But lording over everything, the strong, wonderful scent of wood, cedar and pine and oak. Even when I lived in Boston, the smell of freshly cut wood had me turning to look for my grandfather.

At the moment, Noah had three boats in various stages of completion. One was a kayak, the type that had made him quite revered in the world of wooden boat paddlers. Long, sleek and lean, the bow so slim that it would slice through the water, this one was for ocean racing. Another one was, in Noah’s terms, “for idiots like yourself, Callie,” by which he meant for people who enjoyed paddling around a lake looking at the pretty birdies and trees. Very hard to tip, that model, but still graceful and lovely. The third boat was quite pretty, too…this one was an Adirondack fishing boat, and even though it was only half finished, I could picture Jay Gatsby in it, casting a line over the side while he yearned for that shallow tramp, Daisy.

“Noah?” I called. Bowie’s head popped up, and he yipped twice as he leaped to his feet, trotting over to see me. “Hi, boy,” I said, petting his big and beautiful head. “Where’s Noah, huh?”

“Right here, right here,” my grandfather grumbled, emerging from the back room where he kept his supplies. “What do you want?”

“I’m great, thanks! You’re so sweet to ask.” He rolled his eyes, unamused. “I just wanted to remind you, dear Noah, that everyone’s coming here for dinner, so you should come in and wash up.”

My grandfather scowled—Santa with a pounding hangover. “Do I have to?” he asked. “Seem to remember I can’t stand half the people in my own family.”

“Stop whining,” I said. “Yes, you have to. And it’s not half. It’s more like a third.”

“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “Who’s coming?”

“The usual suspects,” I said. “Freddie, Hester, the girls, Mom.” I paused. “Dad.”

“What?” Noah said. “Both your parents? Does your mother know?”

“No,” I answered. “I figured it’d be better as a surprise.”

“That son of mine is a fuck-up,” Noah grumbled, shaking his head. “And your mother! She’ll gut him with her fork. What are you thinking, Callie girl?” He ran a gnarled hand through his thatch of white hair and gave me a look.

“Well, here’s the thing, Noah.” I took a deep breath. “Dad wants to get back together with Mom, and he asked me to help him out…”

“He never should’ve left her, the stupid fool. I never even looked at another woman once I met your grandmother.”

I smiled. “I know,” I said. “But Dad’s…well, he’s trying, anyway.”

“He’s still goin’ over jackass hill, if you ask me,” Noah said, referring to my father’s eternal adolescence.

“Well, he’s always been a good father,” I said. It was true. If you discounted the cheating-on-Mom part, that is.

“A good father loves his children’s mother,” Noah said.

“Okay, well, everyone’s still coming.”

“I’ll take dinner in my room.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” I said firmly. “This is a family dinner. Even Freddie’s coming.”

“Speakin’ of jackass hill,” Noah grunted. “Hasn’t he finished college yet?”

“No. He’s taking a year off to figure out what he wants to do, as he’s told you eighteen times. Hester’s coming with the girls, and of course, me, your favorite. So you’re eating with us.” I steered him out of the shop and into the kitchen, where the smell of roast chicken greeted us warmly.

“I still have sanding to do,” he objected.

“You know I’ll do it for you later, old man. No excuses. You’re eating with us.”

“You’re so cruel, Callie,” Noah said, sitting down to unstrap his leg. “Bowie, your mama, she’s a mean one.”

I straightened from checking the chicken. “Mean? Didn’t I just clean this entire house, including that terrifying abyss you call a bedroom, where, by the way, I found four dirty plates and six glasses, not to mention the bottle of Dewar’s you think I don’t know about. Don’t I cook you dinner every night, old man? Don’t I sand your boats when you complain that your arthritis hurts when we both know that you really just hate sanding? And get that leg off the table.”

“All right, all right, I take it back,” he said. “You’re not half-bad.”

I HOSTED A FAMILY DINNER about once a month, though I alternated parental invitations. Still, my mother didn’t object when she came through the door an hour later and saw dear old Dad standing there, grinning sheepishly at her as he hugged my brother. No. She smiled, which was much more terrifying.

“Tobias,” she said in a mellifluous and deadly tone. If a cobra could speak, I’m sure it would sound exactly like my mom.

“Eleanor,” Dad said. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Attaboy, Dad,” Freddie said, helping himself to some wine. “Flattery’s a good place to start.” Apparently, Fred was in on the plan as well.

