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S uitcase yawned open on her bed, Monique was grabbing up outfits from her closet when the downstairs entry bell rang. With a frustrated huff, she put the hangers back, then jogged the short hallway to her apartment door and pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

“It’s us,” she heard her youngest sister, Sadie, say in the sugar-sweet tones that had helped make her a break-out Hollywood starlet. “You didn’t show for Sunday Sister Brunch, so Ginny and I are bringing it to you!”

“I…sorry…lot on my mind,” she said. Her irritation was muted by the pang of guilt over forgetting it was Sunday.

The past week at the real estate agency had been a blur of putting out legal fires.

One of them had just escalated to FAD (Five-Alarm Dumpster), and her boss had appointed her the extinguisher.

“No worries,” her middle sister, Ginny, broke in, “I forget stuff all the time. But buzz us up, huh?”

Monique rested her forehead against the wall above the intercom, wishing it were a pillow. “It’s just…”

It’s just I’ve got to be at the airport and don’t have time for this! But there was no use. Their weekly brunch and its rituals were going to happen even if her sisters had to chase her plane down the tarmac to do it. No point using up more of her rapidly dwindling minutes by stalling.

Ginny added in a singsong, “We got coffee!”

At least they’d brought to-go cups of liquid life force. She buzzed them in, then waited for them to climb the two flights to her upscale condo apartment.

Ginny, who had the blundering energy of a baby goat, reached the landing first, her hands laden with a cardboard cup holder.

Her fine, straight hair was shiny smooth on one side and full of loops and tangles on the other, as if she’d only managed to brush half of it that morning, which was probably the case.

Her moss green sweater was so pilled, saggy, and full of runs it looked like it was recovering from the sweater version of a face peel gone bad.

Despite all this, Ginny apparently thought she was within her rights to critique Monique’s appearance—and do so with the oblivious honesty baby goats would have if (God forbid!) they could talk.

“Yikes. When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep? ”

“The Miocene,” Monique said flatly. Sadie appeared next, a brown paper bag in her hand. Her bouncing, strawberry-blonde ringlets were almost as perky as her button nose. Monique was way too tired for this. Could she just grab the coffee and whatever was in that bag and slam her door?

She motioned them both through with urgent swoops of her arms. “We gotta do this quick. Uber gets here in forty and my flight leaves in three hours whether I’m on it or not.”

Also an unendingly hungry goatlet, Ginny made for the kitchen.

After setting the coffee tray onto the counter, she started opening cupboards and peering into the fridge.

“Lookee loo! I was right,” she called to Sadie.

“The fridge is emptier than the day it left the fridge factory. You owe me ten dollars!”

Sadie gave Monique a ‘don’t get mad’ shrug, then giggled.

“We made a bet about what food you’d have in your kitchen.

” She leaned over the peninsula counter to get her own glimpse into the spotless white cavern that was Monique’s fridge.

“Oh, my gosh! Last time you at least had some basics. All I see is a few carrots and a bottle of green stuff.”

“Wheat grass and spirulina juice,” Ginny said, reading off the label. “And in all these cupboards, there’s only one unopened box of carob bars and some drip coffee supplies.”

Sadie threw a look of true concern at Monique. “Sis, are you okay? Do you eat?”

“I’m fine, and I eat. I just don’t have time to cook. There are four salad places between my house and work. They’re all delicious and healthy, and they all recently completed swanky interior remodels off the money I spend at their establishments.”

Sadie set her paper bag down next to the coffees. “Well, good thing Rick’s has to-go coffee, since you don’t even have the supplies.” She opened the bag and began unloading its contents onto the counter.

“You stopped at the diner? Did you see Rick?” Monique hadn’t seen their godfather in over a week.

They used to hold their Sunday brunches at his classic Hollywood eatery, but now that Sadie was Hollywood famous, they couldn’t walk the thirty feet between the door and their favorite booth without being mobbed for Sadie’s autograph.

Most times now, they gathered at Sadie’s house.

Ginny grabbed up a paper-wrapped bakery item. “Sure did. And he gave us some delicious and healthy chocolate-chocolate chip muffins!” Dark brown crumbs rained from her fingers onto the white countertop.

Monique let out a growling grunt as she turned on her heels, heading back to her still-empty suitcase. “Enjoy.”

She loved her sisters to bits, but neither a successful Hollywood actress nor a dog walker and part-time art history student could understand the work pressures she was under as the only lawyer for the most prestigious real estate office in Hollywood.

The types of people buying and selling multimillion dollar estates delighted in saying the word “no,” but their ears were equally incapable of hearing it.

Sadie followed her down the carpeted hallway. “Can we help you pack? I’m good at packing.”

“Sure. I mostly need help picking things out.”

Sadie rubbed her hands together. “What’s the goal?”

“I’ve got four days to mediate between three sets of very angry clients or the big hairy deal we’ve worked on for two years will be roadkill.”

The instant they stepped into her spacious bedroom, Ginny squeezed past them, crumb-blasting muffin in hand. Monique imagined the greasy bits melding into the strands of her low-pile, white shag and made a mental note to call the carpet cleaners when she got home.

“Can I see inside your closet?” Ginny asked.

The question was only for show, because she was already pushing the room-length, mirrored folding doors open as far as they would go.

She stood back and looked at the closet’s contents.

“You own me ten more dollaroos,” she squealed to Sadie. “I called it.”

“We both called this one,” Sadie said, but whistled as she stepped forward and ran her fingers over the row of neatly hung outfits.

With the occasional exception of a white or striped blouse or scarf, every item was a deep, navy blue.

