Just then, the door opened. “One second, I just have to grab another roll of—” Cora was halfway inside, still talking to someone over her shoulder, when she stopped in mid-stride and sentence, seeing me and Roscoe on the floor. “Hey,” she said slowly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said. She shut the door as Roscoe got up, wagging his tail. “Just taking a breather.”

“But not in the closet,” she said.

“This was closer.”

She reached over the washing machine, pulling down a roll of paper towels. “Already a spill on the carpet,” she said, tearing them open. “Happens every year.”

“Sounds like it’s going well otherwise, though,” I said as some people passed by in the hallway outside, their voices bouncing off the walls.

“It is.” She turned back to me, the towels in her arms. “You should come out, have some food. It’s not that bad, I promise.”

“I’m a little low on cheer,” I told her.

She smiled. “You’ve been a real trooper, I have to say. Christmas with Jamie is like an endurance trial. My first year I almost had a total breakdown.”

“It’s just weird,” I said. “I mean, last year . . .” I trailed off, realizing I didn’t even remember what I’d done last year for the holidays. I had a vague recollection of delivering luggage, maybe a company party at Commercial. But like everything else from my old life, this was distant, faded. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

“Just make an appearance,” she said. “Then you can come back here, or hit the closet for the rest of the day. All right? ”

I looked up at her, dubious, as she extended her hand to me. But then I let her pull me to my feet and followed her out into the hallway. Two steps later, as we entered the kitchen, we were ambushed.

“Cora! Hello!” I jumped, startled, as a petite woman in a flowing, all-white ensemble, her dark hair pulled back at her neck, suddenly appeared in front of us, a wineglass in one hand. “Happy holidays!”

“Happy holidays,” Cora replied, leaning forward to accept a kiss—and a shadow of a lipstick stain—on her cheek. “Barbara, this is my sister, Ruby. Ruby, this is Barbara Starr.”

“You have a sister? ” Barbara asked. She was wearing several multicolored beaded necklaces that swayed and clacked across her chest each time she moved, as she did now, turning to face me. “Why, I had no idea!”

“Ruby just came to live with us this year,” Cora explained. To me, she said, “Barbara is an author. Best-selling, I might add.”

“Oh, stop,” Barbara replied, waving her hand. “You’ll embarrass me.”

“She was one of my very first clients,” Cora added. “When I was working in a family law practice, just out of school.”

“Really,” I said.

“I got divorced,” Barbara explained, taking a sip of her wine. “Which is never fun. But because of your sister, it was the best divorce I’ve ever had. And that’s really saying something.”

I looked at Cora, who shook her head almost imperceptibly, making it clear I should not ask what exactly this meant. Instead, she said, “Well, we should probably go check on the food, so . . .”

“Everything is just wonderful. I love the holidays!” Barbara said, sighing. Then she smiled at me and said, “Is the rest of your family here, as well? I’d just love to meet your mother.”

“Um,” I said, “actually—”

“We’re not really in touch with our mom these days,” Cora told her. “But we are lucky to have so many great friends like you here today. Would you like some more wine?”

“Oh,” Barbara said, looking at her glass, then at us. “Well, yes. That would be lovely.”

Cora eased the glass from her hand—still smiling, smiling—then passed it off to me, touching the small of my back with her other hand. As I took this cue, moving forward, I looked back at her. Barbara was talking again, her hands fluttering as she made some point, but my sister, even as she nodded, was watching me. Awfully smooth, I thought. But then again, she’d been away from my mom a lot longer than I had. Practice does make perfect, or close to it.

Glass in hand, I made my way through the crowd, which had grown considerably since the last time I’d checked the ice and music. Jamie was still in the foyer, answering the door and taking coats, when I finally reached the bar area to get the white wine.

“Macaroons!” I heard him say suddenly. “You shouldn’t have.”

I turned around. Sure enough, there was Nate, in jeans and a blue collared shirt, his hands in his pockets. His dad was beside him, shrugging off his jacket and smiling as Jamie admired his offering. “They’re Belgian,” Mr. Cross said. “Very expensive.”

“I’ll bet,” Jamie replied, clapping Nate on the shoulder. “Now, let me get you a drink. What’s your poison, Blake? We’ve got beer, Scotch, wine . . .”

He gestured toward the bar, and as they all turned, Nate’s eyes met mine. Mr. Cross lifted a hand, waving at me, but I just picked up the glass, quickly folding myself back into the crowd.

When I returned to the spot where I’d left Cora and Barbara, however, they were both gone, a couple of Jamie’s UMe.com employees—easily identified by their so-nerdy-they’re -cool glasses, expensive jeans, and vintage T-shirts— in their place, jabbering about Macs. I turned slowly, scanning the crowd for Barbara. Instead, I came face-to-face with Nate.