But he doled out the bulk of his attention to Grandma Jo—wearing a beautiful A-line, red velvet dress, with full lipstick now in place—when she wandered by. I heard him suggest they go outside to the courtyard to her enough times that I knew he was hoping to spring a mistletoe trap, but she would send him a “ha, ha, no” look and then flit off to chat with another guest.

Ms. Lewis was there, along with Billie and Linda, all three in their holiday best with the twins in matching green velvet pinafore dresses and Ms. Lewis in a dark burgundy pantsuit, also velvet. Ayisha—who had somehow found time to sweep her braids into an immaculate topknot—mainly took care of them and I saw her shoot her twin sisters looks each time they wandered near the piano. At one point she stage-whispered, “This isn’t one of your recitals!”

Which earned her dual pouts in return, but also a small smile from her mother.

It reminded me of what Mom had said, about how Ms. Lewis had to raise three kids by herself. Clearly she was doing an amazing job, but I knew I’d never fully understand the sacrifices made along the way. By her, and by Ayisha.

My job during the Christmas Eve party was to carry around platters of appetizers, which were always a careful balance between sophisticated and edgy for this part of the country (gluten-free guacamole cups with a cherry on top and caprese bites on skewers) and comfort food (snowman cheese balls and all manner of things wrapped in bacon). Few people tried the daal, even when Reggie labeled it “chili surprise.” Their loss.

These parties were never my favorite thing to do at the inn, though I had to say this year was particularly difficult to get through. My eyes kept drifting to the front doors with some illogical hope that at least one Chakrabarti would step through with the proclamation that seeing evidence of the daal that was clearly made for them was all the proof they needed of Grandma Jo’s good intentions and wounded heart. That they, the Chakrabartis, were truly missed. At which point I would tell Arthur about my intent to return to Barrington, to take another swing.

But that didn’t happen.

In the kitchen, I grabbed a fresh platter of hors d’oeuvres at the same time Ayisha arrived to drop off her empty platter.

Our eyes connected. I opened my mouth to sp—

She pointed at me. “If you ask me one more time if I’ve heard from Arthur, I’ll make you bring the bourbon mini–hot dogs to the tipsy housewives and listen to them juggle euphemisms.”

That was an involved and very specific threat, but I closed my mouth just the same.