1
THE GUESS LIST
Dorothy padded through the kitchen door into the living room holding a freshly brewed mug of coffee and wearing her comfy floor-length baseball jersey nightgown. She sat on one end of the coral rattan couch, savoring the steaming aroma before she tasted the velvety Cuban blend. On the other end of the couch, Blanche paged through her slim leather-bound day planner with a scowl on her face. Dorothy took a few fortifying sips as she pretended not to notice her roommate’s increasingly animated display. Then she finally turned to Blanche.
“Good morning,” she said in her gravelly voice.
Instead of responding, Blanche bit her lip and flipped to the telephone number section of her planner, then back to the calendar. Frowning, she pushed up the sleeves of her aquamarine silk robe and held her head in her hands.
Dorothy put down her coffee and placed a hand on Blanche’s knee.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
Blanche looked up through her fingers, her caramel curls only slightly mussed. “I’m madder than a fox in an empty henhouse, Dorothy. Something just awful has happened.”
Dorothy’s mind quickly came up with several reasons for why Blanche would be upset while paging through her calen- dar. A missed doctor’s appointment? At their age, they had to watch every bump, lump, and mole, and any waiting could be agony. Or maybe she’d forgotten someone’s birthday—one of her children’s, perhaps? Blanche was the youngest of the four women sharing a house in Miami, but she wasn’t immune to the occasional bout of forgetfulness that plagued each of them from time to time. Dorothy glanced at Blanche’s planner, giving in to her curiosity, as Rose emerged from her bedroom and Sophia sidled up behind them, completing the foursome.
“Good morning, everyone!” Rose beamed, settling down in the armchair next to the sofa in her fluffy pink robe. “Isn’t it a lovely day? I awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing, just like back on the farm in St. Olaf!”
“That was our next-door neighbor passing a gallstone. Kept me up since five a.m.,” Sophia grumbled.
Dorothy stifled a laugh, and her lips pursed with worry as she clocked the look of despair on Blanche’s face. “Blanche was just about to tell me an awful realization, weren’t you, doll? Is it anything any of us can help you with?” She nodded encouragingly as Sophia joined them on the couch and studied Blanche through her large circular bifocals.
“I’ve checked and double-checked.” Blanche sighed, her face a grimace of confusion as she flapped her day planner in the air. “And this stupid thing doesn’t have any plans for this weekend in it! No dinner dates, no lunch dates, no blind dates . . . not even a
coffee date!”
Sophia raised her wrinkled hands to her face in mock horror. “An empty social calendar with no dates? Should we lower the flag? Wear all black? I’ll pray the rosary for you. . . .”
Blanche slapped the planner on her silken lap in a huff. “You don’t understand,” she began. “Every weekend is a golden opportunity to find romance, to explore new worlds in the universe of love. I’m not going to waste one here, sitting around with a bunch of old biddies!”
Dorothy raised her eyebrows, and leaned against the back of the sofa, absorbing the insult. Because Blanche was the youngest of the four, her digs about age stung more than she realized.
“We’re not
old!” Rose said. She dangled a partially finished set of baby-size pajamas in front of their faces, knitted with love and featuring three tiny legs with the feet sewn in. “Could an old person do all
this during just one episode of
Matlock?”
“We could play gin rummy,” Sophia suggested. “That’s always a good time.”
“Because you always win,” Dorothy pointed out. “I’d go for Trivial Pursuit, if we make popcorn.”
Blanche looked skyward and shook her head. “You’re all proving my point,” she said in her Southern drawl.
Dorothy chuckled. “It’s not a big deal, Blanche.
I don’t have any dates lined up for this weekend either.”
Blanche pouted at Dorothy. “Exactly.” “
You walked right into that one,” Sophia said with a grin. “I’ll refrain from further comment.”
“What I mean is, that’s no surprise,” Blanche continued. “But for a woman like me, who has always had suitors lined up around the block and never lacked for the attention of men . . . well, it’s not something I’m equipped to handle. At least you all are used to it.”
