Her birth family had never celebrated holidays, so they had long been unfamiliar to her, but now there were certain ones she loved and looked forward to: the fireworks on the Fourth of July, the toasts and nostalgia of New Year's Eve, and above all Thanksgiving. She always found this day and its meal satisfying, and she spent it in the kitchen. She had taught herself to cook all the traditional foods -- the turkey, the stuffing, the sweet potatoes, the pumpkin pie. Thanksgiving day was like gardening: wholesome and joyful. It was her favorite day of the year, a day of gratitude. Her good fortune was immeasurable:

The gas for her stove was piped in; she didn't have to stoke with wood. She had pots and pans of every kind -- aluminum, copper-bottomed, cast iron, teflon coated. The windows were airtight but opened in nice weather, the floor was level, the tables and chairs comfortable. She had a clear plastic cookbook holder, and cookbooks for it, and bookstores where she could by more. She could also buy foods already prepared, or partly prepared. In Monteverde she'd had to do everything by hand. The food there had been the same every day for months at a time. Here she had foods from all over the country, even the world. Fresh fruit and vegetables out of season. So much food that much of it spoiled and was thrown out without a thought: criminal waste. Such variety. Spices she'd never heard of. Different kinds of milk -- but that was not as good as at home, the milk. Likewise the tomatoes and cheese and coffee. And the bread and corn were good, but so much work, and things were so few and simple. That was good, but here was abundance. A cornucopia. The ancients used to write about their gods like this, but people here lived beyond what anyone could have imagined even for a paradise. The food, the utensils, the room, the grocery store, with so much much that sometimes she found herself stranded in the aisle, unable to choose. The car to bring the food home in. And a dishwasher. What an extraordinary idea: a machine to do the washing. Machines for everything, even blending. She pressed buttons for much of what she did. How strange. How could it be so easy, so simple, so fast? The microwave, of course. Refrigerators, so food wouldn't rot. What a civilizing invention. And they didn't even realize it, they grew up taking all of it for granted. They just didn't comprehend. They didn't have to make anything, they didn't have to do anything for themselves, everything was done for them. All they had to do was hold down a job, and they could buy all the things they needed and more. They didn't even have to cook, they could buy boxes and cans and open them and heat the contents, and if that was all the effort they cared to make, they could go to a restaurant, or order in. Telephones all over the house too call from, with good, clear connections and you could dial anywhere in the country or even the world. Solid furniture, and it wasn't home-made. Stereos. Paved streets. Superb highways. Flush toilets and sewers. Automobiles and airplanes. Bank accounts and credit cards. More goods than you could use in a lifetime. Schools and universities. Electric lights. Did they even notice how electric light had freed them from the tyranny of darkness? Central heating and air conditioning. Clothing, well-made and plentiful. Schools and universities. Libraries. Churches everywhere, and the freedom to attend any of them. Police who responded politely, instead of handing out a beating. Medical care, of a caliber that rescued even cancer patients, and which would have kept her mother alive. Vaccinations. Clean water. No epidemics. Long lives, in good health. Dental care -- no need to suffer from toothache, or cavities, or gum problems. She must never forget, never take for granted, never be like the others, it was wrong, wrong, to accept these gifts unknowingly and without the proper thankfulness. Living was so easy that she felt uneasy. Every day, all these years, and she still don't believe these things. They surprised her every day. She was living in a science fiction story, and some morning she would wake and rub the sleep from her eyes and try to remember this dream and get dressed and get on her horse and ride out to milk the cows and make the cheese. She was so fortunate. So fortunate. So astonishingly fortunate.

She had never adjusted to North American changes in the diurnal cycle -- she knew she might never -- and thought it was strange to have dinner ready early, but darkness outside. Owen arrived, then his mother half an hour later, and the three of them sat down together.

Ada wore her favorite dress, the simple one from Russia, blue velvet with red and yellow flowers embroidered around the neck. She asked them to begin the meal in the Quaker manner, with silence. Then they began to eat. Owen's mother told him the latest news of her neighbors, all of whom he knew from growing up next to, or from going to school with their children.

His wristwatch beeped at 7:25. Their tradition was for Ada to turn off the lights and close the doors while Owen opened the drapes. They stood at the windows and waited.

The Plaza lights came on: immediate illumination. The buildings, dark against darkness a moment before, were like an electric Seurat, a pen sketch in light, a set for a ballet or an opera based on a Hoffmann tale, beautiful and strange, unexpected and familiar. Something you wouldn't have thought of, but recognized immediately.

"It surprises me every year," Ada said. "All those lights. Such a beautiful place."

"Did they change something?" Owen asked as they sat at the table again. "It looks different."

"I think they're cutting back on the number of colored lights," Nina remarked. "I've been noticing more white ones."

"We should go to Spain," Owen said to Ada. "They say this is based on -- Seville, is it? No, let's go to Barcelona. They have a lot of things I'd like to see. Why don't we fly over this summer? There's the Eixample. The Ramblas. Everything Gaudi did. The Parc Guell. Like we used to do, when we drove around and looked at buildings here, but Spain. No comparison." He crumpled his napkin, tossed it on the table, and pushed back his chair. "Where did we put those books? We've never been to Europe together. You can use your Spanish again. We can sit in the cafes and watch the pedestrians. I've always wanted to see the Sagrada Familia. I want to climb the stairs to the top of the towers."

