Over the smoking candles of the cake, Marisa met my gaze. “Thanks, Brit. This was really nice.”

“It’s chocolate cake. Your favorite.” I knew for a fact that I’d gotten the cake flavor right. I’d always baked two cakes on Clare and Marisa’s birthday. Red velvet for Clare and chocolate for Marisa.

“I never could resist it.”

The waiter carried the cake to a side table, where he set the slippers aside and sliced it into generous portions.

“I wanted tonight to be all about your favorites,” I said. I might have gotten the barbecue wrong, but Marisa had eaten a generous portion, so it wasn’t exactly a miss.

“You spoil me,” Marisa said. “Clare would’ve been thrilled by all this.”

The smiles dimmed at the mention of Clare’s name. Jo-Jo of course had brought her up, but I wished Marisa could have waited until it was just the two of us. Clare needed to be remembered, but there were times when I wanted to forget the damage our sister’s death had caused. It wasn’t selfish to want a few hours of normal, was it?

Marisa raised her glass. “Here’s to Clare.”

Kurt cleared his throat as he lifted his beer bottle. “Does anyone remember her laugh? No matter where I was, when I heard that laugh, I always smiled.”

Jo-Jo gulped her wine. “And who else could talk her way out of a speeding ticket or ace the SATs? We all loved her.”

I moistened my lips as the waiter placed a plate in front of each guest.

Marisa nodded, dropped her gaze. She jabbed her fork into the cake. “Thanks again, Brit.”

My counselor had warned me that Marisa might experience moments that could trigger her drinking again. I had considered ignoring this day altogether but then decided to take the bull by the horns. Clare was dead. And Marisa and I had to deal with that fact every day for the rest of our lives. End of story. I didn’t need to drink or to do drugs to dull that reality. But then I was the practical one. The one people called when they needed help or money. For a good time, the calls had always been for Marisa and Clare.

A collection of clown balloons appeared in the doorway. Everyone turned, and nervous laughter rippled over the room. The balloons lowered, revealing Jack’s grinning face. He still was a good-looking man; in fact, thirteen years had added just the right amount of crow’s-feet around his eyes and toughened his frame. The tattoos on his arms enhanced his bad-boy mystique, which even now was attractive.

Jack released the balloons into the room, barely noticing how they’d floated to the ceiling as he leaned down and kissed Marisa on the cheek. “Happy birthday, kid.”

“I thought you were working,” Marisa said.