Mom’s designer tastes don’t end with her scent; she’s wearing tailored black trousers paired with a gauzy rust-colored blouse. Gold jewelry, tastefully done make-up, perfectly coiffed hair, and a pair of shiny black heels pull the look together and make her appear as if she’s heading to a sophisticated luncheon rather than simply spending the day at home.

  “And you look…comfortable, dear.” Her smile is more of a grimace as her gaze sweeps over my ensemble: black leggings, a form-fitting yellow t-shirt, and a jean jacket. My friends call it my ‘autumn uniform’ because I wear some variation of this outfit all season long when I’m not on the job.

  I let out a quiet snort, drawing another wince from my mother. “We’ve been over this, Mom. I’m happy to dress up for work and special occasions, but otherwise I prefer to be casual. You should try it sometime. Seriously. Bust out those fuzzy socks I gave you last Christmas. They’ll change your life.” I slip off my Converse and line them up neatly by the door.

  “Listen to you! A pair of socks having the ability to change my life. Honestly.” Mom gives an exaggerated eye roll, but the lines around her mouth tell me she’s suppressing a smile. “I’m meeting with the Ladies’ Auxiliary after we finish up here, so I figured it was easier to be ready early.”

  “Very sensible.” As I follow her through the cavernous foyer and up the stairs, I stop myself from adding ‘unlike your shoes’, which are higher than anything I’d even consider wearing—especially around the house—and create an echoing click clack against the hardwood floor with each step. “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yes, Evelyn?”

  “The fuzzy socks are still in their original packaging, aren’t they?”

  She stops at the top of the stairs with her back to me. When she carries on after only a short pause, I take that as a yes. Guess I can scratch a new pair of socks off my Christmas list. Or maybe I should get her nothing but fuzzy socks this year.

  Mom enters my old bedroom and goes straight to the queen-size bed, where an array of garment bags are neatly laid out. She makes a sweeping motion with her arm like an assistant on a gameshow. “Do you need me to supervise?”

  I give her my best sardonic side-eye. “I’ve been dressing myself since I was three, but thanks.”

  “Oh, it was earlier than that. You came out of the womb large and in charge, exceeding all those baby milestones by leaps and bounds.”

  This is something I’ve heard my whole life, especially the ‘large and in charge’ bit since I tipped the scales at just over ten pounds. “Why don’t you give me a few minutes and then I’ll start modeling the dresses for you?”

  “Sounds good. I know you hate doing this, so shall we make it fun and open some prosecco?”

  I peer at my watch. “It’s barely one o’clock.” At Mom’s ‘so what?’ expression, I shrug and say, “What the hell, why not.”

  “Language, dear,” Mom says mildly over her shoulder as she heads for the door.

  I clear a spot on the bed so I can sit among the dresses. While this massive bedroom with its giant bed, walk-in closet, and small seating area would have been many a teenage girl’s dream, it wasn’t mine. In the three years I lived here with my parents before moving to Kingston for university, I never stopped missing my childhood home, especially my bedroom. I missed the posters tacked crookedly to the walls and the shabby chic furniture. I missed the nail polish stains on the rug and the memories of countless sleepovers with my friends, all of us crammed into sleeping bags on my floor, talking about crushes and movies, and sharing dreams for the future. A future which always included the four of us being best friends forever. At least that never changed, even when everything else seemed to.

  I shake myself from my walk down memory lane and hop up to open the first garment bag. A sound of distress leaves me the second I spy the shiny beige fabric. Mom usually has excellent taste, which is the only reason I allow her to choose dresses for me, but I don’t do beige. I rezip the garment bag without inspecting the dress further, and toss it aside in what will be the ‘Hell No’ pile.

  “You’re still dressed!”

  I whip around at the sound of Mom’s voice. She’s standing in the doorway, holding two glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle of prosecco. I expected her to bring two filled glasses, but apparently we’re getting serious here.