Dorothy clenched her teeth, stood, and headed toward the kitchen. She’d heard numerous comments over the years from Blanche—and her mother—about her long-standing lack of romance. “I don’t need this kind of treatment first thing in the morning. I’m going to drink more coffee and get on with my boring, spinster life. Would anyone
other than Blanche like to join me?”
Rose opened her mouth to speak just as the doorbell rang.
All four women paused, then all four rushed to answer it. Rose, who was the closest to the door, narrowly beat Blanche to the handle. She batted her friend’s hand away and opened the door to find a young man in an ill-fitting red suit and cap. He held a small parcel in both hands and offered a nervous smile.
“Greetings!” he said. “Is this 6151 Richmond Street?”
“Yes,” the four women said in unison.
The delivery man looked at each of the girls in turn, taking in their sleepwear and expectant expressions.
“This is for you—er, for one of you, I guess,” he said.
Sophia elbowed her way to the front of the pack, so the young man handed the parcel to her. She looked at it suspiciously, turning it in her hands.
“Who’s it from?” she asked.
“I, uh—I don’t know. All’s I know is I’m supposed to bring it to this address.”
Dorothy peered over her mother’s shoulder at the parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with a string, and had no return address. “Is there anything else you can tell us about it—such as who hired you to deliver this?” she asked, always practical.
The nervous young man wiped his sweaty hands on the front of his uniform. “I—I can’t say. But, oh! I’m supposed to give you this, too. . . .”
He dug in his satchel and handed a large cream-colored envelope to Dorothy. He waited for a few moments as if expecting a tip before realizing that the girls had forgotten all about him in their excitement over the mysterious pack- age. He checked his watch, then hustled back down the walkway to his bike. Dorothy examined the envelope as he cycled away; meanwhile, Blanche plucked the package out of Sophia’s hands and carried it over to the rattan coffee table.
The four women squeezed onto the sofa and stared at the package. They stared at it for a while, almost like they expected it to move, or explain itself.
“Let’s see who this is from,” Dorothy said, sliding a finger under the flap of the heavy envelope. She had to admit, her curiosity was piqued. They hadn’t gotten any mail other than coupon circulars and utility bills in weeks—and over the past few months, Dorothy had gotten exactly two postcards from a man she’d had a brief and ill-fated connection with. He’d apparently made it to Puerto Rico, then Curaçao, with plans to continue on to South America, and Dorothy didn’t know when—or if—she’d ever see him again.
After neatly tearing the envelope open, she pulled out a thick piece of card stock. The front was decorated with an elaborate woodcut print in a deep red pigment, depicting a Mediterranean-style building surrounded by a border of orchids, birds, palm trees, and paintbrushes. The phrase
You’re Invited took over the top fourth of the card.
Dorothy traced the details with her finger, noticing a tiny crocodile peeking out from behind one of the palm trees. “This is really intricate work. I wonder where this was printed.”
Blanche impatiently snatched the invitation from Dorothy’s hand and flipped it over. “ ‘You’re invited to a gala event celebrating the life and work of our century’s greatest artist,’ ” she read. “ ‘This Friday’—that’s today—‘at seven p.m., the Villa Velado on Isla Sosiega. You will be met at the parking lot at the end of Orange Blossom Road. Dress to kill.’ ”
At the bottom of the card was a handwritten postscript in thick black lines:
Wear this—
ET.“Dress to kill what?” Rose asked. “If it’s anything larger than a chicken, I don’t think I can participate.”
“I doubt they’re referring to slaughtering livestock, dear,” said Dorothy.
“
It means, Rose, dress up and look fabulous,” Blanche explained with a little shiver of delight. “An art in which I’m expertly skilled.”
“It’s an art all right,” Sophia quipped. “You slap more paint on your face than Michelangelo used for the entire Sistine Chapel!”
Copyright © 2026 by ABC Signature. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
