Page 96 of Go Back to December

“They finally finished construction. It’s taken years. They’re going to dedicate it tonight, before the festivities.”

As she pulls into the driveway of a blue-painted Craftsman across the street from the lake, she adds, “And it all kicks off with the champagne stroll.”

Lacy has arranged for Luiza to meet me there. I hope she’ll be able to convince Baz to come with her. He can’t exactly perambulate in that brace.

“He’ll turn up,” Sybil says, reading all the thoughts on my big-mouthed face.

She walks us through the garage and into the house. When she takes my jacket and opens a huge closet, I let loose a squuuueeeeeee.

The closet brims with luxury outerwear. Trenches and swing coats, parkas and wraps. An array of colors brighter than the rainbow.

It is a coat-lover’s dream.

“You can touch,” Sybil says with a grin.

I dive in, caressing one cozy fabric after the next. A well-made coat does not come cheap. Not if it’s constructed from quality wool and silk and cashmere. Stitched to perfection and lined with substantive material.

“They’re beautiful,” I gush. “Do you wear them or sit here and gaze at them?”

“My sister is a buyer for a luxury brand conglomerate. She works in outerwear.”

“Is she single?”

“You’re not her type. I suspect she’s not yours either.”

“I’d be willing to cultivate a growth mindset.”

My hands fall on a dove-gray belted beauty.

“You should wear that one tonight.”

“What?” I release the coat like a hot coal. “No.”

“Yeah. Makes your eyes pop.”

“No, I’ve got my own—”

She’s already pulling the coat out of the closet, coaxing my arms into the sleeves.

It’s like being wrapped in a cloud. The gorgeous fabric glows as if it’s embroidered in silver coins. There’s a faint evergreen scent, and my heart pricks.

“I couldn’t.” My fingers roam over the coat. It would break my heart if something happened to it. Not to mention my bank account. “What if I spill something on it?”

“Oh, so you have some promising plans for Baz tonight.”

“Sybil!” I groan. “I can’t.”

“Why the fuck not?”

I reach for the buttons. “It’s not my kind of coat.”

“It is exactly your kind of coat.”

She drags me over to the tiny laundry room, which isn’t built to accommodate two grown women together, and closes the door to reveal the full-length mirror. But I can’t bear to look at the farce. Melody from Downstairs. Playing dress-up in Queen Sybil’s clothes.

“Stop being such a baby.”

Finally, I lift my head.