She wanted Cass here, period, but if Cass were still here, Miriam wouldn’t be, and she couldn’t imagine that.

Hannah, standing on the wings of the platform, caught her eye and nodded. Noelle could hear Hannah telling her they were in this together, and besides, no one was falling into a pit of despair while there were still guests on the premises. Miriam stood next to her cousin, one arm through Hannah’s, and her face lit up from within. She smiled at Noelle encouragingly, and Noelle knew, with her girls behind her, she could do anything.

“Losing Cass has left a void in our lives and our community that we may never truly fill. However, we’re so lucky to have so many Carrigan women here to carry on the traditions. Mrs. Matthews, the glue that holds all of us together. Hannah, my amazing co-manager; Ziva, Cass’s niece; and Miriam, Cass’s great-niece. You may know Miriam better as the incredible artist Miriam Blum.” A few people in the crowd whooped.

“Miriam graciously agreed to decorate our tree for the ceremony this year. And I’m ecstatic to bring her up to announce the theme and unveil the tree.” The crowd applauded as Miriam walked up the stairs.

Noelle hugged Miriam, hard, and whispered in her ear, “I’m proud of you.”

Miriam teared up, then faced the crowd and grinned.

“Noelle mentioned four Carrigan women here tonight, but truly, we have five. None of this would have happened without Noelle.”

The audience applauded louder. Noelle dashed her own tears away. Miriam, this woman, calling her a Carrigan. It felt so right, all of them together. The future of Carrigan’s was this team. She hoped to hell the Rosensteins saw it, because her heart was going to break, again, if they had to give up this magical, perfect dream.

“I’ve never decorated a Christmas tree before,” Miriam admitted, “and I’m not certain I’ve lived up to Cass’s precedent. The only theme I could possibly have used this year, the only way I could pay tribute to sixty years of Carrigan’s, was a history of the woman herself.” Miriam gave a signal, and Mr. Matthews threw a switch to turn the lights on. “Without further ado, the theme of this year’s tree is…Cass Carrigan!”

The giant screen Noelle had custom built to hide the tree was rolled away.

Miriam had promised that the tree would be the tackiest, kitschiest tree Noelle had ever seen, and she had lived up to her promise. To truly represent everything Cass had been—fake eyelashes, sequins, the whole package—Miriam had created a series of baroquely decorated boxes, each one with a scene or doll or other object inside. There were little marionette dancers in tiny glittering bras, miniature gleaming challah in perfect braids for Rosenstein’s, a 1963 Austin-Healey model that Noelle didn’t even know the story behind.