"I don't think I'll be able to."

"Why not?"

"It's nothing. I'll explain later."

"You're expecting, aren't you?" Nina asked. "You don't want to fly."

Ada turned to her mother-in-law. "How did you know?"

"I suppose after four pregnancies one learns to see it. But there's something else, besides that," Nina said. "Happiness, I think," and embraced her. She had held Ada only once before, immediately after the wedding, when she'd said, "Welcome, daughter." Now she said, "I'm happy for you. No one deserves this more. No one has wanted this more than you. No one is more ready. Words can't say it. How wonderful. Congratulations."

"You're going to be a grandmother again," Ada said.

Owen was leaning over her, kissing her, his breath smelling of wine and pepper. He stroked her hair and kissed her again and rested his hand on her shoulder. His eyes were unreadable. She had never seen him so moved, but she couldn't interpret the feelings on his face.

"Do you want this?" she asked.

"Yes. Yes I do."

"We're going to be a family. We're going to have a child. Imagine. I'd given up. What a blessing. A baby to care for and raise and teach and play with."

"How far along are you?" Nina asked.

"About ten weeks."

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" Owen asked. He looked hurt.

"I'm sorry. I should have, but, well, I was superstitious. I was worried about jinxing it. We've been trying so long, and I kept thinking about my mother, about her last pregnancy."

"Dear," said Nina. "I don't think you need to worry. You'll have the best medical care."

"Yes," Owen said. "Don't worry. I'll make sure."

"Sometimes there isn't much anyone can do -- "

"No." He cut her off with a gesture, chopping his hand downward. "Don't worry. I'll make sure you get everything you need. It will be all right."

She put down her fork and knife because she couldn't cut the pieces of turkey any smaller. "I can't help it. Sometimes I worry. I just can't help it."

They spent the meal talking about the pregnancy, the child, the birth. The food disappeared unnoticed and untasted. They wondered aloud whether it would be a boy or girl. She knew he wanted a boy, and she saw how he feigned indifference to the question, because she didn't care about gender but knew he did, and she knew that he wanted her to think he didn't care either. They speculated about size, wondering whether the child would be tall like him or short like her, or average like its cousins in Denver and Chicago.

"I hope it has your hair color," Nina said.

"Oh, no," Ada answered. "My hair is the wrong color. It's much too bright. It's too loud. I want a towhead, and then maybe a nice brown color, when it grows up."

"You have the most beautiful hair of anyone I know," Nina said. "You shouldn't say such a thing. Everyone loves it."

"Thank you."

"Eye color," Owen said. "What do you think?"

"Brown," Ada said. "I'm sure of it."

"No, blue. Like your brother's eyes."

"But mine are dark, and so are yours."

"I can hope, can't I?"

"Green," Ada said. "Hazel. Those are the colors I like best."

"Yes."

"You have a lot of planning to do," Nina said. "You'll need baby clothes and a crib and bottles and a diaper service -- "

"No. I'll wash them."

"You may change your mind."

"Don't forget a baby book," Owen said.

"And a shower," Nina said. "Please let me plan it."

"No baby showers," Ada said firmly. "Thank you, but no."

"Why?"

"Too greedy."

"But it's wonderful fun," Nina protested.

"Thank you, but no."

"Well, we have to tell everyone, at least."

"I'll call them."

"Let me help, please. I want to be involved."

"I'll talk to you. I'll need lots of advice."

"Well, then." Nina sounded disappointed, then she brightened. "I know a wonderful obstetrician. I know two wonderful pediatricians."

"Let's light the fire," Owen said, leaping from his chair. "It's time for the fire."

They left the dishes on the table and Owen built the fire and they sat in front of the hearth, in a triangle of chairs, Ada in the center. The lights were off and the flames flickered. The faces of her husband and her mother-in-law showed orange and wavering, looking into the fireplace as they talked. The conversation turned to names and Ada went to get the name books, now overdue at the library, from the place she had hidden them. She never kept books past their due dates, but she didn't feel guilty. There had been a dozen more on the shelf where she'd found these.

They talked about names for a while and when she grew sleepy from the heat she closed the books, and her eyes. She listened to Nina tell Owen stories of his childhood, and those of his brother and sister, and Nina's own childhood, and those of her parents his grandparents, and Ada saw a long line of faces receding into the past. Time was infinite, the house warm and safe. She fell asleep.

When she woke she was covered by a quilt. Nina had gone home. The fire had subsided, the table was clear, and the dishes were done. She stumbled upstairs to the bedroom and draped her dress carefully over a chair so it wouldn't wrinkle. She crawled into bed in her underwear, not bothering to put on her pajamas. Owen woke and mumbled a question about sex and how much longer it might continue.

"Oh, a while, I think," she said. "Don't worry. But right now I'm too sleepy."

She slipped back into dreams, with scarcely time to think:

Blessed day, blessed sleep, blessed food, blessed shelter, blessed child. I am blessed with all these things, more than I ever could have expected.