Jack watched her with the resigned interest of a man who had grown up being told that gravy was a sacrament.
"You were closing," Claire said. "And you still plated this."
"It's Thanksgiving," he said, as if that explained the universe. "Mae doesn't believe in throwing away a feast. Neither do I, lately."
"Lately?"
He shrugged, and the loose strand of hair moved. "Long story. You've got one too, or you wouldn't be on Route 4 in a blizzard wearing city boots."