“Thank you, Tobias,” Mom said. “You yourself look—” she scanned him up and down “—very well. How’s the syphilis?”

“I don’t have—” Dad began sharply, then remembered he was wooing his lady love. “I’m 100 percent healthy,” he said in a gentler tone. “How are things with you?”

“Wonderful,” Mom answered, not blinking. I swear the air temperature dropped five degrees.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.

“Calliope!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for having us.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “So nice to include…your father.”

“I’m scared,” Freddie whispered, grinning at me. “Hold me, Callie.”

“Would you like some wine, Mom?” I offered.

“Absolutely.”

“How are things at the funeral home?” I asked, hoping to score points with a subject near and dear to her heart.

“Wonderful,” she said, her tone a bit less terrifying. “Louis just did a reconstruction on a man who was hit by a rogue tire iron. His head looked like a bowl of SpaghettiOs.”

“What exactly is a rogue tire iron?” Freddie asked, fascinated. “Shit, that must’ve been a mess!”

“Oh, it was,” Mom said, warming to her subject. “You couldn’t even tell where his—”

“Stop!” I yelped. “Please, Mom!”

“Callie, how can you be such a wuss when you grew up in a funeral home?” Mom wondered. “Death is in your blood, after all.”

“Death is not in my blood,” I said impatiently. “And it’s not like I got to choose where we lived.”

“Anyway,” my mother said, giving me a cool look before turning her attention back to her son. “His face was—”

“Oh, look, Hester and the girls are here!” I announced. “I’ll just run out and help.” With that, I galloped into the rainy evening.

“Is that Dad’s car?” Hester said, heaving herself out of her Volvo with some difficulty, a reminder to me to go easy on the cake batter.

“Hi, Auntie!” Josephine said, flinging her arms around my waist. “Want to braid my hair? Guess what? I’m in the school chorus! We’re singing ‘Greensleeves’! Braid my hair!”

“That’s great, honey! I’ll braid your hair in a little while, okay?” I said, smooching my younger niece. “Hi, Bronte, sweetie-pie.”

Bronte glared at me, her earbuds firmly in place. “Hi,” she grumbled. Ah, adolescence.

“I’m so happy to see you. I love you. You’re gorgeous and brilliant,” I said.

“Calm down, Callie,” she said, but she gave me a kiss and trudged inside, Josephine prancing at her heels.

“Is that indeed Dad’s car, Callie?” my sister repeated.

I sighed. “Yes. I thought it would be nice for all of us to get together.”

“Nice, Callie? As in, ‘It would be nice to have my kidneys torn out by a lion while I’m still alive?’ That kind of nice?”

“Yes! Exactly what I was going for!” I answered. “Let’s not exaggerate, Hester. It’s not like they’re never together.”

“Public events only,” Hester said. “With lots of other people to distract and confuse and block.” She looked at me in exasperation. “You’re an idiot, you know that? What are you doing? Trying to get them back together?”

“No, no,” I said. “Well…Dad…um, never mind.”

“Dad what? Is he dying?”

“No! You and Mom…he’s not dying. He just…he wants to make amends with Mom, that’s all.”

“Fuck,” Hester said. “Listen, why don’t I leave the girls here, and I’ll go and lie down on the highway and hope to get run over instead?”

“Well, as fun as that sounds, get your ass inside and stop complaining,” I said. “I made a gorgeous dinner. Come eat.”

My sister obeyed. I took a cleansing breath of the cool, damp air, said a little prayer for peace and followed her inside.

Family gatherings were…um, let’s see, what’s the word I’m looking for?… Hell. They were hell. Being the middle child, I served as referee and confidante, hostess and martyr. Did I feel we should get together once in a while? Sure. Did I want my family all together? Theoretically, yes. In reality, dear God, no.

But Dad had asked, and even though his odds were probably that of a baby chick surviving a stroll across the Daytona 500 Raceway, I had to help him out. If I didn’t, no one would.

For years, Dad had exemplified the sheepish charmer…I know, I was so bad, but don’t I have the twinkliest eyes? Does anyone need a new car? Mom, on the other hand, was the ice queen, never letting Dad forget just how little she’d forgiven and forgotten. Freddie got along with everyone for the most part. Hester, like Mom, had never forgiven Dad, but she tolerated him and admitted that he was a good grandfather to the girls.

As for Noah, he was a crusty old Vermonter. He and Gran met when they were seventeen, married at eighteen, and stayed in love for thirty-nine years. Noah viewed the rest of us as somewhat retarded when it came to human relations. He may have had a point.

