Eliza Snootface Walker Bigelow, that’s who.

But she’d be sweet, she’d be nice. She damn well wouldn’t start something up with Eliza during their parents’ visit. She’d take over the soup still simmering on the stove, have a little visit with her sick nephew.

And she’d sneak him the latest Dark Tower novel, since King, along with a good dozen others, didn’t make Eliza and Graham’s approved authors list.

What they didn’t know wouldn’t come back and bite her in the ass. Zane was good at keeping secrets. Maybe too good, Emily thought as she slapped some makeup on her face. Maybe she didn’t spend as much time with the kids as she should, but sometimes when she did, she got the sense of … something. Something just not altogether right.

Probably her imagination, she admitted, pulling on her boots. Or just looking for something to whack her older sister with. They hadn’t been close as kids—opposites didn’t always attract, and the nine-year gap between them might have added to it.

They’d grown no closer as adults. In fact, while usually polite—usually—on the surface, there were those undercurrents again. An active mutual dislike.

In fact, if it hadn’t been for her parents and her niece and nephew, Emily could have gone the rest of her life never seeing or speaking to Eliza again.

“A terrible thing,” she murmured as she hurried downstairs. “An awful thing to think, to feel.”

Worse, she feared some of that thinking, that feeling was straight-out resentment on her part—which added shameful.

Eliza was prettier, and always had been. Not that Emily wasn’t cute enough herself, even without the home facial. But Eliza could claim double scoops of good looks, and bigger boobs, too. And of course, given that nine-year head start, had done everything first.

She’d starred in school plays, made head cheerleader, wore the crown as homecoming queen, as prom queen. And when she’d grad uated, hadn’t their grandparents given her a slick silver BMW convertible?

Then she’d gone and bagged herself a doctor. A surgeon, and one handsome as a movie star. Had her fancy-dancy country club engagement party, her snooty-assed bridal shower, her extravagant and splashy white wedding.

And she’d looked just magnificent, Emily remembered as she turned off the heat under the soup. Like a queen in her big, beautiful white dress.

She hadn’t resented Eliza that day. She’d been happy for her—even when forced to wear the blush-pink attendant’s gown with its poufy shoulders.

But after that, resentment had built right back up again.

“Don’t think about it now,” she ordered herself, put on her coat, her hat, her gloves. “It’s Christmas. And poor Zane’s sick.”

She got her purse—with the Dark Tower novel already stuffed inside—got hot pads to cart the soup out to her truck and to transfer the soup to Eliza’s.

She’d had the truck washed, waxed, and detailed—something crossed off yesterday’s list—so sticky notes didn’t decorate the dash. And she’d completed a personal check on all the rental bungalows, so when her parents asked—and they would—she could tell them Walker Lakeside Bungalows, the family enterprise, was safe and secure.

She liked being in charge of it now that her parents had retired. Maybe she resented—that word again—cutting the check to Eliza for her share of the profits every quarter. Eliza didn’t do a damn thing, but blood was blood, family was family, so she got a share of what her parents had built and she maintained.

At least the house was hers, just hers now, she thought, looking back on it after she settled the soup pot on the floor of the passenger’s seat.

She loved the house, the wood and stone ramble of it, the wraparound porch, the views of the lake and mountains. It had been home all of her life, and she intended for it to be home until she died. Since she didn’t have kids, and the likelihood of making any looked dim at best, she planned to leave it to Zane and Britt when the time came.

Maybe one of them would live there. Maybe they’d rent it out or sell it off. She’d be dead, so she wouldn’t know the difference.

“A cheerful Christmas thought.”

Laughing at herself, she climbed in the truck, thinking how pretty the house would look come dusk when all the colorful lights came on, the tree sparkling in the window. Just the way it had every Christmas in her memory. The house smelling of pine and cranberry, of cookies warm from the oven.

As she pulled out to take the lake road, she blew her bangs out of her eyes. A trim hadn’t made it on her pre-Christmas list and had to wait.

