She turned around. He was standing in the doorway in a white T-shirt and dark blue uniform trousers, with a dish towel over one shoulder and a smear of flour on his forearm, and he looked at her as if she were something that had come down out of the sky with the snow.
"Twelve relatives," she said. Her voice came out strange. "The turnpike's closed at Hazleton. Route 6 is closed at Towanda. Uncle Pete has a heart condition. Aunt Rosemary cried."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Uncle Ambrose wanted to know if he should bring his own rye." She lifted the hamper an inch. "Two pumpkin and an apple. Lattice top. I made four, but I left one at home in case I lose my nerve and need to eat a whole pie by myself tonight."
He came down the step and took the hamper out of her arms. He didn't say anything about the plaque. He didn't look at it. He only looked at her, at her bare hand still red from the bronze, and then he said, quietly, "You want to come in, or you want a minute?"
It was such a simple question. Nobody had ever asked it. For sixteen years people had either steered her carefully around her father or pushed her straight at him — here's the picture, here's the medal, here's the plaque, wasn't he brave, aren't you proud. Nobody had ever just stood in the snow and offered her a minute.
"I'll come in," she said, and put her glove back on, and did.