On the floor behind the aluminum tree she spotted her prize. A rusting red cast-iron Christmas tree stand. It was heavier than she expected, but that was good. She’d need something sturdy to keep that massive tree from falling over.

She was picking it up when she spied a large, flat box with gold wrapping paper. It had fallen off the stack of fruit crates and was wedged up against the wall. When she pulled it out of its hiding spot she saw that it too was labeled. BETTY RAE.

Ivy held her breath as she lifted the top off the box. Inside she found more yellowing tissue paper and, beneath that, a plush red velvet jacket with a white fur collar. The smell of mothballs made her eyes water momentarily.

“Hello, Mrs. Santa,” she whispered.

She lifted the jacket from the box. It was beautifully tailored with a snug-fitting bodice that nipped in at the waist and flared out at the hips. The buttons were jet black and the lining was satin.

Impulsively, Ivy pulled her sweater over her head and tried on the jacket. The lining felt silky against her skin, and to her surprise, the jacket fit perfectly, almost as though it had been custom tailored for her.

She shook the skirt out from the tissue and held it up against her body. The waistband was surprisingly tiny, but the traumatic events of the past year had left Ivy with little appetite and she’d effortlessly dropped twenty pounds on what her therapist called “the divorce diet” of Tic Tacs and sauvignon blanc.

The floor-length skirt was full, with a red taffeta petticoat that rustled as she stepped into it, and one side of the fur-trimmed hem was caught up in a sort of side bustle.

She zipped herself into the skirt and did a quick twirl, loving the feel of the taffeta swishing against her ankles. Glancing into the box, she spotted two more accessories—a fur-trimmed velvet hat with a pom-pom, and a white fur muff with an old-fashioned corsage of silk poinsettia petals.

Ivy stood in front of the mirrored armoire and examined herself in the cloudy glass. She popped the hat on top of her hair and thrust her right hand into the muff. Her fingers touched a scrap of fabric, and when she withdrew it she saw that it was a handkerchief with a red embroidered scalloped border of poinsettias and Christmas bells. She held the handkerchief to her nostrils and was greeted with the scent of roses and the faint smell of … cinnamon? Cloves?

She stood, transfixed, in front of the mirror, fluffing the skirt and turning this way and that, her being suffused with an unexpected sense of warmth and calm and … something like peace?

Just then she heard Punkin start barking down below in the kitchen. A voice called from the front of the house.

Ivy scrambled down the stairs as fast as she could, although her speed was encumbered by the volume of the long skirt.