Joining them at the table is an older couple. The woman is a spitting image of the pretty blonde; her mother? Ah yes, and this must be her father, shaking hands with the gorgeous man. As they sit down together, we zoom in on the pretty blonde. She seems very happy to have her family around her on this Christmas Eve, but as the gorgeous man squeezes her hand under the table, we can see an almost wistful look in her eye. What could she be dreaming of on this magical night?

Cut to the sideboard, where we are the only ones to see a cat perched, nibbling at the edge of the piecrust.

Cut to all four gathered around a Christmas tree. Discarded wrapping paper in shades of green and red, silver and gold, is scattered all around. Occasionally one of the piles rumbles, and we can see whiskers poking through. As her parents head to the kitchen, the pretty blonde retrieves a package from behind the couch. The gorgeous man looks surprised; he didn’t know there were any gifts left to give. The pretty blonde offers it to him, perching on the arm of the couch next to him. He smiles as he takes it, unwrapping this last gift.

We zoom in, and can see it’s a picture frame. We can’t see the photo, but it makes the gorgeous man tense up. We see emotions flit across his face. Unease. Raw sorrow. The pretty blonde holds her breath. And then, the gorgeous man begins to smile. And it’s breathtaking.

As he pulls the pretty blonde onto his lap for a close hug, we pull back and see her parents start to come back into the living room. Spying the two on the couch, they retreat into the kitchen.

chapter fifteen

Text from Sophia to Mimi:

I can’t believe you’re still mad . . .

I can’t believe you can’t believe I’m still mad.

I’m sorry, okay? Again! How many times can I say I’m sorry?

Once more should do it.

OK. I. Am. Sorry. I. Ruined. Your. Christmas. Party.

Forgiven. Now you want to tell me what that was all about?

I don’t know.

Oh, I know, and I know you know; I just want to hear you say it.

I’m taking back my apology . . .

Can’t. How’s the professor?

Now you’re asking for it.

Snicker.

Text from Simon to Neil:

You wanna go bike riding tomorrow?

Can’t we just hold hands and skip?

Dude.

Can’t. Working. Speaking of, you’ve been home awhile now. When are you heading back out on the road?

Taking a bit of a break

Come on, really, when are you heading back out?

No really, I’m taking some time off.

Huh.

Huh what?

Just huh. Anyway, can’t tomorrow; but how ’bout this weekend?

Done. You wanna text the idiot or should I?

I’ll do it. Blow me.

See ya.

Text from Mimi to Caroline:

Can you do the diner Saturday morning?

Yes, if you can do early. I need to work afterward.

How about 7:30?

Perfect.

Holy shit, Caroline, I was kidding.

Oh, when were you thinking?

9?

I’ve got meetings in the afternoon. Did I tell you I just picked up a new job in Sausalito? Someone walked by the Claremont the other day, liked what she saw, came by the office, and BAM I’m doing a remodel over here.

Wow, my girl is going for Designer of the Year!

No kidding. Okay, breakfast. How about we say 8:15, in the middle?

Wow, okay, I’ll see if I can get Soph up that early. She still owes me from the party.

She really does; the throwing of food is never okay.

They’re both so stupid! Ryan said that Neil’s tried to call her again, but she just won’t budge.

Maybe it’s time to sit this one out. I mean, what are the odds that 3 best friends and 3 best friends would all magically meet, fuck, and live happily ever after?

Pfft, true. What a romance novel that would make. But 2 out of 3 isn’t bad. And I still think they’re gonna get back together . . .

You old softie.

You guys want to see a movie next weekend? Or is Simon out of town?

Oh no. He’s here. He’s very much here.

???

Forget it. We’ll see. Gotta get back to work.

Portion of an e-mail from Jillian to Caroline:

. . . So it looks like we’ll be heading over to Spain sooner than we thought. I have an old friend from college who’s renovating an estate just outside of Nerja. Isn’t that where you and Simon stayed? And how is he? Benjamin said he’s not traveling as much?

I spoke to the accountant; he’s sending me everything FedEx for year-end taxes. Looks like you’ve kept up on everything really well. I did notice, however, that you need to be itemizing your meals when you’re out with clients—we need the actual receipt with the items ordered, not just the cc receipt. I can have him show you some examples if that’s easier? Let me know, and I’ll have it sent over.

Sounds like your Christmas was interesting, Vienna was enchanting! What a wonderful city to spend the holidays in.

I scrolled through that e-mail once more, then thought back to the conversation we had right before Christmas. She’d said they were going to Munich for the holidays, I was sure of it. She’d mentioned Benjamin’s friends and everything. But now she said they were in Vienna?

Something stinks in Vienna.

I put my phone away as I walked toward the hotel site. I was meeting with Camden’s assistant to make the final decision about some light fixtures in the bar downstairs. Taking advantage of the natural light, and being aware of the sometimes very foggy mornings, I had designed a space that could transition from a place to share a quiet drink in the afternoon or even a business meeting, to something infinitely more sexy at nighttime.

I tried to focus on the meeting at hand, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going on. When Jillian first left, she was in almost constant contact—as much as a newlywed could be. But as the weeks went by, turning into months, the e-mails and phone calls had lessened significantly. Initially, I was so busy I didn’t realize how those phone calls were beginning to dwindle. Once the holidays were in full swing and we went back east for the reunion, I was in control enough to not need the calls, but that wasn’t really the point.

And when was she coming home? There seemed to be no end in sight. I needed to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with Jillian, but I wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. And I was positive that she had told me she was going to Munich . . .

“Caroline? You been waiting long?” A voice broke me out of my head. Camden’s assistant, looking at me expectantly.

“Sorry, no, not at all. Ready to get started?” I asked, and plastered on a smile.

