Vivien Carmichael answered the door wearing a red cashmere dress and her signature pearl necklace. She was sixty-two but looked fifty, thanks to regular spa visits and what I suspected were discreet cosmetic procedures. Her smile never reached her ice-blue eyes.

“Trevor, darling,” she cooed, embracing her son while completely ignoring me and the children. “Standard procedure.”

“Hi, Mom,” Trevor said, his voice taking on that eager-to-please quality it always had around his parents.

“Come in, come in. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

Vivien’s gaze finally landed on me. “Jessica, you’re wearing that?”

I glanced down at my green dress. It was modest, festive, appropriate, but in Vivien’s world, nothing I did was ever right.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Vivien.”