“Can we eat?” Noah barked from his corner, where he was busy scowling at the rest of us. “I’m so hungry, I’m gaunt. And this beer’s flatter than a plate of piss.”

“That’s beautiful, Grampy,” Bronte said.

“So now you got an attitude, huh? I just started liking you,” Noah said.

“I’ll get you another beer, Dad,” my own father offered.

“Good, son. ’Bout time you did somethin’ useful with your life,” Noah returned. “Speakin’ of useless, Freddie, when the hell are you goin’ to graduate from that fancy-ass college of yours and stop bleedin’ your parents of their life savings?”

“About five more years, Noah,” Freddie said cheerfully. “I just switched my major to parapsychology. I’m going to be a ghost hunter. What do you think?” Noah, not realizing that Fred was jerking his chain, sputtered on his fresh beer. Mom, though she usually defended Fred, didn’t comment, as she was willing my father to turn into a pillar of salt or something.

“I love family dinners,” Hester grumbled.

“Oh, me, too,” I said.

“Hey, will you chaperone some Brownie troop field trip next week?” she asked. “I have a seminar in Boston.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “When is it?”

“After school on Thursday,” Hester answered. “Josephine really didn’t want to miss it.”

“Of course,” I said. “Where are we going? Cabot’s?” I hoped so. The creamery had a free cheese bar.

“Uh…Josephine, where are the Brownies going next week, honey?” Hester asked. Josephine, who was rubbing Bowie’s tummy and sending clots of fur onto the just-vacuumed floor, jumped up.

“It’s a farm, I think,” she said, leaping up to clutch my waist and beg. “Can you come, Auntie? Can you? Please?” Today she was dressed in a black-sequined unitard and a purple skirt with pink Crocs.

“I sure can,” I said. I had oodles of vacation time socked away, and Mark, who had no nieces or nephews, had always been great about letting me do things with Bronte and Josephine. At the thought of Mark, my heart twisted. He’d kissed Muriel when he was leaving the office today. On the cheek. “See you later, babe,” he’d said. Not that I was eavesdropping. And Muriel’s face had flushed even brighter than her usual consumptive look.

Babe. Mark had never called me babe. Honey, yes. But he called Karen honey, too, and she was basically a barracuda with legs. Once, he called me sweetpea, something so old-fashioned I’d melted (you’re not surprised, are you?). Dad used to call Mom Bluebird, because, he said, she made him so happy. At this moment, she was fingering her knife and looking at him with great speculation in her eyes.

I herded my family around the dining room table, got drinks, fetched a clean fork for Josephine, who’d dropped hers, moved the centerpiece of zinnias and cosmos, which I’d picked that very evening, wiped up a spill and finally sat down. “This is nice,” I said. No one answered, as they were all halfway done already. Seven minutes later, it was official. Dinner, which consisted of my famous garlic-roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with dill, homemade gravy, braised carrots and green beans almondine, all of which took me two hours of prep time, was consumed in just under thirteen minutes. Setting the table had taken more time.

“That was wonderful, Poodle,” my father said, twinkling at me.

“I’ve got to get back to the shop,” Noah grumbled, pushing his chair back and hopping out of the dining room.

“Where’s your leg?” I asked. He didn’t answer.

“It’s under the table,” Josephine said, peeking.

“So gross,” Bronte grunted, pushing her potatoes around her plate.

“Maybe we can play Monopoly,” Dad suggested hopefully, beaming at my mother, who was staring at the tablecloth, lost in pleasant fantasies about dismembering her ex-husband. “Eleanor? I seem to remember you loved being the iron. Would you like to be the iron again?”

“Is that your come-on line, Dad? It needs work,” Freddie offered, glancing up from the message he was texting.

“Let’s play Wii!” Josephine chirruped. “Callie, can we play Wii?”

“Who named that thing?” Mom asked, examining her manicure. Frequent exposure to formaldehyde made her fingernails quite strong and lovely. “Whenever I hear it, I imagine children playing with a urine-filled balloon.”

Dad gave a booming laugh. “That’s funny, Ellie! How about that Monopoly? Bronte, sweetheart? Want to play with your old Poppy and Grammy?”

“No,” Bronte mumbled, folding her arms across her nonexistent chest.

“Fred, get off your ass and help Callie clean up,” Hester said, kicking our little brother.

“You help her,” he returned amiably. “Your own ass is bigger, so you’ll probably be more help.”

