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" I t's a U-Haul." I stood on the sidewalk in front of my brand-new house and looked down at the driver. He was about five-eight and built like an aging professional wrestler whose muscles had melted into Jello. I'm five feet ten, even in the flat sandals I'd changed into to go with my shorts and Sun Records T-shirt, so I look down on most of the rest of the world.

Strictly from a height perspective, not like an arrogance thing.

He peered up at me. "Are you Deborah Vaygan?"

"It's December Vaughn, and that is a U-Haul. A tiny U-Haul. It's not a moving van at all. Where's the rest of it?" I looked down the street. This must just be the overflow.

"What rest? This is a delivery for Deborah Vaygan. Household furniture and belongings. Shipped from one Gareth in Columbus, Ohio."

One Gareth. One Michael E. Gareth, or Doctor Mike, as he liked to introduce himself to his patients. I'd told him once that it was a little too fake-buddy-buddy for people who were expecting a shrink to look and sound like Freud, but he'd just smiled a calm smile and quizzed me about my tendency to passive-aggressiveness.

Which kind of summed up our marriage. He was too passive. I was too aggressive. We're great friends but sucked at being husband and wife.

The sweaty driver interrupted my thoughts. "You need to sign here, lady. I don't want to stand around all day. I'm burning up. I don't unload, either, so you better have help." He swiped at the sweat dripping off of his face with one beefy arm and rubbed it on his shirt.

I snatched the clipboard out of his other hand, wishing I had sanitary wipes or rubber gloves, and stabbed the pen at the paper. One lousy U-Haul. Where the hell was my furniture? Mike probably forgot to put it in his daily planner, which meant it would never happen. This was a man who literally wrote Brush Teeth in his daily planner. Every single day.

Twice .

After I unloaded the U-Haul—with no help from the driver, as promised — I collapsed inside my front door on the floor, saying a prayer of thanks for whoever'd invented air conditioning. Then I pulled out my cell phone.

"Dr. Gareth's office, Brenda speaking."

"Brenda? My Brenda? Is that you?" I was sure I recognized my secretary's voice. Or, at least, she had been my secretary, back at my law firm in Columbus.

She giggled. Yep, that was her. Nobody else had that sultry giggle. "Oh, hi, December. Yes, it's me. I work for Dr. Mike now. I thought he told you? I started last week."

Brenda bizarrely combined pinup-girl body and brilliant organizational mind. I'd usually spent a good part of my day wading through all the male lawyers sniffing around her desk. I'd tried to convince her to go to law school, but she only wanted to get married and have enough babies for her own soccer team.

"No, he didn't mention it. Is he in? I'm having problems with the moving company."

"Sure, let me put you through. His last patient just left. And let me know if you need any help with the movers."

"Thanks, Brenda. Talk to you soon. And congrats on the new job."

She giggled again. I had to grin; I hadn't heard anybody giggle for a few months. It didn't surprise me that Mike had hired her. He'd often said he wished he could find an assistant who was as efficient as my Brenda. She wasn't crazy about lawyers, either; she'd planned to leave the firm when I did.

Mike's soothing voice came on the line. I'd always told him that his voice should be bottled and sold to help insomniacs everywhere. Unfortunately for our marriage, its soporific tones meant almost all I ever did in our bed was sleep.

Well, that and other reasons, like the fact that his equipment apparently only worked on national holidays.

"December. So good to hear from you. How are you? What's the problem with the moving company?"

"I'm not so great at the moment, Mike. All that showed up was one small U-Haul with my most beloved — but least useful — possessions. So now I have a new house with nothing in it but my Carnival Chalk horse collection, my antique side table, my stuffed tigers, and Grandma's Depression glass. None of this is very helpful for daily life, you understand." I blew out a breath. "By the way, when did you hire Brenda? What happened to Mrs. Prosser?"

"She retired to Florida to be with her grandchildren. Seems like all the women in my life are moving to Florida."

I could hear the sadness in his voice. Mike had believed that another year or two of marriage counseling would fix us. I knew it wouldn't—all the talking in the world can't create chemistry where there isn't any. Best friends should never get married just because it's comfortable.

I tried for humor. "Well, the women may move to Florida, but the furniture isn't. Are you sure you shipped everything?"