“On the bright side, if Monique ever decides to join the navy, she’s all set! ”

“The dark Navy,” Ginny said before turning to Monique. “Don’t you get tired of the monotony?”

Monique eyed them both sternly. “It’s monotone , not monotony, but it is a uniform in a way. Consistency is my brand. Navy says sophisticated and no-nonsense without saying funeral like wearing a lot of black can.”

“You could wear any of these outfits to a funeral!” Ginny spluttered.

“Only if I had no respect for the deceased,” Monique replied.

Placing a hand on each of Ginny’s ratty-sweatered shoulders, she guided her firmly toward the bedroom door.

“Now, please take your snooping self and your messy muffin back to the kitchen where I happen to have these helpful flat round things called plates.”

“You don’t want my fashion advice?” Ginny said with an exaggerated pout.

“If I ever need that, I’ll find a street urchin.” She picked an especially large muffin crumb off her floor. “They’re tidier.”

Before Ginny left, she sent a backward wink toward Sadie. “Be sure to pick some of the navy-blue ones.”

Fifteen minutes later, her bags packed and waiting by the door, Monique sat with her sisters at her eat-in kitchen counter.

Sadie had her coffee with extra cream, Ginny was adding ice to hers, and Monique had microwaved her black coffee briefly to bring it back to her preferred temperature of volcano hot.

“To Mom and Dad,” they said as they raised their paper cups and smiled around at each other.

Their weekly Sunday tradition of toasting to their beloved parents, killed by a drunk driver eight years ago, grounded Monique in a way she couldn’t put into words.

It was her church—both for keeping her parents’ love close and for helping her keep an eye on her younger sibling’s lives and needs.

Ginny and Sadie were both happily and stably settled into their own marriages now, but seeing them every Sunday reassured her that they were okay.

“Sorry I don’t have time for a proper check-in, but is there any news with you guys?” Monique asked.

Ginny’s face went comically slack. “Mick swallowed the largest rock the vet said he’d ever removed from a dog, so, basically, it’s life as normal at our house.”

“Grant and I are good,” Sadie said. “We start filming in a couple days, and the schedule is hectic. Technically, Grant is the lead, but I'm planning to steal the film.”

“And steal it you will,” Monique said. “Not even Grant stands a chance against you.” She turned to Ginny. “Did you see Rick when you picked up the coffees?”

Ginny nodded. “He was swamped with breakfast orders, but he looked good. He’s hoping we’ll stop in sometime after hours again for a proper visit, and I promised him we would.”

Sadie stood and started cleaning up the cups and crumbs. “We’ve got to let you get going. Thanks for letting us come over when you’re so busy. I’m happy to take you to the airport though, you don’t have to uber.”

Monique popped her empty cup into Sadie’s. “It’s fine. I have some paperwork to review in the car.” She got up and attempted to brush out a wrinkle threatening to develop in her navy slacks.

Ginny’s eyes swished back and forth between them. “Uh, hold up. Aren’t we forgetting something?”

Monique gave Ginny an eyeroll. “Are you really going to make me say it? You both already spectacularly failed the Million Dollar Sister Spinster Pact, which gives you no standing to critique my status.”

“Oh, no, we have to keep you on the straight and narrow, big sis!” Ginny said. “Or should I say straight and navy?” She winked. “You’re the last remaining survivor of Great Aunt Lydia’s Single Island.”

“Gosh,” Sadie said, smooshing in her cheeks, “your thirtieth birthday is less than a month away! What are you going to do with your million-dollar inheritance?”

“What I’m not going to do is fall for some—,” Monique began, but Ginny cut her off.

“No counting unhatched chickens, Sadie! Monique could still fail the challenge, and she must tell us.” She waggled an unmanicured finger at Monique. “Have you had any dates? They can lead pretty quickly to marriage, you know, so even a single date is financially risky.”

Sadie made an “oops” face. “Even fake dates can do that.”

“Fine,” Monique said, eyeing her phone and seeing that her driver was less than five minutes away.

As stupid as it was at this point, she was going to have to comply with the second tradition of the weekly sister brunches—declaring her dating status.

Monique had been the one to institute it, on the assumption that not dating would keep them in line for the million dollars they would each inherit from their man-hating Great Aunt Lydia if they remained single till they reached thirty.

The plan hadn’t worked for either of her impractical and overly emotional sibs, but she was nothing like them. “Zero dates for me.”

Ginny still wasn’t satisfied. “And how about this week? You haven’t even told us where your work is sending you. Some places are more date-risky than others.”

“I…,” Monique said, then paused, wishing she didn’t have to say. “…Vegas.”

Grins broke out on both her sister’s faces.

“As in Las Vegas?” Ginny said.

Monique tapped an impatient finger against the counter. “Is there another one?”

Sadie crossed her arms over her chest and slumped in her chair. “But I would’ve picked different outfits for you if I’d known you were going there.”

Ginny elbowed her lightly. “Yeah, like a wedding gown. Vegas is the world capital of unplanned marriages. And there’s probably a few billionaires there too if you look hard enough.”

Sadie’s head bobbed in agreement. “You’ve always said you’d only marry a billionaire—you made vision boards and everything.”

Monique grabbed up her phone. “And I will marry one but not till after I get my inheritance.”

“Well then, if anybody tells you they’re taking you to the Elvis Chapel, run!” Ginny said.

“What happens in Vegas…,” Sadie said, raising and lowering her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

Monique grabbed up her phone. “What happens in Vegas can be broadcast on the BBC for all I care, because all I am doing there is working. There will be no dates and certainly no wedding !”