Two Old Broads has been transformed into what can only be described as Christmas personified in the most wonderfulway possible. Garland drapes from every available surface, twinkle lights create a canopy of sparkles across the tin ceiling, and wonky quilts hang like colorful banners throughout the space.
There’s a 12 Days of Christmas series displayed along the back wall where the partridges look like they’ve been hitting the eggnog, and the pear trees appear to be suffering from a severe case of scoliosis.
Holiday shoppers weave between the displays like caffeinated elves on a sugar rush, their arms full of delightfully imperfect Christmas quilts featuring crooked angels and lopsided reindeer that look like they’ve been through some sort of holiday trauma.
The air smells like pine needles, warm fabric, and Mom’s signature cinnamon candles with just a hint of that new quilt scent that somehow manages to be both comforting and slightly overwhelming—like being hugged by Christmas itself.
“So, what do you guys think of this place?” Mom asks Jasper, while unwrapping her scarf and looking around with more than a touch of pride at her home away from home.
“It’s like Santa’s workshop exploded in a good way,” Jasper says while taking the stroller from me. “I think Ella and I will take a look around.”And maybe make some headway on our shopping before Christmas Eve for once.He winces my way with the thought before mouthing the wordsorry,and I bite down on a smile as he takes off.
“Get me something nice,” I tease as they drift away before turning back to my mother and Georgie. “It’s more like Santa’s workshop had a collision with a fabric store,” I say, heading over to a table filled with Christmas-themed wonky quilts in crazy strips of fabric that go every which way without rhyme or reason. The wonky quilts are a staple here at the shop, and those quilts have been turned into everything from traditional quilts to jackets to tote bags. I hold up a quilt that features reindeer at a tea party. “And I want every single wonky quilt in this shop.There’s just something charming about Christmas quilts that don’t take themselves too seriously.”
“Sort of like me,” Georgie says while plopping a knit hat of a chicken on her head with mistletoe hooked around its beak.
“That says it all,” Mom mutters.
At the register, Juniper Moonbeam rings up customers with the serene efficiency of a shopkeeper who’s achieved inner peace through retail therapy. Her flowing green dress makes her look like a Christmas tree spirit, and the tiny bells woven through her silver braids create a gentle musical tinkle to the cash register’s enthusiastic chiming. She’s wearing a headband with miniature reindeer antlers that bob when she moves, which somehow works perfectly on her. Juni happens to be Georgie’s fifty-something very hippy, very happy daughter and one of my father’s many ex-wives.
“Welcome to Christmas chaos central,” she calls out with a smile, her crystal necklaces catching the light as she bags a quilt featuring Santa’s workshop where all the elves appear to be different species entirely. “Fair warning”—she calls out to the shop—”everything here is slightly crooked, completely handmade, and guaranteed to make your relatives question your decorating choices.”
“Perfect,” Jasper shoots back from a few feet away. “That’s exactly what I’m going for.” He looks my way and winks.
Ella makes a happy gurgling sound and reaches toward a dangling corner of a nearby quilt that features what I can only assume is supposed to be a Christmas star, though it looks more like a cosmic accident waiting to happen.
“At least someone is enjoying this adventure,” Jasper says, as he watches our daughter try to reach a handful of twinkle lights.
I’m about to say something when a commotion near the back of the store garners our attention.
Matilda Westoff is conducting what appears to be a one-woman search and rescue mission, frantically moving quilts andpeering behind displays like she’s hunting for buried treasure. Her usually immaculate appearance has gone completely rogue—silver-streaked hair escaping its elegant bun, lipstick smudged, and her sophisticated outfit wrinkled like she’s been wrestling with Santa himself.
“Jellybean! Jellybean!” she calls out, her voice climbing toward hysteria with each repetition, creating an opera of desperation that’s making even the most dedicated shoppers pause their quilt examination.
Holiday shoppers are giving her a wide berth, the kind of cautious distance people maintain around someone who might either burst into tears or start throwing things at any moment—possibly Christmas-themed things, which would add insult to injury.
The woman has lost her marbles,Fish mewls, poking her head out of my coat.
But she’s calling for Jellybean,Sherlock gives a soft bark.That means she’s lost the little cat in the shop. I’ll go sniff her out.He takes off like a pooch on a mission, and soon Fish hops right out of my coat to do the same.
Matilda has another verbal explosion that rivals the first.
“Oh boy,” Mom mutters under her breath. “Here we go.”
“Should we retreat?” Georgie whispers, eyeing the exit like it’s a life raft. “Because that woman looks like she’s about to either have a breakdown or declare war on Christmas, and I’m not dressed for either scenario.”
Mom scoffs at her bestie. “Are you kidding? You’re always more than dressed for both. And you’re usually the instigator.”
So very true.
“There’s no way we’re leaving now,” I say as Jasper pushes the stroller closer in that direction as I follow along with my curiosity officially piqued and my amateur sleuth instincts buzzing like Christmas lights on the fritz. “This might be the best entertainment we’ve had all week.”
A crowd quickly gathers as I make my way toward her.
“Matilda? Is everything okay?” I ask.
She whirls around like a woman possessed by the Ghost of Christmas Catastrophe, clutching a photograph to her chest like it’s a lifeline. Her eyes are wild, and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t slept since yesterday—or possibly since last week.
“Bizzy!” she gasps, thrusting the photo toward me with the desperation of someone showing evidence of alien abduction. “Have you seen her? My sweet angel? My precious baby?”