  “Sorry, I got…sidetracked.” It’s best not to tell her I was daydreaming rather than getting straight to the business at hand. “The first dress isn’t something I’d wear, so I already put it in the discard pile.”

  Mom sets her armload of boozy goodness on the desk and strides across the room to inspect the rejected dress. “Oh, you’re right, that’s awful.” She wrinkles her nose as if she caught a whiff of something foul. “I usually hand select the dresses myself, but I didn’t have time this year. I’ve been working with Katrina at the dress shop for long enough that I trusted her to choose an appropriate assortment.”

  “Well, hopefully the next one will be more my style,” I say in a placating tone.

  “It had better be, otherwise Katrina will be receiving a very disgruntled phone call.”

  I can’t help but laugh under my breath as she returns to the desk. There was a time when my mom was the most easy-going person I knew. She hated confrontation or upsetting anyone. She wouldn’t even send back food in a restaurant if they got the order wrong. Now she has impossibly high standards and isn’t afraid to make sure people know it.

  She plucks the bottle of prosecco from the ice bucket and releases the cork with a few expert twists and a quiet pop. She pours two glasses of the golden fizz and hands one to me. “I can’t believe my little girl is about to turn thirty-five. You know, you really should let me—” Her words are cut off by the chiming of the doorbell, which is wired so it’s audible in surround-sound levels no matter where you are in the house. I always thought it was a good thing we didn’t have a dog, or the poor creature would have gone into a tizzy every time someone rang the bell.

  Mom sighs. “I’ll be right back. Cheers, dear.” She clinks her glass against mine before scurrying from the room.

  My intended dainty sip of wine turns into a large gulp. I cough, eyes watering as bubbles fly up my nose. Thank goodness Mom’s not here to see; I can imagine the lecture I’d get on being more ladylike. As I take another sip, I wonder what she was about to say before the doorbell rang. I really should let her…what? Recommend a good night cream to combat the fine lines around my eyes? Send me to her hairstylist, who’s been giving her the same cut and color for the last decade? Set me up with yet another stuffed shirt coworker of Dad’s?

  I set my glass aside and unzip the next garment bag. My eyes go wide when they land on the silky red material of the dress. Mom has never chosen red for me, claiming it’s ‘not my color’. I don’t agree with her, but I’ve learned to choose my battles…and secretly wear red when she’s not around to criticize. The only red dress I ever had was—

  “Sorry about that.” Mom bustles back into the room, wine glass still in hand, although it’s mostly empty now. “Your father ordered a case of wine for Thanksgiving and neglected to tell me it was being delivered today.”

  “A case of wine? That’s a bit much for the three of us, isn’t it?”

  She frowns at me as if I’ve somehow disappointed her, but it quickly turns to a look of contrition. It’s not an expression I’m accustomed to seeing from her. “Here I am talking about your father neglecting to tell me about the delivery when I’ve neglected to tell you about our change of plans for Thanksgiving.”

  My stomach drops. I have a feeling I’m going to need another glass of prosecco. “Change of plans?”

  “Yes, we’re going to be hosting dinner for your dad’s coworkers who don’t have family or friends to spend the holiday with. The Greens usually host it, but Mr. Green suddenly took ill and is in the hospital, so I offered to take over hosting duties.”

  “How awful,” I say faintly. I’m referring to Mr. Green’s poor health, of course, but I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t awful for other reasons too. Thanksgiving is typically the one holiday when it’s just the three of us. It’s as close to the Before Times as we ever get. Mom doesn’t cook the meal like she used to when I was little—that’s Chef Fleur’s job—but it’s rare to get both of my parents to myself these days, so I look forward to our quiet Thanksgiving dinner every year.

  “Yes, dreadful,” Mom says. “I know it’s last minute and the girls likely have plans already, but feel free to invite them. And if you’d like to bring a date, he’d be most welcome too. You know what I always say, the more the merrier.”

  This is her not-so-subtle way of fishing for information on my love life. I side-step the topic by thanking her and telling her I’ll pass along the invitation to my friends. I might have to see if Hollie’s friend Fergus is available earlier than anticipated.

