Luckily, the focus is pulled from my guilty conscience when Bee careensher way back into the den with a full-on food cart, one of the ones you getin fancy restaurants where they serve your meals under silver cloches andpronounce “confit” and “sauvignon” correctly.
“Okay, ladies!” she announces. “It’s time to stuff ourselves to the gills andstart opening presents!”
“Finally!” Syrah exclaims, clapping her hands together. She throws herselfonto the soft white carpet that forms the base of my sitting area and props
her elbows on the wooden coffee table. “Which present are you going forfirst?”
Bee laughs. “Ah, I see the order has been reversed. So be it! Gifts now;food later.”
I reach for Syrah’s gift first. It turns out to be a double whammy: a gift fo
