And speaking of protective stances, my brother steps forward with his crisis-calming charm that probably saved his marriage to a woman who could intimidate a grizzly bear armed only with a PowerPoint presentation. Mackenzie Woods is just that frightening.
“Macy, come on,” Huxley says in that reasonable voice he’s perfected over years of dealing with difficult clients, volatile family members, and the occasional deranged citizen demanding the town council declare war on Canada because their geese keep honking too loudly—that would be his wife. “Buffy’s not trying to hurt your business. She’s new. She’s learning. And she’s family now, which means we lift each other up. Not throw gingerbread grenades over candle displays.”
He shifts baby Mack to his other arm and reaches out to touch Buffy’s shoulder with the kind of gentle reassurance that makes me remember why Huxley has always been the family peacemaker—probably because someone has to balance out my natural talent for finding dead bodies and Macy’s natural talent for causing a scene.
“Buffy, you are absolutely welcome here,” he says with a nod. “We’re thrilled to have you and to get to know you. Anyone who’s got this much backbone and good taste in books deserves a permanent spot at the family table—drama and all.” He adds that last bit as a nod to her job down at the bookstore.
Buffy’s eyes well up with what might be gratitude or might be overwhelmed confusion—it’s hard to tell when someone’s being verbally attacked by a relative they barely know while simultaneously being defended by a brother they’ve just met a few months back.
Meanwhile, Jordy has moved closer to Macy with the careful approach of a man who’s learned exactly how to handle his girlfriend when she’s in full volcanic eruption mode—which, knowing Macy, is probably a skill that requires continuing education credits.
I hope Macy is this spicy when she comes over tonight.His thought comes in clear as a bell and about as appropriate as a Christmas ornament in May.I am definitely picturing her in that angry elf costume again.
Oh, good grief. Angry elf costume? I already know too much.
“Macy, babe,” Jordy begins, deploying the kind of voice that’s been rehearsed a time or two. “Let’s talk this over—maybe strategize some candle marketing? Grab a coffee? Brainstorm holiday promos?”
But Macy is having none of it. She whirls around to face Buffy with the kind of predatory focus of a toddler spotting an unattended cupcake.
“I’m not the owner of the bookstore,” Buffy says so quietly, I can tell her tone alone is fueling Macy’s insanity. “I’m just the manager. I don’t pick and choose what will be sold there. The owner makes those decisions, and I just follow instructions. I had no idea we were even carrying candles until they showed up in yesterday’s shipment.”
Poor thing,Fish muses.She’s about to get eaten alive by a hooman hurricane.
“Right,” Macy snaps with enough sarcasm to fuel a nuclear power plant. “And I suppose you had nothing to do with suggesting that Sea Beans and Books expand into home fragrance products either? Nothing to do with mentioning that there might be a market for artisanal candles among the book-reading crowd?”
Macy just so happens to own and run a soap and candle shop on Main Street called Lather and Light. And to hear her rage at Buffy, you’d think she was actually emotionally invested in the effort. Newsflash: she’s not. What she is emotionally invested in is drilling Buffy a new one by way of her vocal cords.
“I swear I didn’t—” Buffy struggles to get a word in edgewise—or more to the point,Macy-wise.
“You’re sabotaging my Christmas sales!” Macy cries out with so much fury she just about knocks the tinsel off the garland. “It’s my peak season, my biggest revenue quarter, and here you are, selling discount candles less than a few feet away from my shop! You are single-handedly sabotaging my entire Christmas quarter!”
With that, she storms off, her heels clicking an expensive staccato toward the café exit. Jordy trots after her like a golden retriever with bad instincts and even worse choices in a plus-one—but obvious lascivious intentions. If anything, he and Macy are on the same page as far as their bedroom intentions go.
At least it’s quieter now,Fish notes with a flick of her tail.
Candy looks so embarrassed,Sherlock adds, glancing at Macy’s Samoyed, who is actively trying to disappear beneath a chair.
Buffy checks her watch and smooths her sweater like she’s trying to erase the last five minutes. “My shift starts in ten. I should head to Sea Beans before someone sets off the holiday fireworks again.”
“Buffy, I am so sorry,” I say, feeling like I need to apologize for my entire family’s existence and possibly our shared DNA. “Macygets… intense. But you don’t deserve that. You’re doing great. I’ll talk to her. Or sedate her. Or possibly both.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Buffy says with a smile that’s equal parts grateful and resigned, “but please don’t worry about my feelings. It’s Ella’s first Christmas. Let’s focus on that. I’ll give Macy time. Sisters aren’t built in a day.”
And with that gracious response, Buffy heads off to work, leaving me standing in the aftermath of what can only be described as a family explosion disguised as a business dispute.
Huxley comes over and wraps me in a quick hug that smells like baby powder and the faint scent of his cologne. “Don’t beat yourself up about this,” he says. “Macy’s been wound pretty tight lately. The holidays tend to make her more territorial than usual. The holidays always bring out her inner Grinch.” He winces slightly because we both know her inner Grinch lurks inside of her year-round. “Speaking of territorial,” he continues with a grin that suggests he’s about to deliver news that’s either really good or really terrible, “Mackenzie wanted me to pass along a message about the Starlight Christmas Eve Gala.”
The Starlight Christmas Eve Gala. Of course. Because hosting one Christmas party wasn’t quite enough excitement for this holiday season—the inn gets to do it again on Christmas Eve, except this time it’s benefiting the new marina project, which means even more political pressure to make sure everything goes perfectly and absolutely no one dies on the premises.
Here’s hoping.
“Let me guess,” I say with a sigh because I know all the words to this nightmare lullaby, “if anything goes wrong at the Christmas Eve event, she’s going to arrange for my body to be the next one found at the inn?”
“Pretty much.” Huxley laughs, clearly finding his wife’s threats more amusing than I do. “She also said if there’s even ahintof another incident, you’re permanently on the naughty list.”
“Wonderful. Has she threatened to murder me before?” I askbecause honestly, with everything that’s been going on lately, the threats are starting to blur together.
“Only at every public event. At this point, it’s practically a tradition.”
