’TWAS THE SEASON to be exhausted. And since we were planning Christmas and a wedding, well…’twas the season to be ridiculously exhausted.

“Listen, guys, I need the string of lights to be more…I dunno…careless-looking. As if an angel just sort of tossed them up there over the barn doors,” I shouted to Tom, who was perched at the top of a very old and shaky wooden ladder.

“Gaby, the reason he’s not responding is because his lips have frozen shut,” said Jacob, who was holding the ladder, a bit too casually, I thought. Considering thinning out the competition, maybe? No, Jacob and Tom were best friends. They still were best friends, right?

It was seven o’clock in the evening without a cloud in the black sky. The New England air was refreshingly clear and painfully cold. A slightly nervous bride-to-be, an ex–hockey jock, and a wisecracking rabbi were finishing the outdoor decorations.

Stacey Lee and I had already taken care of the inside of the house— a majestic ten-foot-tall Christmas tree in the front hall, evergreen and holly branches stacked high on the fireplace mantels. The time-worn stockings I had knitted for the family years earlier hung by the chimney without as much care as usual, because I’d gotten a little sentimental as I put up Peter’s stocking.

Stacey Lee had the sweet common sense not to say anything. She just hugged me. Drama was definitely in the air, wasn’t it?

“How’s that look?” Tom called down. He had on another of his hockey sweatshirts, or maybe the same one, and he still looked like he could skate up a storm at the drop of a puck.

“Perfect,” I shouted back. “Close enough.”

“Pull the whole thing a few inches to the right,” yelled Jacob. As Tom followed his orders, Jacob looked at me, shrugged, and said, “What? Because I’m Jewish I can’t have an opinion about Christmas lights?”

He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“Hold the ladder still!” Tom yelled down. “And no smooching until Christmas.”

“Some holiday spirit,” Jacob grumped. Then he added, “Here comes a car!”

Bright headlights flooded the long driveway leading to the house. The passengers didn’t seem to notice the three of us, but we all saw this wasn’t a car—it was a red pickup truck.

“That’s Claire! It’s Claire!” I yelled. As I ran toward them, I looked back at Jacob and Tom. “It’s Claire and Hank and the kids! Hold the ladder tight till Tom gets down. We might need him for the wedding.”

I ran as fast as my klutzy Uggs would let me. There they were—Claire and Gus and my precious namesake, Gabrielle, and Toby and…Hank was missing.

Then we were huddled together in a noisy group hug—everyone, that is, except Gus, who had that perpetually pissed-off teenage frown on his face.

“Hi, everybody. Claire, what happened to Hank?” I asked as I forced a great big hug on Gus. “Glad to see you, bub,” I whispered against his ear.

“Hank couldn’t make it. He’s so disappointed,” Claire said.

I knew that there must be a story attached, but it wasn’t the time to ask about it. If Claire wanted to share, she would. For now I was just happy that my “Southern belle” daughter and my grandchildren were here. And I was, I had to admit, a little happy that Hank wasn’t with them.