Michael finally made his appearance. He set a small cardboard box on the floor by the kitchen door and nudged his son out of the way to wash his own sticky hands.

Libby felt as if she were being invaded. Her quiet kitchen was suddenly full.

“Mary!” Robbie exclaimed, seeing his pet perched on the rocking chair at the end of the kitchen.

Michael was just pulling a bottle of wine from his pocket but nearly dropped it when he spun around at his son’s shout that Mary was there. He scrambled to catch the bottle and just barely managed to save them all from another sticky mess.

All four of them stared at the snowy owl, which blinked back at them, not the least bit ruffled by the commotion.

“Son,” Michael said, “ya don’t holler like that.” Quickly regaining his composure, he looked at Libby and lifted a brow. “If I had known there would be five of us, I’d have brought more wine.”

All Libby could do was shrug. She sure as heck couldn’t explain what a wild bird was doing in her kitchen. Only Robbie seemed to think it was natural. Poor John was actually backed up against the wall, looking as if he were expecting the owl to go for his throat. Libby guessed this was his first time meeting Mary.

“It’s okay, Grampy,” Robbie assured him. “Mary’s my pet. And Libby’s, too,” he said, turning to beam her a smile. “She’s just come for a visit, ’cause I told her we were having supper here tonight.”

Libby remembered the stick and walked over to get it. “And look what she brought me,”

she said, holding it up for all of them to see.

Robbie came over and was just reaching for the stick when Michael took it away from her. “Where did you get this?” he whispered, holding it in his fist at arm’s length, looking from it to her.

Libby wondered why he’d turned so pale. “Mary brought it to me,” she told him. “Why?

Is it a rare wood? From a protected tree or something?”

“Nay,” Michael said softly, rolling the stick in his hand and hefting its weight. He looked at the snowy owl, his face drawn taut and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Ya say Mary brought it to ya?” he asked, looking back at Libby.

She nodded.

“It appears to be cherrywood,” John interjected, coming up and taking the stick from Michael. He also turned it in his hand, holding it toward Libby. “It’s full of burls.” He traced his fingers over the knots. “See. If you were to cut these off and polish them, you would find a swirling grain that would darken to a deep cherry red.”

Michael carefully took the stick away from John, then looked around as if trying to decide what to do with it. He kept his attention divided between the stick in his hand and the owl silently staring at them. Finally, and with what sounded to Libby like a whispered curse, he walked into the living room and headed toward the hearth.

But he stopped when he reached the brightly burning fire and stared into the flames.

“Please don’t burn it,” Libby softly entreated from the living-room door. “I don’t know why it bothers you, but I would hate to see that beautiful wood destroyed.”

“Don’t burn it, Papa,” Robbie added from beside her.

“It’s Mary’s gift to Libby.”

Michael continued to stare at the fire, the stick clutched in his white-knuckled fist like a club, and Libby found herself holding her breath. Why was he so bothered by Mary’s gift?

Why wouldn’t he say something?

Libby began breathing again when Michael set the stick on the mantel and turned to her.

“Supper smells good,” he said through a tight smile, making no apology and giving no explanation for his actions. He slowly rubbed his hands together as if he were anticipating dinner, but Libby sensed he was trying to rub away the feel of the stick.

“And I’m starved,” Robbie said, turning and running to the table. He sat down next to John and immediately reached for a slice of bread.

John took it away from him and put it back. “You have to wait until everyone’s seated and grace is said,” he instructed in a whisper. “Or you won’t get any apple pie.”

Libby finished mashing the potatoes and put them in a large bowl while Michael took the chicken out of the roaster and set it on a platter. They carried the food to the patiently waiting guests. There was an awkward moment when they both started to sit in the chair at the head of the table.

Each immediately conceded to the other, but only when Libby sat down facing John and Robbie did Michael finally sit at the head of the table. He busied himself carving the chicken. Libby looked over and saw that John was smiling and Robbie was all but drooling onto his empty plate.

“I can say grace while Papa is carving,” the young boy suggested, folding his hands in front of him and bowing his head.

Libby and John did the same, but Michael didn’t stop carving, apparently just as anxious to eat as his son.

“Thank you, God, for the food,” Robbie began. “And for helping Libby cook it perfect.

Amen,” the boy said, grabbing back his slice of bread and slathering it with butter.

Dinner went by almost as quickly as Robbie’s prayer. Michael, John, and Robbie ate as if there were no tomorrow. There wasn’t much conversation, and by the end, there wasn’t much food left. The chicken was reduced to a carcass, the stuffing disappeared, and Libby thought Robbie was going to lick the bowl of potatoes clean.

She was just snatching up the last slice of bread when she heard a squeak. Libby looked over at Mary, who was still sitting on the back of the rocking chair, but the bird wasn’t making a sound. She was, however, looking toward the wall of clothes by the door with interest.

The squeak grew louder, and Libby heard scratching as well. She decided the noise was coming from the box Michael had carried in earlier.

“What’s in the box?” she asked, slowly getting out of her chair and walking around the table until it was between her and the scratching noise.

“I forgot the kittens!” Robbie said, sliding back his chair and running toward the box.

Michael caught him on the way past. “Nay, son,” he said, pulling him onto his lap. “Ya can’t take them out with your pet here,” he told him.

Wide-eyed, Robbie looked at Mary. “Oh,” he said. “I hadn’t thought about that. She might consider them supper.” He suddenly frowned. “But ya told me Mama likes cats.”

“She does. I mean, she did. But your pet might be looking at them a little differently.”

Michael set Robbie off his lap and turned him toward Mary. “Why don’t ya see if she’s ready to go outside?”

“Do you think that’s wise, Michael, for the boy to be handling that owl?” John asked, his worried frown divided between Michael and Robbie. Robbie held out his arm, and the owl hopped onto it.

“She’ll not harm him,” Michael assured John. “They’ve been friends for months now.”

Libby walked over and opened the door for Robbie. “Good-bye, Mary,” she said, reaching out and lightly running her finger over the owl’s folded wing. “Thank you for the gift,” she added softly enough that Michael couldn’t hear. “And come back and visit me again.”

Robbie, pleased that Libby was talking to his pet, walked off the porch and into the night with Mary, all the time keeping up a whispered conversation of his own with the bird.

Libby turned to find Michael hunched down in front of the now very noisy box. Robbie must have brought her a pair of kittens. She pushed Michael out of the way, knelt down, and lifted open the flaps.

Three sets of eyes blinked up at her.

Libby caught one of the kittens when it made a leap for her. She picked it up and held it in front of her face. “Well, hello there,” she said, smiling at the huge green eyes staring back at her.

The kitten let out an impatient mew and wiggled to be set down. Libby set it on the floor and pulled out the other two kittens, holding them up to get a good look at them. They were such small, squirming things that she laughed out loud and put them down beside the other one.