"Absolutely. Let me check my daily planner. Hey, I got one of those PDAs—my daily planner is electric now. You should get one. OK, here it is. Yes, exactly one week ago today at 4:5, we finished loading your things into one large moving truck and one small U-Haul. ETA, your house is listed here as today. So, you're saying the big truck didn't show up?"

"That's right. I called the moving company, but the dispatcher is gone for the day, and nobody else knows what's going on. I thought I'd confirm with you before I yell at them tomorrow." I sighed and studied the ruins of my manicure. This is why I went to law school in the first place. So I didn't have to hump boxes. I sighed again.

"Let me know what they say, and whether there's anything we can do on this end. Brenda said she'd be glad to follow up with them for you."

I could hear Brenda's muffled voice in the background and was tempted. But no, this was my new life. I could handle my own problems. "Thanks, but I've got it under control. I'll let you know what happens. Take care, Mike, and hugs to Brenda for me."

I stood up and stretched and thought about how much I didn't want to unpack right now. Especially collections of fragile items when I had no shelves. Or tables.

Or a bed, come to think of it. I sighed again. Better see if I can borrow a sleeping bag from Aunt Celia at dinner tonight. The deadbeat college student theme continues .

W hen I pulled up in the driveway of Aunt Celia and Uncle Nathan's two-story Georgian, I saw that Max's Mini Cooper was already there. I parked my despised ("It's practical, and you need a practical car, now that you're spending all your money on this new venture," Mike'd said, which is one of the many reasons I'd divorced him. Who wants to be married to a man who thinks practical cars are the way to go?) ten-year-old Civic behind it and slammed the door.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, December. Move it in here and tell us all about poor Charlie." Max was standing at the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel. The matador look was gone, replaced by a pink-flowered summer dress. She looked like an ad for some Florida tourist resort aimed right at the male market; all "come drink your fruity umbrella drink with me." I looked like a sweaty, dirty escapee from a home for frizzy-haired women just from the drive over. By the time the AC in the Honda cranked up, I'd usually already gotten where I was going.

Freaking practical cars.

"I hate this freaking car. Have I told you about my precious baby? My darling convertible? My lipstick-red, sunshine-convertible, rolling example of brilliance in German engineering that shouted I Am A Wanton Sex Goddess?"

She rolled her eyes. "Your car was a wanton sex goddess?"

"Not the car, you idiot. Me! And, you know, now that you work for me, you might try treating me with a little respect," I said, grinning as I walked up to the door. Max was the tiara-wearing sister I'd never had.

She snorted out a laugh. "Yeah, keep dreaming, O Wanton One. The chicken is almost ready, and the kids are out on the back deck, bickering."

We walked through the house, comfortably decorated with overstuffed sofas and bright colors. As the president of the Orange Grove senior citizens' association, or the Center, as she called it, Aunt Celia entertained quite a bit, and the profusion of red pillows and miniature parrot figurines from her collection made her home as warm and quirky as she was.

Max headed for the kitchen, and I followed, hoping for a quick bite of something and maybe a glass or six of wine.

"Are you all settled in?" She put a glass on the breakfast bar and pushed an open bottle of Chardonnay toward me, then started chopping salad vegetables. The spicy aroma of whatever was simmering on the stove almost made me drool.

"Don't get me started. Not only am I not settled, but my furniture truck is missing in action. My house is currently decorated with cardboard boxes filled with carnival chalk horses and Depression glass."

"Chalk horses?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. Don't ask."

I poured a healthy dose of wine and then looked out the sliding glass doors at Celia and Nathan. She was standing over him and shaking her finger as he sat, arms folded over his chest, in a wooden deck chair.

"What's up with them?"

Max laughed. "Nathan came down from his office in the middle of Celia's board meeting luncheon and begged a sandwich, then stood there and went off on a riff about how easy it would be to poison chicken salad, and what if there were a serial killer who murdered random social club committee members from town to town and—this was in total gorefest mode, mind you—how ooky death by arsenic would be."

