The Swallow's Nest. Emilie Richards

      Feathering your nest with imagination and love

      MARCH 3RD:

      All of you know how I’ve longed for this day. One year ago, my husband, Graham, was diagnosed with Burkitt’s lymphoma. You’ve been with me as he progressed through treatment, as our spirits soared and plummeted, even with me during my absences here. I can’t count the encouraging emails I’ve received, the suggestions, the promises of prayers. Now, today, we will celebrate the best possible news. Graham’s cancer is in remission, and he is really, at last, on the road to recovery.

      Before this I never considered how I would adjust to news as horrifying as a cancer diagnosis, but now, one year later, I know. Life moves on and so do we. Graham and I came through this year stronger and closer, and my gratitude for your support knows no bounds. Mahalo, the Hawaiian word for thank you, doesn’t begin to cover what I’m feeling today.

      I wish you could be right here to share every moment of today’s celebration party with us, but watch for photos and recipes. In the meantime, here are the instructions for welcoming a loved one with a flip-flop sign—or “slippahs” as we call them in my home state.

      Aloha! Lilia

      Lilia Swallow was on speaking terms with reality, but only just. For the past year she had questioned everything she believed in, while trying to make sense of the disasters raining down from above, the way Haimi, the yellow Lab of her childhood, had pawed and rattled coconuts when they fell from palm trees in her family’s yard on Kauai. In the end, unlike Haimi, she had concluded that while life often hides something delicious, too often the best parts remain out of sight and unattainable.

      “And Haimi never once cracked a coconut.”

      Regan Donnelly was looking on as Lilia painstakingly shot photos of a moisture-beaded glass pitcher nearly overflowing with pineapple chunks, citrus slices and a haze of red wine floating on top of white. At Lilia’s words her friend cocked her head. “What on earth are you talking about?”

      Lilia hadn’t realized she’d spoken—or more accurately, mumbled. She had begun talking to herself during the long stretches when her husband was in the hospital. She had been so lonely, she had needed the sound of her own voice.

      “Nothing. I was just thinking about happy endings and failures.”

      Regan sing-songed in a high-pitched voice. “Lily-ah, Lily-ah, you are being Silly-ah!” She grinned. “Today is your happy ending.”

      “I wish I’d never told you my brothers used to say that.”

      “But you did.”

      Lilia straightened and stretched before she moved the pitcher to the back of the counter where sun from a large window over the sink wouldn’t strike it quite so directly. She turned the handle to one side and took another shot.

      “Well, if nothing else, my pineapple sangria is a happy ending. I worked on and off for a week on this recipe. I think you’ll like it. My readers will, too.”

      Regan would not be deterred. “Graham’s in remission. His last two CT scans were clear. You’re afraid to be happy, aren’t you? You’re afraid the gods will descend and whack you all over again.”

      Lilia sent her just the faintest smile, because as different as they were, Regan knew her inside and out. Although they were the same five foot five and both twenty-eight, Regan was fair-skinned with a collar-length bob the color of butterscotch. Her pale green eyes had been Lilia’s inspiration the last time she had painted this kitchen. In contrast Lilia’s hair was nearly black and waved down her back, and her skin turned a distinctive brown in the sun. She had what novelists liked to describe as “almond eyes,” in her case the color of almonds, although the crease of her eyelids also hinted at whatever Asian ancestor had bequeathed them to her.

      She decided the pitcher had finished its moment in the spotlight and stepped away. “I come from superstitious people. This morning I blogged about how happy I am. I don’t want to jinx Graham’s recovery.”

      “We Irish can match you Hawaiians, superstition for superstition. But I think you’re allowed to be happy. His doctor told you relapses occur quickly, right? It’s been a year since the