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Half an hour later, a short, friendly burst of a car horn sounded from outside, causing all eyes to turn to the door. "Sounds like Hurricane Avery is about to make landfall." Dad made a motion like he was bracing himself for impact against the counter. Mom swatted his shoulder and dashed to the door, where Avery was striding up the walk, dragging a suitcase large enough for a six-month expedition in the Antarctic behind her with one hand and a couple of train cases likely loaded with cosmetics and hair products gripped in her other hand.

I hung back as my parents got swept up in the wake of her exuberance and the cloud of her Burberry perfume. Avery had finished at the Parsons School of Design four years before—coinciding with Dad's retirement—and was already becoming a name in New York's fashion industry. And it was no shock to anyone she was so successful so early in her career. She'd commandeered Mom's beloved Bernina sewing machine when she was twelve and had begun wearing her own designs ever since.

To know Avery was to love her, but it was just as easy to be eclipsed by her. Literally. I stopped growing at five-foot-three and was lean with red hair I kept in a bob. She was closer to six feet with long, wavy black hair like Mom's and had the sort of figure one found on marble statues of Greek goddesses. She was the boisterous one, while I was more reserved. I was the sort who holed up for weeks studying, while she was the one who breezed into class and aced the test without a backward glance at her notes.

She was the perfect blend of Dad's brains and business sense and Mom's magnetic charm and impeccable people skills. It was hard not to be dazzled by the trio of them at times. Dad was a financial genius. Mom was a veritable kitchen wizard. Avery, at barely twenty-five years of age, was the next Valentino in the making. I never begrudged them their successes, but at times I felt small by comparison.

"Mom, it looks amazing!" Avery enveloped me in a hug before gliding into the living room, which was decked out in the same Christmas decorations my parents had been using for decades. The same ornaments on the tree, the same set of reindeer statues on the coffee table, the same light-up ceramic tree with three missing bulbs that Avery and I had both adored so much that Mom found us each a replica of our own when we moved out. Mine was in a place of honor, the only holiday decoration I bothered with in my little one-bedroom Denver apartment.

My very favorite of their decorations was the display of fifteen little ceramic Santas from all over the world from various points in history. It had been a gift to Dad from some client at his firm when I was a baby, and I'd been enamored with it since the time I was old enough to understand the holiday.

I walked to the wall where it hung and traced a finger on the bottom of the wooden display case with fifteen tiny nooks. From the 1925 pudgy American Santa, looking like he'd just finished shooting a Coca-Cola ad for The Saturday Evening Post, to the especially lean and regal Czech Father Christmas circa 1882. I loved how each culture had their version of the spirit of giving wrapped up in one man. I'd made up stories about them when I was a child. More specifically, I'd envisioned the treats each one would have brought to good children each year. The English Santa brought marzipan and toffees, the French one, almond nougat and chocolate truffles. The American one, of course, brought classic candy canes and Hershey's bars.

My nature-loving dad always insisted on a living tree that could be replanted after the holidays. Back when we were kids living in the city, he had donated the trees to the Forest Service, but now that he had enough land, each Christmas tree was planted in a place of honor on their acreage in the new year. The piney perfume it diffused in the living room was a million times more vibrant than the freshest cut tree. Mom and Dad's ability to make this place a haven left me with a tingling in my chest.

Avery linked her arm in mine. "Let's put our stuff under the tree."

"You got it." I grabbed the pile of wrapped gifts for the family from the corner where I'd deposited them. We got down on our hands and knees to add the presents to the beautifully wrapped packages Mom and Dad already had in place. Avery arranged and rearranged everything so she could get Instagram-worthy photos. Of the tree, of me in front of the tree, of us together, and a dozen selfies... so many I worried for the space on her phone's hard drive.

"People in New York will love this." I assumed she spoke to me, but her eyes were still glued to her screen. She was forever creating content for her social media feeds, and I knew I ought to be doing the same to help boost The Kitchen Muse, but I could never bring myself to be online nearly as much as she was.

She looked up and breathed contentedly, taking it all in without the phone as a barrier between her and the room. "A shop in the city would spend a fortune to bring in decorators who would spend months searching for vintage decor to replicate this vibe, and they'd never come close."

"Well, Mom and Dad have had about thirty-five years to curate their collection." I chuckled, as not a single piece had been "curated" to create an aesthetic. They were gifts or purchases made with love. "And you have to admit there isn't a store window in Manhattan that can compare to this—" I gestured to the expansive views of Longs Peak and Eagle Cliff out the window.

"Not even close. But the city does have a few charms. Not to mention some of the best restaurants in the world and a sleeper sofa always at your disposal. If you don't come see me, I'm going to start taking it personally."

I felt bad about that, as she'd been asking for three years now. I'd tried explaining to her a zillion times that money was tight and I couldn't afford travel that wasn't work related, but there was no convincing her.

As if hearing my thoughts—an annoying habit of hers—she prodded. "I'd buy the ticket. And if you won't take it from your kid sister, Dad would buy you one in a heartbeat."