Free Magic hour: a novel by Kristin Hannah

places to reveal patches of wood, outlined the windows and doors. Rhododendrons the size of house trailers dotted the yard.
    Ellie opened the door and led the way inside.
    Everything looked as it always had. The same slip-covered furniture—pale beige with pink cabbage roses and faded green leaves—graced the living room. Pine antiques were everywhere—an armoire that was probably still filled with Grandma Whittaker’s doilies and table linens, a dining table scarred by three generations of Cateses and Whittakers, a credenza that was decorated with dusty silk flowers in ceramic vases. French doors flanked a river-rock fireplace; through the silvery glass panes, a ghostly ribbon of river shone in the sunlight. Ellie hadn’t changed a thing. It wasn’t surprising. In Rain Valley things and people either belonged or they didn’t. If they belonged, they were loved and kept forever.
    Ellie shut the door. Just as she said, “Brace yourself,” two full-grown golden retrievers came thundering down the stairs. At the bottom, on the slick wooden floors, they skidded together and slid sideways, then found their footing. They barreled across the room and hit Julia like the Seahawks’ front line.
    “Jake! Elwood!
Down,
” Ellie yelled in her best police voice.
    The dogs were clearly deaf.
    Julia gave them a giant shove and spun away. The dogs turned their lavish attention on Ellie, who threw herself into loving them.
    Julia watched the three of them roll around on the floor. “Please tell me they sleep outside.”
    Ellie sat up, laughing, and pushed the hair out of her eyes. The dogs licked her cheeks. “Okay, they sleep outside.” At Julia’s relieved sigh, her sister said: “
Not!
But I’ll keep them out of your room.”
    “That’s as good as it’s going to get, I suppose.”
    “It is.” Ellie told the dogs to sit. On about the twelfth command they obeyed, but as soon as Ellie looked away, they started to belly crawl toward the door.
    “Come on,” Ellie said, leading the way to the stairs.
    Julia dragged her suitcase up the narrow, creaking stairway. At the top she turned right and followed her sister down the hallway to their childhood bedroom.
    A pair of twin beds, swaddled in pink chiffon, a pair of white-painted French provincial student desks with gold trim, a lime green bean bag chair. Trolls and Barbies lined the white shelving; dozens of blue-and-yellow Nancy Drews reminded her of nights spent reading with a flashlight. A faded, dusty poster of Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones was tacked to the wall.
    On her bed, a pair of cats lay sleeping, twined together like a French braid.
    “Meet Rocky and Adrienne,” Ellie said as she crossed the room and scooped up the apparently boneless animals. The cats hung lazily from her arms, yawning. She tossed them into the hallway, said, “Go to Mommy’s room,” and then turned to Julia. “The sheets are clean. There are towels in your bathroom. The hot water still takes decades, and don’t flush the toilet before you shower.” Ellie stepped closer. “Thanks, Jules. I really appreciate your coming. I know things have been . . . bad for you lately, and . . . well, thanks.”
    Julia looked at her sister. If she’d been another kind of woman, or if they’d been different sisters, she might have admitted:
I had no where to go, really.
Instead, she said, “No problem,” and tossed her suitcase into the room. “Now tell me why I’m here.”
    “Let’s go downstairs. I’ll need a beer for this story.” Ellie started for the stairs, then turned back to Julia. “So will you.”
     

    J ULIA SAT IN HER MOTHER’S FAVORITE CHAIR AND LISTENED TO HER SISTER in growing disbelief. “She leaps from branch to branch like a cat? Come on, El. You’re getting caught up in some country myth. It sounds like you’ve found an autistic child who simply wandered away from home and got lost.”
    “Max doesn’t think it’s that simple,” Ellie said, sipping her beer.