Hand to heaven, this is the truth—for her and me both.
“Ella is with Gwyneth and Dad,” I explain, automatically checking my phone for the fifteenth time in ten minutes because apparently new motherhood comes with a built-in paranoia setting that makes secret service agents look relaxed. Ella would be my precious three-month-old angel whom I can’t get enough of—even at three in the morning. “They were just finishing up her feeding, but they should be here any moment. And Elliot might be making an appearance, too.”
Elliot would be Emmie’s sweet little boy. He’s seven months old and has wasted no time in becoming a heartbreaking charmer. Emmie and I are already planning the wedding.
“I can’t wait to see little Ella and Elliot experience their first Christmas,” Georgie says with a contented sigh that suggests she’s temporarily suspended her elf-hunting activities. “Though let’s just hope Ella doesn’t inherit your talent for finding dead bodies at large gatherings.”
“That would be inconvenient,” I mutter, because that’s exactly the kind of superpower I’d like to skip a generation—or twelve.
That might be inconvenient,Fish agrees from her perch on the windowsill, where she’s maintaining surveillance over the parking lot with the intensity of a Secret Service agent.But she might be better at it than you are, Bizzy. You have a tendency to trip over the dead accidentally—at regular intervals. It’s really quite alarming.
Gee, thanks. I give a wry smile to my furry critic for her vote of confidence.
Before I can defend my sleuthing credentials, I spot Macy at the ballroom entrance looking like hell on heels—red dress that looks painted on, blonde bob sharper than her attitude, and her red lipstick is the exact shade of freshly spilled blood. Even her silver jewelry looks lethally intimidating, which is quite a feat for accessories.
Macy’s outlook on life has been colder than a snowman in a meat locker as of late. And that wicked glint in her eye sayssomeone is about to get professionally shredded.
She’s standing nose-to-nose with someone, and it appears the target of her wrath is Buffy—the aforementioned newly discovered sister who’s been nothing but delightful since she arrived in Cider Cove with her labradoodle and her infectious smile.
Unlike Macy’s dance club attire, Buffy is wearing a cozy Christmas sweater with dancing reindeer and has the kind of relaxed, approachable vibe that makes you want to invite her over for hot chocolate and gossip sessions that last until dawn.
Buffy looks just like me—same medium-length dark hair, same denim blue eyes, and same knack for inadvertently prying into gray matter. Only her extraterrestrial skills seem to be limited to the furry among us—a blessing in disguise if you ask me. They always seem to have better things to say than humans. But much like me, she keeps her talents under wraps.
Only a few people know that I can read minds—Buffy, Emmie, her husband Leo who also shares the gift or curse as it were (depending on the day and what people are thinking),Georgie, and, of course, my handsome hubby Jasper—who happens to be on his way here and I can hardly wait to see him.
“I need to go shut this down before Macy goes full Frosty with a vengeance,” I say, power-walking toward the escalating drama, and what looks like the opening scene of a holiday horror movie.
As I get closer, I catch fragments of their conversation, and surprise, surprise—the tussle seems to be about business. Because everything with Macy eventually comes back to dollars and more often than not, no sense.
“It’s a completely inappropriate holiday display strategy—” Macy says with a smile so tight it could crack a candy cane—and probably a few teeth.
“I was just trying to create a welcoming atmosphere,” Buffy replies sweetly, like she hasn’t just been verbally mauled by someone in designer clothing.
“Macy!” I call out with a voice so chipper that I deserve a medal. “Enjoying the festivities?”
“Bizzy,” she snips. “Perfect. I was just explaining to Buffy here about proper business protocol during the holiday season.”I’d like to push her into that punch bowl and watch her perfect hair get soaked and maybe fall out. That would really teach her a lesson,Macy thinks to herself as she broadens her smile in Buffy’s direction.
Oh wow, I’d better stage an intervention.
“I’m sure Buffy is thrilled by the unsolicited mentorship,” I say with a sugary smile.
Buffy shoots me a grateful look that suggests she’s been wanting an escape route for the past ten minutes. Her denim blue eyes—so remarkably similar to my own that it still catches me off guard—sparkle with relief.
“You would take her side,” Macy huffs my way like a dragon with indigestion. “But I’ll have you both know, some of us care about maintaining standards in this town,” she snaps, then stalksoff in the direction of the exit, her heels clicking against the floor with the staccato rhythm of an angry woodpecker with a serious attitude problem.
Buffy exhales. “Well, that was about as fun as hugging a cactus in a snowstorm.”
“Sorry about her,” I say with a painful smile. “Macy’s got all the Christmas spirit of the Grinch with a hangover. I keep hoping she’ll come around, but so far, she’s been about as welcoming as a blizzard in July. And like I said, I’m sorry about it, too.”
“It’s not your fault,” Buffy says, reaching down to give Skittles a gentle pat. “Honestly,” she says, stroking Skittles’ ears, “Huxley’s been so warm and welcoming. It’s nice to have at least one sibling who’s not plotting my social demise. Well, two counting you.”
“I am officially forever on your side. Just don’t tell Macy,” I say, and we share a quick laugh.
This is exactly why I adore Buffy and exactly why Macy’s behavior makes me want to shake her until her perfectly styled hair falls out. Our brother Huxley embraced our newfound sister with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever meeting a new playmate,
while Macy’s been acting like there’s a limited number of sibling spots open and she’s not about to give up hers without a fight.
“I’ll figure out a way to bring her around,” I promise, although honestly, I have about as much chance of changing Macy’s mind as I do of teaching Fish to play fetch.
