Sorry, I’m late!” Nat called out, letting the door slam closed behind her and walking into her parents’ elegant entrance hall. It still seemed empty without Jelly to greet her, but this wasn’t a day to think about bad things.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NAT!” Paul called out from the kitchen. When she reached him, he slapped her a high five, with a resounding whack!

“Thank you, bro! What’d you get me for my big day?”

“A KITTEN.”

Nat’s heart jumped up. “For real?”

“NO, LOSER.” Paul burst into laughter, and Nat gave him a shove. “HEY, WATCH IT! I’M A HEART PATIENT!”

The scene was the usual Sunday afternoon craziness. The July sun streamed through the windows, flooding the kitchen with lemony light, and her family, in pastel golf clothes, shifted around the room like suburban shadows. Her mother chopped cantaloupe into chunks to make her trademark melon and prosciutto, her father poured himself a Heineken, and Tom and Junior arm-wrestled at the granite island next to two tall Pilsners of beer.

“Tom’s gonna win,” Nat said, tickling Junior in his side.

“Hey, yo, no fair!” Junior stayed in the fight, and Nat caught the Pilsner glass before it spilled.

“Happy Birthday, honey!” her mother called out, coming over with the paring knife and giving her a brief squeeze, followed by Big John Greco, who gave her a bear hug. He was still damp under his white polo shirt from that afternoon’s game.

“Happy Birthday, kid,” he said, raising his glass with a grin.

“Thanks, Dad. You win?”

“NO, I DID!” Paul interjected, coming over. “BY TWO STROKES! THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE KING!”

“You got lucky,” Nat and her father said at the same time.

Her father said, “Great minds.”

Nat smiled. “Exactly.”

“Hank said to tell you ‘Happy Birthday.’ I saw him last week.”

No regrets. “Say hi for me, too, would you?”

“Gotcha!” Junior shouted behind them, winning the arm-wrestling match.

“YOU GOT LUCKY!” they all said, then laughed.

“Happy Birthday to you, too, sis,” Junior said, grinning crookedly, and Tom came over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks for the assist, professor.”

“No sweat.” Nat smiled. “By the way, I have some good news—”

“DAD, YOU SCREWED THE POOCH IN THE SECOND HOLE. IT WAS ALL DOWNHILL FROM THERE.”

Tom shook his head. “That’s not where he went wrong, you idiot. It was on the fifth, the second shot. I told him. The ball always takes a funny roll on the fairway there.”

Junior snorted. “Wrong again. It was the sixth. I told him, go with the eight iron, but he went with the nine. I made twenty-five bucks and let him off easy. Easy.”

“Shut up, everybody. You’re all wrong.” Her father raised his hand, and the boys fell silent.

Nat waited for Big John to pass judgment. The wrong iron. The wrong hole. The wrong whatever.

Her father said, “I think your sister was trying to say something. All of you boys shut up and let her talk.”

Whoa. Nat blinked. For a minute, she forgot what she was going to say.

“SO TALK ALREADY!”

“Paul,” her father warned, frowning, and her mother looked up.

Nat knew that look. Don’t yell at Paul, dear.

But her mother said, “What’s your news, honey?”

Nat looked from her mother to her father, and back again. Who were these people?

“Nat?” her father asked.

Nat eyed him with suspicion, but from all outward appearances, her father was listening. Eyes alert, face turned toward her, lips parted expectantly. She had seen people listening on TV, so she knew what it looked like. Even her mother had her head cocked, and held the knife poised over the melon. In fact, they were all listening. To her.

Nat answered, “My book about the Underground Railroad is going to be published. I submitted the outline and three chapters, and they made me an offer.”

“That’s terrific, kid!” her father said, giving her another big hug, and her mother came over for another one, too, this time without the knife.

“An author in the family!” she said. “I’m so proud!”

“Way to go, sis!” Junior said.

“Congratulations, Nat!” Tom called out, but the last word belonged to Paul.

“GREAT. NOW ON THE SECOND HOLE…”