• • •

That night when I got home, Simon was there and had made spaghetti and meatballs. Of course he was. Home, I mean.

“It’s shocking, how much I need balls right now,” I quipped, sitting at the table in my jacket and scarf, my knife and fork pointed up.

“I had a feeling. I found this great Italian market this morning on my bike ride, and they’re one of the only places I’ve ever found stateside that will grind the pork, veal, and beef together,” he said, pouring me a glass of red and putting the pasta into the boiling water. “Makes for a more tender ball,” he said, deadpan.

“So that’s your secret,” I said, sipping the wine. The night was chilly, but inside it was cozy and warm. A fire was ablaze in the living room, its light bouncing off the window wall. Clive was curled into a ball inside the cat condo that Simon had bought for him. Orange carpet, multileveled with a scratching post and a bouncy ball on top of the entire thing, it was hideous. I’d told him Clive would never go for something so garish, so obviously cat, but he f**king loved it.

My boys had a simpatico thing going on. They certainly spent enough time together . . .

There it was again. That corner of something I kept running into my head; the very edge of something cooking in there. It disappeared when Simon set down the salad, then kissed me stupid.

“How’d the meeting go about the bar?” he asked.

He’d been listening the night before when I told him what I had going on today.

“Good, though I was a little distracted. I got an e-mail from Jillian.”

“How’re they doing? I haven’t heard from Benjamin for a while, but we’re talking next week about some investments.”

“Is he still managing everything for you?”

“He’s got someone on them more day to day while he’s gone, but he’s keeping his eye on it too. She say when they’re coming home?”

“No, and that’s the thing. Every time I try to bring it up, she changes the subject,” I said, chewing on a piece of escarole I stole from the salad bowl. Lemon and mustard vinaigrette. Nice.

“Benjamin too. I figured with their honeymoon and all, they’re having too much fun to think about coming home.”

“Must be nice to have zero responsibilities,” I muttered, bumping into that corner again.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he chided, tossing the pasta with tongs. “You want to shred that cheese?”

“I would say that.” I grabbed the cheese and began to shred. “I don’t know; maybe I’ll say something to the girls tomorrow, see what they think.”

“The girls?”

“Yeah, breakfast at the diner? I haven’t seen them for a while,” I said, still shredding. He mumbled something under his breath about me being gone again, but I ignored it. “And another thing—when we talked before Christmas, she told me they were going to Munich for Christmas. But I got an e-mail from her today that said they were in Vienna.”

“I think I heard Vienna. At least that’s what Benjamin said.”

“I know she said Munich; she said it was because Benjamin had friends there.” I continued to shred.

“Benjamin has friends everywhere,” he said, testing the pasta and calling it good.

“The point isn’t whether or not he has friends there. The point is I know what I heard,” I said, shredding furiously.

“Is it at all possible, and I’m just asking here,” he said, tossing the pasta with a little bit of the sauce and then pouring it all into a bowl, “that you didn’t hear her correctly?”

“No.” I shredded.

“Not at all possible?” he asked, setting the bowl down on the table and then going back for the meatballs. “No chance in the slightest.”

“Of course there’s a chance,” I said through gritted teeth. “I just know what I heard.”

“Well then, ask her. That’ll solve it, won’t it? Better than shredding your fingernails into that bowl,” he replied calmly, covering my hand with his and stopping me right before I did that very thing.

I looked down. I’d shredded the entire wedge.

“I can’t ask her, she’s depending on me,” I said, releasing the shredder and heading for the sink to wash my hands.

“She is, but she’s also your friend. If there’s a problem, she’d want to know about it, don’t you think?” he asked, pulling out my chair for me.

“She’s my friend, but she’s my boss first. And yes, I should probably talk to her,” I replied, sitting down and smiling briefly when he placed a kiss on my shoulder before sitting down across from me. “Dammit, I hate when you’re right.”

“That’s a lot of hating, then. I had no idea,” he teased, passing me the bowl with several pounds of grated Parmesan.

I took the bowl, and then showed him a particular finger.

For the record, they were amazing balls.

• • •

“Whole wheat pancakes, blueberry sauce, and a side of turkey sausage, please.”

“Egg white omelette with ham and green onions and a cup of berries, please.”

“Scrambled eggs, hash browns with no butter, rye toast. And could I also please get a grapefruit half?”

We sat at our regular table at the diner, Sophia and Mimi nursing extra big cups of coffee.

“Thanks for coming so early. I know you both like to sleep in on Saturdays,” I said, sipping on my own extra big cup. I had an art installation being set up today, and I knew it was going to be a day for extra caffeine.

“How’s it going over at the hotel? Think you’ll be able to slow down a bit when that’s all complete?” Mimi asked.

“Not likely. We’ve slowed down on some of our residential design to take on this project, but once that’s done, we’ve got clients who have literally put their remodels on hold a few months in order to work with us,” I said proudly. “But some of that depends on Jillian.”

“Still no word on when she’s coming back?”

“Nope, but let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about your wedding—how’s the planning coming?” I asked, changing the subject smoothly. I hadn’t made any progress on what I was going to say to Jillian about everything, unsure how to broach the subject, so I was eager to think about something else.

I could tell you Mimi had begun planning her wedding the day Ryan put a two-karat solitaire on her finger, but that would be a lie. She’d been planning it since she knew what a wedding was. She had notebooks and binders full of tear sheets that she’d been collecting over the years. Table settings, flowers, dresses, linens—you name it, she had it in a binder. Ryan didn’t ask any questions or make a single suggestion; he just sat back and let the Mimi Train run.

“It was so great seeing Jillian’s wedding, and how she planned. It gave me so many ideas, and really helped me to focus in on what I want and what I don’t want. If you’ll look here on page seventeen—”