  “Now, where were we?” Mom sets her empty wine glass down and joins me near the bed. As soon as she spots the red dress, I know poor Katrina is going to get an earful.

  “It’s fine, Mom.” I zip the bag back up and add it to the reject pile. I don’t need to see the whole thing to know it’s not worth the fight. “This is only the second dress. I’m sure there’s something in here that’s suitable.”

  She mutters something under her breath as she scoops up my glass and goes to refill it. Before I can unzip the next bag, she whirls around with an excited exclamation that startles me.

  “I almost forgot to tell you,” she says, her eyes alight with pleasure. “You’ll never guess who sent an RSVP to your party.”

  Since the only friends of mine who ever get invited to ‘my’ party are Stella, Hollie, and Louisa, I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “The mayor? The managing partner at Dad’s law firm? The prime minister himself?”

  Mom’s eyes narrow. “Have I ever told you how unbecoming sarcasm is for a young lady?”

  “Only several times a week for the last thirty or so years.”

  “And yet…” She looks at me pointedly and I laugh, waving a hand for her to continue. She draws in a deep breath, straightening her spine, and appearing way too pleased with herself when she says, “Wesley.”

  I nearly drop the wine glass she just handed me. “W-Wesley? Wesley McGrath?”

  “Of course, Wesley McGrath. Do you know any other Wesleys?”

  “That’s impossible, though. Stella would have told me if he was coming to town. He’s not going to come all the way from Ottawa just for my birthday party.”

  Mom lets out a non-committal sound as she shrugs one shoulder. “He told me he was coming.”

  “He told you? You talked to him?”

  “Yes, I spoke with him on the phone yesterday. I was quite surprised when I received the notification saying he planned to attend, so I called him to make sure he hadn’t checked the wrong box by mistake. He was in a rush, so we only spoke for a minute, but he told me he’ll definitely be here.”

  A lifetime of images flash through my mind like a movie on fast-forward. Wesley is Stella’s older brother. Of all the things I missed when we moved here, living next door to the McGrath family was at the top of the list. Having known Stella and Wesley my entire life, our families had a strange and wonderful blended quality; Suzanne and Warren McGrath were like a second set of parents to me, and Stella and Wesley were like the siblings I never had. The seven of us took vacations and spent holidays together, and it was rare to see me around the neighborhood without at least one McGrath sibling by my side.

  My mind returns to the one red dress I ever owned: a costume dress like Buttercup’s from The Princess Bride. When Stella and I were eight, she became enamored with figure skating and begged her parents to let her take skating lessons. They supported her, as they did with everything, and soon she was spending hours every week at the rink where her lessons were. That left Wesley and me to our own devices.

  We discovered The Princess Bride when I was nine and Wesley was ten, and we became obsessed with it. We would play Buttercup and the Dread Pirate Roberts, except I was no damsel in distress, I was a sword-wielding princess who could save herself, thank you very much. The forest behind our houses turned into the Fire Swamp, where we had adventures and ran away from imaginary foes. We choreographed sword fights with long, sturdy sticks, and I’d sometimes take up the role of Inigo Montoya instead of Buttercup.

  One Halloween, Mrs. McGrath made me a red dress similar to Buttercup’s, and Wesley planned to dress up as the Dread Pirate Roberts. Unfortunately, the family ended up going out of town over Halloween for one of Stella’s skating competitions. I couldn’t bring myself to wear the costume without Wesley, so I ended up going as Posh Spice to Hollie and Louisa’s Ginger and Baby. Even though it wasn’t his fault, Wesley felt so bad about missing Halloween, he bought us a pair of matching plastic swords with his paper route money so we wouldn’t have to suffer through splinters from our makeshift swords anymore.

  “Evelyn Hathaway, are you listening to me?”

  My mother’s voice is like a wave of cold water, washing away the vivid memories playing in my mind’s eye. I take several small sips of prosecco to buy myself another moment before I speak.

