Claire looked down at her boots, which were indeed more fashion than snowshoe. "Guilty."
Mae reappeared in the pass-through with a pie tin and the expression of a general inspecting troops. She set a slice of pumpkin pie in front of Claire with a clink that dared contradiction.
"Eat the turkey. Leave the commentary. Jack, wipe that counter like you mean it. And you—" she pointed a floury finger at Claire—"if you're staying through this storm, you'll dry by the heater and you'll not criticize another Brennan recipe within earshot of heaven."
"Yes, ma'am," Claire said, and meant it.
The heater rattled in the corner near the jukebox, which sat dark and unused, its glass reflecting the pendant lamps like a second set of moons. Jack poured coffee without asking. Claire wrapped both hands around the mug and felt heat return to her fingers in slow, grateful waves. Snow hammered the windows. The world beyond the diner had become a rumor written in white ink.