“I worked all day,” Hester said. “So bite me, you lazy little bastard.”

“You get women pregnant all day long. Who’s to say I don’t do the same?” Freddie returned, raising his eyebrows innocently while Bronte snickered.

Ah, family. Meanwhile, no one was helping me clean up, either. Chugging a little more chardonnay, I then took a cleansing breath and smiled. “It’s all good, it’s all good,” I whispered to myself.

“There’s Callie, slowly going insane while we all watch,” Freddie said. I smiled, grateful that someone was paying attention. “Hey, Cal, you find someone to sleep with yet?” he added.

“There are children in the room, Fred, in addition to yourself and your mental age of six,” Hester said, kicking him again.

“If you insist on marriage,” Mom said thoughtfully, “why don’t you give Louis a try? He’s so talented.”

My brother snorted. “Yes, Callie, the man has a way with a corpse, so—”

“Fred, quiet. Mom, no talk of Louis at the table,” I said. “Besides, Dad asked if you wanted to play Monopoly with him,” I reminded her.

Mom slid her chilly gaze over to Dad. “What do you want, Tobias?” she hissed.

“Is there any dessert?” Bronte asked.

“Yes, yes, get out while you can, both of you,” I answered. “Run. There’s pie and chocolate chip cookies in the pantry. You and Josephine can cut it up, okay? Ice cream’s in the basement freezer.”

Dad frowned, doubtless hoping to use the girls’ presence as a shield. Slightly daunted, he nevertheless forged ahead. “Well, since you asked, I was hoping we might…put the past behind us, Eleanor. Rekindle our relationship.” Mom said nothing. “You’re the only woman I ever loved,” Dad added. His sincerity was somewhat undercut as he glanced at me and winked. Hester gagged on her wine, but he ignored her, as she was cynical and not likely to support his quixotic mission.

Mom gave him an almost fond look, sort of the way a cat looks at a baby chipmunk… Hey, thanks for entertaining me! I’m going to chew off your legs now, okay? “Do go on,” she said.

Dad, who could be run over by a tank and not notice, continued. “Well, Eleanor, we’re not getting any younger. You’ve never been with another man, according to our son, anyway—”

Fred made a strangled sound…unlike Hester and me, he never learned to keep his mouth shut when our parents milked us for information on the other.

“—and we have to start thinking about the rest of our lives. You don’t want to end up alone, do you? We have a lot of good years left.” He sat up straighter. Gave Mom the twinkly-crinkly smile. “What do say, Ellie? Shall we try again?”

Mom smiled. Fred, Hester and I leaned farther away from the imminent explosion. “Well, Tobias,” she said. “You know, I’ll think about it…wait a minute, wait a minute. I don’t have to think about because I’m…what’s the word? Sober. Yes. I’m sober. So the answer would have to be…no.”

“Why not try?” Dad suggested. “If it doesn’t work, well, at least you were open to something new.”

Again with the almost (emphasis on almost) fond smile. “Why on earth would I want to be with you again, Tobias?” she asked.

Dad shot me a nervous look. “Well,” he said, and I had to give him points for courage, “I love you, Eleanor. Despite my reprehensible behavior—” here he inserted his best George Clooney grin…yes, I’m a bad dog, but check out these attractive laugh lines! “—I’ve never stopped. These past two decades, I’ve regretted my actions deeply—” Clearly, Dad had rehearsed this “—and I’ve learned the errors of my ways.”

“I didn’t ask about what’s in it for you, Tobias,” Mom said in that smooth and icy voice that had struck fear into our young hearts. “What’s in it for me?”

Dad paused. “Companionship?” he suggested.

“I’ll get a dog,” she answered.

Dad shifted. “Well, okay, if you want me to be blunt…what about sex?”

“Siblings! Shall we go?” I suggested. “Give Mom and Dad some privacy?”

My brother and sister didn’t move. “This is better than Tool Academy,” Freddie said, taking a pull on his beer. Hester, too, seemed fascinated, though more in the way a medical examiner is fascinated by a particularly gruesome murder.

Mom, uncharacteristically, said nothing, which Dad took as encouragement. “Remember, Eleanor? It never faded, did it? The passion. The urgency.” He raised an eyebrow. “It was the best thing about our marriage.”

“Except for your three beautiful children, of course,” Freddie said.

“That had to mean something,” Dad continued, ignoring his son. “People don’t feel that for each other without it meaning something.”