  “Aren’t you happy Wesley is coming?” Mom asks. “Should I not have invited him?”

  “No!” I say, startling us both with the force of the word. “No, I’m glad you invited him. I’m just surprised, that’s all. Good surprised. I’ve hardly seen him over the last few years. It’ll be amazing to have everyone back together again.”

  “I was thinking of finding an old picture of the five of you and having you recreate it,” Mom says. “I keep seeing people doing that online and the results are often hilarious.”

  I nod along, but my thoughts are traveling to the past once more. For a long time, Wesley was as much my best friend as Stella, Hollie, and Louisa were. As far as Mom knew, I only ever saw him as a close friend. A brother-type figure. What she doesn’t know—what few people knew—is that I eventually developed a crush on Wesley. That crush deepened into full-blown love as we got older, and I continued to pine for him even after he moved away and we grew apart. If I’m being completely honest, in some secret, long-buried part of my heart, I still love him.

  Mom takes my empty glass from my limp fingers and sets it on the table beside my bed. “Now, let’s see if there are any wearable dresses among this lot or if Katrina will be getting a piece of my mind!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Luckily for Katrina, option number four—a forest green cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline and lace cap sleeves—is the one. And luckily for me, I have shoes at home that will go with it so I don’t have to go through this whole process again with footwear.

  After three glasses of prosecco—and the shock of finding out about our new Thanksgiving plans and the fact Wesley will be attending my birthday party—I stuck around my parents’ place for a few hours. Mom offered to bail on her meeting, but I told her to go ahead. I was happy for an excuse to watch a movie in the ‘media room’, with its reclining chairs and obscenely large TV.

  The movie? The Princess Bride, of course, although I only half paid attention while my brain replayed scenes from my childhood. I also took the opportunity to text my friends and invite them to Thanksgiving dinner at Hathaway Manor on Monday…and asked Hollie to pass the invitation along to Fergus MacKinnon.

  Now I’m back downtown, this time with the intention of picking up a treat of some sort for Stella after her difficult morning. Sunset is in less than an hour and, between the golden hour light and the fiery leaves of the trees lining the streets, everything is cast in a beautiful, burnished glow. Leafy garlands, hay bales, pumpkins, and a variety of Halloween decorations adorn the windows and storefronts all along the street. Even though it’s been like this since late September and I’ve seen it countless times, there’s something about the quality of light that makes me stop and whip out my phone to snap some pictures.

  When I take a few steps back to get more of the decor in the shot, my shoulder knocks against something solid. The force of it sends me spinning around to face a man my age. An apology dies on my lips when my gaze meets a pair of sparkling blue eyes that are as familiar to me as my own reflection.

  “Wesley.”

  His hands dart out to grip my shoulders in an effort to steady me. For one bizarre second, I wonder if I fell asleep in my parents’ media room and I’m dreaming. No dream has ever been this good, though: Wesley McGrath standing in front of me, his hands gripping my shoulders as he smiles that familiar heartstopping smile of his.

  “Hey, Buttercup.”

  The next thing I know, he’s wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. My senses go haywire as they absorb the warmth of his body and the scent of his skin. It’s both shocking and comforting to discover he still wears the same cologne he has since we were teens; I never knew what it was, but the warm, citrusy scent of it always made me want to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in. I resist the urge to do exactly that as I return his embrace, gripping the back of his leather jacket as if it’s a lifeline.

  When Wesley releases me, we simply stand and stare at each other. He’s wearing an almost goofy grin; if the ache in my cheeks is any indication, the expression is mirrored on my own face. A torrent of questions rushes through my mind, but he speaks before I can voice a single one.

  “Do you want to go for…” He glances at his watch and wrinkles his nose. “I was going to say coffee, but I’ve reached the delightful stage in life where I can’t have caffeine past three if I want to sleep that night. My mom warned me it would happen someday, but I didn’t think it would be quite this soon.”

  “I bet that was a real blow for a coffee lover like you.”