“This is a disaster.” I watched a dark figure emerge from the emergency room doors and walk our way, a silhouette of muscle and handsome obnoxiousness. “Do I still work at the Ozark Museum of Art?”
    “Yes.”
    “Am I still allergic to shellfish and have a famous painter for a mother?”
    “Yes and yes.”
    “Am I still up for a promotion at work?”
    “You are.” Cordelia fielded twenty other questions, leading me to the horrible conclusion that everything in my life was the same…except the small detail of my marriage.
    “Mrs. Claus got this so wrong,” I whispered, as my friend regarded me with a quiet discomfort. “I know this is crazy.”
    “Crazy isn’t adequately covering it right now. I’m actually very concerned.”
    Holden’s boots clomped on the cold pavement as he drew closer, and my pulse escalated in panicked beats. “I can’t go home with him.”
    “My in-laws are here, otherwise, you could crash at my place.” Cordelia’s hair blew in the harsh wind. “But Annie, go home. Check every closet, every drawer. Look at the photos on the walls. If none of it looks familiar, then call me. I’ll kick out my family and give you the guest room.”
    That was probably code for “then I’ll drive you to the county mental hospital for a lengthy, padded-room stay.”
    “Everything okay here?” Holden sauntered toward us. I’d forgotten how tall he was, at least half a foot over my own five-foot-five. We’d known each other briefly in college, but not enough for me to feel certain he wasn’t a serial killer or someone who kicked puppies.