I was laughing helplessly at the end of the story. I could visualize it perfectly. Nathan always got this blank, glazed look in his eyes when he was plotting a book, and he loved the gory details. "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes . Cleared the room in no time, according to Celia, who is especially miffed that they never got to try the mini pecan cheesecakes she'd made. So, be prepared to eat a lot and pile on the compliments over the cheesecakes, or we're all in for a long night."

She'd finished cutting veggies and was mixing oils and vinegars in a mysterious blend with some fresh herbs. Max and Celia each had the gourmet cooking gene that I totally lacked. I'm a champion eater, though.

I heard the glass door sliding open and turned on my stool.

"Deedee! Why didn't you come outside and tell us you were here? I want to hear all about your meeting with poor Charlie."

My Aunt Celia was gorgeous, and the only person in the universe I'd ever allow to call me Deedee. Her peaches and cream complexion—'never, ever sit in the sun, December, unless you want to look like a rhinoceros when you're fifty'—and strawberry-blonde hair still drew male attention. From the stories Uncle Nathan liked to tell, she and my mom were the prettiest sisters in northern Florida back in the day.

All of his stories ended the same way: "Could have had any man she wanted, December. But she picked me." After which Celia would blush and smack Nathan on the arm, muttering something about old reprobates. Their marriage was the kind of wonderful I'd always secretly hoped for, but never really expected. I wasn't making much progress, either, going from a mediocre marriage to no marriage in one easy step.

Which reminded me I didn't have any furniture, either. I moaned and rested my head on the countertop.

"Oh, no. Is it that bad? Did that other lawyer mess up poor Charlie's case?" Celia stuck her face really close to mine and peered into my eyes.

"No, no. I was moaning about my missing furniture, not poor Charlie, er, I mean Mr. Deaver. And you know I can't talk about my clients, Aunt Celia. Client confidentiality and all that."

Celia tsked. She thinks client confidentiality shouldn't apply to the relatives who practically raised you. She wandered off to the other side of the counter, peering in the pot simmering on the stove.

"What is that, Max? Did you add the rosemary? What about the fresh peas?"

Max put her hands on Celia's shoulder and drew her away from the stove. "Yes, I did. Don't you think you should wear those nice glasses of yours, so you can see what's cooking without having to stick your face right in the pot?"

"Hmmph. I don't need glasses. Anyway, they make my face look fat."

I rolled my eyes. "Right, fat is a big problem for all one hundred pounds of you. Do you want me to get Uncle Nathan?"

"I honestly don't care if you get him or not. That man . Honestly. Margaret Pelman clipped half of my azalea bush with her Continental, because she was trying to get out of here so fast. If he'd just think before he goes all plotty in the middle of a luncheon. A board meeting luncheon, no less."

Nathan had walked inside during the last part of her recitation. "Me going all plotty paid for our cruise to Alaska last summer, dear. And the tour of the Pacific Northwest. You seemed to like Vancouver well enough." His voice was mild, and I could see the amusement in his eyes. Sometimes I thought he pulled the absent-minded mystery writer act to get a rise out of Celia.

It always worked.

As we dished up and dug into the delicious chicken-something-with-a-French-name that had been this month's cooking magazine's featured selection, Celia turned her attention to me. "I've referred all my friends down at the Center to you, dear. I hope you're up on your wills and trusts law. These people aren't getting any younger. We've had three different quadruple bypasses in the past six weeks."

Before I could respond, she moved on to Max. "Speaking of not getting any younger, I've found the perfect man for you. He works on the construction crew that's renovating the kitchen at the Center, and he's a total hottie."

She beamed a smile at Max. She'd been trying to fix both of us up with 'a nice boy so you can settle down' for about ten years now. Well, except during my marriage.

Max paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "Total hottie? Have you been watching MTV again? You didn't order any more DVDs, did you? That teen queen pop festival you put us through last month nearly melted my ears."

Celia narrowed her eyes. "I have to say, Maxine, you were much nicer during your pageant years. Whatever happened to world peace ?"

" You try being peaceful when you have to superglue swimsuits to your butt."

I stepped in to help. "What does he do on the construction crew? Is he the foreperson or just a lowly carpenter? Nothing but the best for our Max, after all."

Celia stopped buttering her roll. "Hmm. I'm not sure, but he has a drill kind of thing. And a really big hammer."