Of course. How could Anne forget about Bianca’s annual trip to Manhattan? Regardless of where she was traveling, her mother spent the month of December at the Carlyle Hotel on the Upper East Side. She usually had a packed social calendar upon arrival, slotted appointments with old friends and even older colleagues that were precisely scheduled, and then systematically checked off. It was a system Anne had observed every year since her parents divorced. From the age of ten, she had spent the holiday season sipping Shirley Temples at endless fundraisers and luncheons, trying desperately to blend into her mother’s shadow. Thankfully, Anne was able to opt out of most of it now. Instead, she and Bianca usually planned a few excursions of their own, a dinner or two here or there. Just as long as it was in the schedule well in advance.
Her mother listed a number of dates, different events she had already planned. Then came one that required Anne’s attention. “Oh, I have an event at Lincoln Center that Wednesday night, too. Black tie, very elegant. You should come.”
Anne laughed softly, her eyes following the pine tree now listing dangerously far to the left. “No thank you.”
“Fine,” her mother sighed. “Then let’s at least schedule our standing lunch at Le Bernardin for that Saturday. And Christmas we can do at the hotel like we usually do. Oh, and what about that Tuesday night? I have an invite for drinks at the Beekman.”
Anne was about to offer her standard decline but paused, suddenly remembering the text she had gotten from Sophie the daybefore. She wanted to schedule the flower shop’s launch party for that same night. For the first time in years, Anne had a conflict. “I can’t. I actually have plans.”
Silence. Her mother was as stunned as Anne. “A date? With who?”
“It’s not a date. I just… I’m working with a friend to help her open her business.”
“What kind of business?”
“A floral shop.” Anne was aware of just how clipped her words sounded, how carefully she was parsing out the information to give.
“Well,thatsounds interesting. Don’t fifty percent of floral shops close after a year? Though if she can get a foot in the wedding market, she’ll beset.”
“Right.” Anne nodded. Then another thought popped into her mind. “Would you want to come?”
“To pitch weddings?”
“No, to the party.”
“I can try. Send me the details.” A moment passed before she continued. “Who is this friend again?”
“Sophie,” Anne replied, and clamped her mouth shut. There was no reason to keep Sophie’s last name a secret—Bianca hadn’t met her. She probably didn’t even know Freddie had a sister. Still, Anne was hesitant to share more.
“Sophie,” her mother repeated slowly. “Well, I hope this Sophie knows how lucky she is to have you. Now, what about Thanksgiving? Your father isn’t expecting you to go all the way to Brooklyn, is he?”
Anne took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs. To be honest, she had no idea what she was doing for Thanksgiving. The last text her father had sent her was about getting the contact information for all the network execs in charge ofDivorce Divas.She had tried to dissuade him, but in the end he had gotten frustrated with her and stopped replying.
She understood why her mother assumed she would spend Thanksgiving with her father—that was the holiday he had locked in for years, thanks to their custody agreement. But as an adult, it suddenly occurred to her that the continuation of the invite had more to do with her proximity—and access to the caterers’ numbers—than affection.
“I’m not sure yet,” she replied, hoping her voice sounded breezy, as if she hadn’t considered it yet. In essence, as if she were an entirely different person.
Her mother hummed to herself. She likely suspected that Walt was being difficult, but she chose not to prod. “Well, how’s the tree looking now?”
Anne glanced across the street and cocked her head to the side, considering its current angle. “Conflicted.”
Bianca hummed. “I still don’t understand why they put it up so early. It’s not even December yet.”
More yelling, then the tree lurched sideways, standing straight at a right angle, beautiful and perfect.
“Maybe they’re trying to spread some joy,” Anne said, remembering James’s words.
“That sounds like something my therapist would say,” Bianca murmured. “All right, I have to go. See you soon!”
She hung up before Anne could say goodbye—not that she would have anyway. She was too entranced by the tree, how even unlit, it triggered a warm glow in the center of her chest.
Maybe James was right. Why delay joy?
CHAPTER 16
Twenty minutes later, as Anne shuffled around the corner of Tompkins Square Park with a five-foot-tall balsam fir on her back and a tree stand tucked awkwardly under her arm, there was only one thought going through her mind:Joy is overrated.
After hanging up with her mother, she had turned to walk back home, with James’s words in her ears. She had never considered joy as an active word, just a random feeling that found you at fleeting moments. Maybe that was why she only encountered it sporadically. But if joy was a conscious choice, something she could reach out and grab, then why not start now?
