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she’d swallowed a mouthful of lemon juice. “I don’t know why he hates his name. Ralph Waite was in The Waltons. Loved that show, so I named my son after him.”
    Jaycee surveyed the outfits and selected the least gaudy shirt and pants. She held them up for Marilyn, who nodded, but didn’t seem pleased. “It’s elegant, tasteful, and—” She glanced around at the gore-fest of movie posters and memorabilia that filled her bookcases and the top of her dresser. “—So probably not you. How about this?” She picked up a Boho-inspired sequined blouse and held it up.
    Marilyn’s face lit up. She took the proffered blouse from Jaycee with a look of wistful nostalgia. “I wore this one when I got stabbed in Murder by Mayhem , about thirty years ago. Still fits.”
    Of course she did. Jaycee shook her head and smiled. “I’m sure Damon—I mean, Ralph, will like it, but I thought he was coming here for Christmas?” Not that he would have made it with the blizzard, but something changed his plans, and with hospice patients, it wasn’t like there were limitless options for making up missed opportunities. It broke her heart when things fell apart and those moments for family connections disappeared forever. Sometimes, the best she could do was to ask, and listen if they wanted to talk.
    Marilyn took the outfit and padded to the bathroom. “The movie he’s working on is behind. They’re on set tomorrow. He’s a Hollywood producer, you know.”
    That made a lot of sense. “Following in Mom’s footsteps?”
    Marilyn wafted a hand through the air. “He does high-brow dramas. Pooh-poohs the stuff I did. Says it’s beneath him .” She pointed to a poster that read, My Bloody Heart-Shaped Box. A man’s hands held out a candy box, but inside was Marilyn’s severed, bloody head. “That one had some first-rate drama.” She pointed to another poster, this one a Christmas tree with bloody body parts for ornaments. The title read, Serial Santa. “I did a Christmas film, too. Maybe we can watch it later.”
    Jaycee gave a noncommittal shrug as her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID. “You got this? It’s my daughter.”
    Marilyn waved her off in grand fashion.
    Jaycee retreated to the hallway and answered the call. Clarissa’s voice yelled so loud she thought for a moment she’d left her phone in speaker mode. “Mom! He won’t stay out of my room.”
     
    ***
     
    Clarissa leaned up the stairwell. From the sound of the loud bangs coming from above her, she suspected drywall repair might be required. She made a half-hearted attempt to cover the phone receiver as she yelled up at Jake. “Mom can hear you, she’s going to take back your presents.”
    His voice bellowed from the second floor. “Tell her to give me back the remote!”
    Mom’s yell over the cell phone nearly sent it flying from her hands. “Both of you, knock it off!” It was the tone of voice she got when they’d pushed her too far.
    It was going to be ugly when she got home tomorrow. On Christmas. The possibility of her taking back the presents became all too real. More bangs and muffled yells came from upstairs. “You need to come home. Miranda wants to leave, and Dad’s called three times.”
    “The road’s still closed. Tell Miranda I’ll double her pay for the holiday. Your dad can take a number.”
    Yup, she was in all-business mode now. Clarissa stole a glance at the presents under the tree. If they wanted to keep any of them, that was probably a good thing, too.

Chapter 8
     
    Jaycee glanced around at her fellow staff members as they served a makeshift lunch of cold sandwiches, chips, and fruit cocktail to the trio of patients well enough to make it to the commons room to partake with them. She’s already sent Diana around with trays for those who weren’t well enough to join the group, and the family member stranded with their loved ones. It wasn’t much of a holiday meal,