He gives baby Mack a bounce and wanders off, probably to mediate something else. Like nuclear peace talks with his wife or Macy’s next meltdown. He’s turned managing the women in his life into a full-time job.
Emmie emerges from the kitchen with baby Elliot cradled against her hip as if she’s transporting precious cargo—which, let’s face it, she absolutely is. Elliot has inherited the Crosby family’s signature dark hair and bright blue eyes, and at seven months old, he’s already showing signs of having his mama’s sweet disposition and his father’s laid-back attitude toward life.
“Leo’s mother had to run a quick errand,” Emmie explains, shifting Elliot to her other arm, “so he’s my sous chef this morning. Fair warning: he’s been practicing his vowels very loudly, and I think he’s trying to place an order for more Cheerios.”
Elliot babbles like he’s dictating his autobiography. I reach over to coo at Elliot appropriately, because there’s something about babies that makes even the most stressful family situations seem temporarily manageable. He responds with a gummy grin and what sounds like an attempt at sayinghi, though it comes out more likegah gah gah.
“He’s adorable and he knows it,” I say, giving him a gentle tickle under his chin. “And he’s one baby that’s acting his age, unlike Macy. Speaking of babies, did you see Hammie Mae’s daughter, little Matilda, last night at the event?”
“Oh my word, yes!” Emmie’s face goes through a series of expressions that start with confusion and end somewhere around existential horror. “I overheard little Matilda asking for a cookie last night.” Her voice drops to a whisper as if she’s confessing to witnessing something supernatural. And honestly, she sort of is. “Bizzy, she asked in perfect English! As in—shespoke in full sentences. Like actual vocabulary words arranged grammatically.”
I gasp at the thought, but I don’t know why. I witnessed the oddity myself in the flesh.
“What else did she say?” I ask, because if we’re talking about baby genius territory, I need all the details for my own competitive parenting anxiety.
“Well,” Emmie says, glancing around like she’s worried someone might overhear us discussing infant prodigies and report us to the Inadequate Parent Police, “she also asked her grandmother if she could please have some of that delicious-looking eggnog and commented that the Christmas decorations looked quite lovely this evening. Six months old, Bizzy. She’s six months old, and she’s talking like she’s auditioning for a scholarship to Harvard. It was freaky!”
“She’s six months old!” I parrot.
“Exactly,” Emmie cries. “It was like watching a horror movie. Baby Einstein meetsThe Omen.”
“Ella still thinks giggling is an Olympic sport,” I say, wondering if it’s too soon for SAT flashcards. “Hammie Mae told me little Matilda was a prodigy—said the pediatrician told her so.”
Emmie and I look at each other with the dawning realization that we might be raising academically inferior children, which is the kind of competitive parenting panic that can drive perfectly reasonable women to do completely unreasonable things like enrolling newborns in Advanced Placement classes.
“We can’t sit back and watch our babies fall behind scholastically,” Emmie says with the determination of a mom who’s just decided to take action against an invisible enemy. “We can alter their destinies if we just push a little harder. I mean, if little Matilda can speak in full sentences, surely we can get our kids up to speed with the right educational intervention.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I say, because apparently I’ve lost my mind and decided that turning baby-rearing into an academic competition is a perfectly reasonable response to feeling inadequate. “I’ll get classical music for tummy time, Baby Einstein DVDs for constant educational stimulation, infant foreign language apps, because why shouldn’t three-month-olds be bilingual? Also, those educational mobiles with mathematical equations dangling over their cribs, and flashcards for basic vocabulary building.”
“And I’ll get flow charts,” Emmie adds with enthusiasm as if she’s just discovered the secret to child genius. “We’ll start with colors and shapes and work our way up to basic literature. Maybe some beginning algebra if we’re feeling ambitious.”
The hoomans have lost their minds,Fish all but scoffs at our academic efforts.
Should we be concerned?Should we call someone?Sherlock asks with the kind of worried tone usually reserved for natural disasters and empty treat containers.
Only if they start trying to teach us fractions,Fish says with a chittering laugh.
Very funny. I shoot her a wry look for even going there. She knows this is serious.
Emmie’s phone buzzes with a text, and she glances down with the efficiency of a mom who’s perfectly capable of managing multiple communications while holding a baby and maintaining a conversation about competitive infant education.
“Leo’s mother is out front,” she says, already heading toward the exit with a purposeful stride that suggests she’s eager to escape before our conversation about baby geniuses gets any more intense. “I’d better go hand off this little guy before he decides to take a cue from Macy and demonstrate his vocal range for the entire café.”
No sooner does Emmie disappear through the door than Mom and Georgie materialize, pushing baby Ella from thesunroom where they’ve apparently been waiting for the family drama to conclude before making their reappearance.
Mom has that satisfied expression that suggests she thoroughly enjoyed watching the entertainment from a safe distance, while Georgie looks like she’s just witnessed the most horrific social experiment in recorded history.
“Well,” Georgie says, fanning herself. “That was more exciting thanThe Nutcrackerwith live rats.”
“Speaking of drama,” Mom adds with the practical tone as if she’s decided it’s time to move on to more pressing matters, “shouldn’t we be figuring out who killed Santa Claus? I mean, I’m all for family bonding through public feuds, but we do have a murder to solve.”
She’s absolutely right. Between family feuds, competitive parenting panic, and all the peppermint-scented chaos, I’ve almost forgotten that we’re in the middle of a homicide investigation that threatens to ruin not just Christmas but also the inn’s reputation and possibly my own life if Mayor Mackenzie follows through on her threats.
“You’re right,” I say, snapping into sleuth mode like it’s a jacket I wear on weekends. “Let’s start with Matilda Westoff. She had a lot to say about the man while he was still alive. I’m sure the fact he’s dead makes him twice as interesting to her.”
Georgie’s fingers immediately start flying over her phone screen with speed and precision as if conducting a very important digital investigation. And a few seconds later, her eyes widen with the expression of a detective who’s just discovered something either very convenient or very suspicious. Probably both.
“You’re not going to believe where she is,” Georgie titters with a laugh as she says it.
