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As she watched, I went over to another pair of double doors on the wall opposite the bed. Hazel had told me that once the room on the other side had been an attached nursery, but since she didn’t have any children of her own, she’d turned it into something more useful.

An enormous walk-in closet.

I opened both doors for maximum effect, and behind me, Celeste uttered another “holy crap.”

Rack after rack of clothes, with a broad island in the center that housed the jewelry collection. As far as I’d been able to tell, Hazel hadn’t gotten rid of a single item of clothing going all the way back to the 1950s. The older pieces were swathed in plastic, but you could still see big-skirted “New Look” dresses and beaded sweaters, boxy Jackie-O suits from the 1960s, big-shouldered blazers from the 1980s.

“That’s….” Celeste began and then stopped, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to describe the splendor in front of her. “You could open your own store.”

“And sell Hazel’s stuff? Never.” I went into the closet in search of an item I’d seen my great-aunt wear years ago and thought would be perfect for my bestie. It wouldn’t work for me, since I didn’t wear anything but black, but I knew Celeste would love it.

There. I lifted it off the rack and pulled up the plastic that swathed it.

Underneath was a red cashmere cardigan covered in swirling dragon motifs made of thousands of black beads. Hazel had told me she’d bought it in Hong Kong in the early ’60s when she was on a trip there with her movie producer husband, and I knew Celeste would give it a loving home.

I started to hand it over to her, and she immediately shook her head.

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” I insisted. “It’s not like Hazel needs it anymore, and you know I don’t wear red.”

Still looking reluctant — but more excited by the second — Celeste took the sweater from me and held it up to herself. My great-aunt had been a small woman, so the sweater might be a little short, but the overall size looked okay.

“It’s amazing,” she breathed.

“Knew you’d like it,” I replied.

She looked around at the massive collection of clothes. “What’re you going to do with all this?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But this is part of the reason why I didn’t feel comfortable moving into this room. Where would I put all these clothes?”

“Good question.” She looked stumped for a moment, then smiled and added, “But if you ever decide to go through all this and donate some of it, give me a holler. I’ll come up and take anything you don’t want.”

The only real way to respond to that comment was with a smile of my own. “It’s a plan. Now I want to show you the real showstopper.”

Both her penciled brows shot toward her hairline. “There’s something better than this?”

“Maybe,” I said mysteriously. “I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

Still looking puzzled, she followed me out of the master bedroom, down the stairs, and through the kitchen so we could emerge in the backyard. Once we were outside, Celeste looked around suspiciously, even though it was a mild, lovely fall day, the sky blue the way it hardly ever was down in the Phoenix area, a light, cool wind ruffling the treetops.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to go outside,” she said as she began to trail after me.

A flagstone path wound its way through the garden and branched off in the direction of the detached garage, which was our destination. “I’m supposed to avoid bees,” I corrected her. “But I’m pretty sure the chances of encountering another kamikaze bee are fairly low. I think the first one only stung me because I was getting too friendly with a rose it was interested in.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she didn’t say anything as we kept going toward the garage. It was a largish structure built by Hazel’s father, painted the same dark gray-green as the house and mimicking enough of its architectural details to blend in with the landscape. Three bays, which must have been some crazy extravagance back in the 1940s.

My parents’ Mercedes E-Class — the car I’d driven up here, since I knew my ancient but beloved Karmann Ghia would never make it up the steep switchbacks that led out of the lowlands — sat in one of those bays, and another stood empty. At some point, I’d probably have the Ghia trailered up here, but that wasn’t why I’d brought Celeste out to the garage.

No, that reason waited in the third bay, all eighteen and a half gorgeous feet of it.

“Holy shit,” Celeste whispered, apparently realizing that her usual exclamation of wonder wasn’t quite up to the task of describing the marvel that lay before us.

“A ’65 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible,” I said, relishing every syllable. “Hazel bought it new — or that is, her movie producer husband bought it for her. She only drove the car around town, so it still has just 40,000 miles on it.”

Celeste stood there wide-eyed, drinking it in. I knew she loved vintage cars just as much as she loved vintage clothing and antiques, and it wasn’t too often that you got to stand this close to a vehicle that looked like it should be in a museum.

“Please tell me you’re going to drive it,” she said at last.