Her father sighed. “Diana, are you suggesting that Santa was spying on Claire and Dean?”
“No!” And then less emphatically. “Although there is that whole sees you when you’re sleeping, sees you when you’re awake schtick, which I strongly suspect is not entirely legal.”
“Diana.”
“And he does know,” she added, “if you’ve been naughty or nice. Or specifically in this case, if Claire’s been naughty or nice.”
“Diana!”
“Okay. Something hit my shields just as Santa showed up. I figured it for his annual distraction and flipped it…”
“To me.” Claire nodded. It was all beginning to make sense. “When I felt your touch, I leapt to an understandable conclusion…”
“Hey!”
“…and trapped it in the barrier.”
“So!” Diana bounced to her feet. “This is really my Summons.”
“Are you feeling it now?”
“What difference does that make? It hit me first.”
“Perhaps…”
“Perhaps?”
Claire ignored her protest. “…but it hit me last and besides, from the intensity of the thing we’re practically on top of the site. I can run out, close the hole, and be home before the turkey comes out of the oven.”
“And don’t you think highly of yourself,” Diana snorted. “You think because you can find it, you can close it. You’ve forgotten what it’s like around here.”
“I’ve forgotten more than you know.” Claire tossed a superior smile across the room.
Diana tossed it back.
When the smoke cleared, Martha had her right hand clamped on Claire’s left shoulder and her left on Diana’s right. “Both of you answer it.”
“But…”
“No buts. While I’m willing to regard your childish behavior as an inevitable result of the amount of sugar ingested this morning, I am not willing to see it continue. You are both far too old for this.”
“But…”
“What did I say about buts?” She turned them toward the door. “Claire, try to make it a learning experience for your sister. Diana, try to learn something. Dean, I’m very sorry, but you’ll have to drive them. As long as you’re here, I suspect no other transportation will make itself available.”
Trying to hide a smile, Dean murmured an agreement.
“Austin, are you going or staying?”
A black-and-white head poked out from under the front of the couch and raked a green-gold gaze over the tableau in the doorway. “Let me see, stuffed into the cold cab of an ancient truck with tag teams of young love and sibling rivalry or lying around a warm kitchen on the off chance that someone will take pity on a starving cat and give him a piece of turkey. Gee, tough choice.”
“You’re not starving,” Claire told him, rolling her eyes.
“I’m not stupid either. Have a nice time.”
“Diana, stop shoving.”
“Oh, yeah, like you care. You’re practically on his lap. Moving that stick shift ought to be interesting.”
Thankful that he’d taken the time to back in—reverse would have approached contributing to the delinquency of a minor—Dean slid the truck into gear, eased forward, and jerked to a stop at the end of the driveway.
A lime-green hatchback roared past, the driver’s gaze turned toward the Hansens’ house, whites showing all around the edges of his eyes.
Diana waved jauntily.
“Diana!” Claire reached into the possibilities just in time to keep the small car from going into the ditch as it disappeared around a curve on two wheels. “You know how nervous Mr. Odbeck is, why did you do that?”
“Couldn’t resist.”
“Try harder. We need to go left, Dean.”
“I don’t know about nervous,” Dean observed as he pulled out, “but he was driving way too fast for the road condition, and he wasn’t watching where he was going.”
“That’s because Diana keeps things interesting around here.”
“Interesting how?”
“Strange lights, weird noises, walking trees, geothermal explosions.”
“Hey, that geothermal thing only happened once,” Diana protested. “And I took care of it almost immediately.”
Almost. Dean considered that as he brought the truck up to the speed limit and had a pretty fair idea of why Mr. Odbeck was so nervous. “Is that what you meant when you told Claire she’s forgotten what it’s like around here?”
“It’s not her,” Claire told him, “it’s the area.”
“He asked me.”
“Sorry. Turn right at that crossroads up ahead.”
“The area?” he prompted, gearing down for the turn and trying unsuccessfully not to think about the warm thigh he couldn’t avoid rubbing.
“Is he blushing? Ow!” Diana rubbed her side and shifted until she was up as tight against the passenger side door as she could go. “Mom’s right, you’re too skinny. That elbow’s like a…a…”
“Hockey stick?”
“The area,” Claire said pointedly—Dean realized a little too late that was not a blank he should have helped fill—“is covered by a really thin bit of barrier.”
“The fabric of reality is T-shirt material where it should be rubberized canvas. Your mother told me that back in Kingston,” he added when the silence insisted he continue. “She told me that’s why they’re here, her and your father, because stuff seeps.”
Diana snickered as she exhaled on the window and began drawing a pattern in the condensation. “Jeez, Claire, and I thought your explanations were lame.”
“At least I haven’t turned the McConnells’ fence posts into giant candy canes.”
“Oops.” She erased the pattern with her sleeve and reached into the possibilities.
Claire squinted into the rearview mirror. “Now they’re dancing.”
“It’s not my fault! It’s Christmas. There’s so much peace and joy around it’s messing everything up!” This time when she reached, she twisted. “There, those are fence posts.”
“Definitively,” Claire agreed. “You do know you’ve anchored them in the barysphere?”
“At least they’re not dancing.”
“Yes, but…”
“Why don’t you finish telling Dean why closing this site may not be a piece of fruitcake. Not literally fruitcake,” she amended, catching sight of Dean’s profile. “Although fruitcakes have punched holes through to the dark side in the past.”
“You’re not helping,” Dean pointed out, and turned left following Claire’s silent direction. “There’s a hole in the T-shirt fabric…”
“…and because the fabric’s so thin you can’t just pinch the edges together nor will it take anything
