Page 34 of Go Back to December

That was not a Freudian slip. Anxiety has hijacked my mental lexicon.

I should not relish the little thrill that Baz’s mind turned immediately in a dirty direction at my mention of burning.

They gave me more protein pills.

Now who’s crashing.

Truth.

A pinprick of guilt bites at me. He is in pain, tied up in the hospital on Christmas Eve, and I haven’t been remotely kind to him. I hate that my first instinct whenever we interact is self-preservation. I’m turning into a horrible human.

Okay, final broadcast.

Follow three rules if you want to make the grade.

You’re overworking this metaphor.

1. Stick as close to the truth as you can, give as few details as possible.

2. Get people to talk about themselves. Ask open-ended questions.

3. Avoid the eggnog and Luiza if you want to see the morning.

Chapter Ten

We turn off the interstate onto a sparsely lit road bordered by snow-capped fir trees. Large vintage homes on wide lots line the street. There must be a township ordinance specifying every home display white bulbs on their picket fences and electric lamps that flicker like candles in the windows.

Peter turns onto the drive of a Victorian house set back on a hill. There’s a turret and a front porch. Gingerbread frames along the roofline boast cascading lights that mimic icicles.

It’s enchanting. And a Candy Land lure meant to pull me into a Money Honey bubble. I have to stay focused on my mission to salvage the café and my future.

I hop out of the car before Peter pulls into the garage. It’s a tight squeeze; an entire living room set takes up the other parking space. Couches, armchairs, and side tables stack to the ceiling.

“You made great time!” Sofia stands at the door. She sports a white silk wrap blouse and long black skirt that would suffice either on opening night of the opera or at a PTA meeting.

“Traffic was light.” Peter guides me around an end table. “Sorry about the obstacle course.”

“We moved all the furniture out to make space for everyone,” Sofia explains.

My stomach drops at the notion of the potential size of everyone. At the hospital, Sofia had said the party was a neighborhood game night. Tonight’s celebration will no doubt have all the pretenses of the country-club affairs I only ever attended as a waitress. Throwback cocktails, pop carols. Women in pearl sets inquiring Where did you meet Baz again while they stare at my cheap black sweater.

“Thank you for inviting me.” I hand Sofia a re-gifted narcissus plant I received from the volunteer fundraiser.

“We’re so glad you came.”

While her words are warm, the smile she gives me doesn’t match the temperature.

Sofia ushers me inside a comfortable foyer with antique hardwood floors and bead-board lined walls. The hall is fragrant with woodsy spices, and something else familiar I can’t quite name, that reminds me of Baz.

Peter takes my coat and removes his, revealing his dark suit and crisp dress shirt. There is a large expanse between their stunning outfits and my cowl-neck sweater and black pants.

“I think I’m underdressed.”

“Not at all. The dress code is Black Jacks and Holiday Reds.” Sofia beckons me through to the main living area. Or what usually functions as it.

Tonight, it’s a casino game pit.

Two rows of tables march the length of the high-beamed room, surrounded by clusters of people. Some sit in red-velvet tufted chairs while waistcoat-clad dealers toss cards and chips. The players are more Monte Carlo than Vegas; Money Honeys take a theme seriously. Black Tie Jacks and Holiday Red Dresses abound. A professional piano player croons out swing carols at a baby grand tucked by the bay window and the overcrowded bar.