The Calloway Christmas party was Patricia's masterpiece.
She had been running it for twenty-three years with the focused dedication of a woman who understood that traditions were not accidental — they were built, deliberately and annually, from the same ingredients: the same pine garland on the banister, the same mulled wine recipe Gerald had been pretending to supervise since 1998, the same ornaments on the same tree in the same corner of the living room that had held a tree since Marcus and Jade were children.
I had been coming for eight years.
I had never, in eight years, walked through the front door of the Calloway brownstone with quite this much weight on my chest.
I arrived at seven with the honey black pepper chocolate tarts — two dozen, Patricia's specific request, made that a