“Too bad we didn’t have Republicans for parents,” I observed. “You can bet the farm they never talk like this.”

“There are no Republicans in Vermont,” Hester said. “They died out, like the Shakers. Is there any more wine?”

Mom and Dad just stared at each other. Hope, a tiny seedling, sprouted in my heart. Could it be? “He has always loved you, Mom,” I said gently.

Mom smiled. A real smile. “I’ll consider it,” she said.

“What?” Hester said. “What?”

“Holy shit,” Freddie added.

“If,” Mom said.

“If what?” Dad asked.

“If you introduce me to each of the women you slept with while I was gestating our son.”

The blood drained from my father’s face. I pictured the hopeful seedling being crushed by my mother’s sturdy shoe.

“Well, uh…women…there were only, ah…two, Eleanor,” Dad said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Well, okay, three,” he amended. “And, uh, I’m sure I don’t know what happened to them. I barely remember them. I think they moved. Far away. To, uh, New Zealand, I believe, and uh…France.”

“Actually, I know where they are,” Mom said. “They all live within a hundred miles of here. I’ve kept tabs on them over the years.” She glanced at her children fondly. “I just love Google.”

Hester closed her eyes and shook her head.

“So, if you’re sincere, and it’s true that you’ve always loved me and want to rekindle anything, that’s what you have to do,” Mom said smugly.

Man. She really did enjoy burying people.

WHEN DAD HAD LIMPED away and Hester and the girls had gone home, and Freddie and Noah were hiding out in the workshop sanding a canoe, Mom and I stood side by side, doing the dishes.

“So that was interesting,” I said, rinsing a wineglass. I set it on the dishrack, where Mom picked it up and began polishing it with unsettling vigor.

“It certainly was,” she answered.

I studied her from the corner of my eye. Mom was attractive in her own way…big frame, strong features, kind eyes. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t beautiful, either. She looked…competent. Dad, on the other hand, turned heads on women ages seventeen to ninety-four, and was fairly incompetent in many ways…while Mom could probably overpower the Nazis and then climb in and drive their tank to the Allies, Dad…Dad would just surrender amiably and hope for the best.

“So are you really considering getting back with Dad?” I asked, turning my attention back to the legion of dishes.

“Of course not,” she answered. “He cheated on me, Calliope.”

“Right. So…no chance of forgiveness, then?” I placed another glass on the rack.

“I forgave your father long ago, Callie,” she lied, not looking at me.

“Really, Mom? Because—”

“How’s your love life, dear? Did that slovenly man in the café work out?”

“He wasn’t that sloven—”

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” she said. “Why the sudden interest in dating? I thought you were going to ask Hester for help on the motherhood front.” She snapped the dish-cloth and got to work on a plate.

“No,” I said slowly. “I’d…I’ve always wanted to get married. Have kids the old-fashioned way. Live happily ever after.”

“That chair was your undoing,” Mom muttered.

“It’s not the chair’s fault, Mom.” I paused. “Just because things didn’t work out with you and Dad—”

“Sweetheart, I defy you to find me three couples who’ve been married for more than ten years and are living happily ever after. With each other, that is. Here.” She handed me back a glass. “You missed a spot.”

“Noah and Gran. Nana and Dimpy,” I said, naming my grandparents on both sides.

“How about a couple born after the FDR administration?” Mom prompted.

“Annie and Jack?”

“That’s one. And for number two?”

I winced. “And…let’s see now…okay, you win. But, Mom, I think Dad’s sincere. He’s never gotten over you. You know that. And here you’ve been, hating him with the heat of a thousand suns lo these many years. You know what they say. Hate and love are two sides of the same coin.”

She gave me a look unique to her…pity, patience and mild disgust all rolled into one. “You’re so naive, Callie,” she said.

“True,” I admitted. I paused, remembering my father’s face at my birthday party. “I just can’t help remembering you two when you were happy. When I think about getting married myself, finding someone who really loved me for me and all that crap, I always picture you and Dad, dancing in the living room when he came home from a trip.”

Much to my surprise, her eyes filled. “Well. He stomped all over those times, didn’t he?” she said thickly.

“Right, he did. But maybe you could really forgive him, Mom.”

She sighed. “When someone cheats on you, Callie, they take a piece of your heart. And I don’t know that you ever get it back.”

I thought of Mark, and all the years I’d spent hoping for him. Waiting for him. Imagining the two of us together on that mythical front porch somewhere. Pictured him now somewhere with Muriel.

Mom had a point.