As she drove around Reflection Lake, she turned the radio on, the volume up, and sang along with Springsteen as she passed the rental bungalows, the docks, the other lake houses, and curved around toward town with the snow-topped mountains rising up into the pale blue of winter sky.

The road rose and fell, twisted and turned—she knew every inch. She cut through Main Street just to see the shops all done up for Christmas and the star rising high above the Lakeview Hotel.

She spotted Cyrus Puffer carting a bag, heading toward his parked truck. She’d been married to Cyrus for almost six months—God, nearly ten years ago, she thought. They’d decided, pretty quick, they made better friends with benefits than husband and wife, and so had had, in her opinion, one of the only truly amicable divorces in the wide world of divorces.

She pulled over to say hey.

“Last-minute shopping?”

“No. Yeah. Sort of.” He grinned at her, a good-looking guy with bright red hair and a happy disposition. “Marlene wanted ice cream—nothing but mint chocolate chip would do.”

“Well, aren’t you the good husband.”

He’d found the right woman the second time around. Emily had introduced them herself, and ended up being best man at the wedding.

“Doing my best.” That grin just wouldn’t quit. “I guess I’m lucky she didn’t want pickles to go with it.”

“Oh my God!” She gripped his face with both hands. “Oh my God, Cy! You’re going to be a daddy!”

“We just found out yesterday for certain. She doesn’t want to tell anybody yet, except her folks and mine, but she won’t mind me telling you.”

“It’s in the vault, but oh my God, I’m dancing for you.” She yanked him farther through the window to give him a hard, loud kiss. “Best Christmas present ever. Oh, Cy, you tell her merry, merrier, merriest from me. And when she wants to talk about it, just give me a call.”

“I will. Em, I’m so happy I could split in two. I gotta get the ice cream home to mama.”

“You tell her I want to give the baby shower.”

“Really?”

“You bet I do. Merry Christmas, Cy. Oh my God!”

She grinned all the way through town, back to the lake, and into Lakeview Terrace.

As she did every time she turned in, she thought: I’d kill myself if I had to live here.

No question the houses were big and mostly beautiful. And not exactly all the same, as there had been several styles and plans to choose from as she recalled. And many add-on options.

But there was, to her eye, an edging-toward-creepy Stepford air in the development. Perfect perfection, down to the tidy sidewalks, the paved or pavered driveways, the small park—residents and their guests only—with its carefully planted trees, carefully placed benches and walkways.

But her sister loved it, and in truth the perfect rows of McMansions with their manicured lawns suited Eliza very well.

Reminding herself to be sweet, Emily pulled into the driveway. She carried the soup to the door, rang the bell. Like a stranger, she thought, not like family. But they kept their personal palace locked tight.

Sweet, she thought again, and put a smile on her face.

She kept it in place when Eliza opened the door looking just damn beautiful in winter-white pants, red cashmere sweater, her hair in soft, dark waves to her shoulders.

And her eyes, the same sharp Walker green as Emily’s, showed only mild annoyance. “Emily. We weren’t expecting you.”

Not Emily! Merry Christmas. Come in.

But Emily kept smiling.

“I got your message about Zane, and dinner tomorrow. I tried to call you back, but—”

“We’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, me, too. But I felt so bad for Zane, so I made Mama’s famous cure. Chicken noodle soup. How’s he doing?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Eliza, it’s cold. Aren’t you going to let me in?”

“Who is it, sweetheart?” Graham, gilded, handsome—in cashmere, of course, his sweater a silvery gray—stepped up behind Eliza. He smiled, but as Emily noted often, it didn’t really reach his eyes.

“Emily! Merry Christmas. This is a surprise.”

“I made soup for Zane. I wanted to bring it by, see him, before I pick up Mama and Daddy from the airport.”

“Come in, come in. Let me take that.”

“It’s hot. I’ll just take it back to the kitchen if that’s okay.”