But it’s the enormous wedding portrait that really catches my attention. The thing is mounted in an ornate gold frame that takes up half the wall, showing Jennilee in a full Southern belle wedding dress standing next to a much older, distinguished-looking man who must be the infamous David.
Fresh holly garland is draped around the frame with white ribbon, like she’s created some sort of matrimonial shrine. If my cottage were bigger, I would do that in a minute with a picture of Jasper and me on our wedding day.
“That picture is bigger than my car,” Georgie whispers.
“That picture is bigger than mycondo,” Mom mutters.
It’s true. It’s massive, and because of that, it’s definitely a showstopper.
“That’s my darling David and me on our wedding day,” Jennilee says to the swelling crowd with all the Southern sweetness she can afford. “David and I were married right here in this house during the holidays. It was pure magic and sugarplums.”
I bet it was lovely. With all this wealth, I’m sure they made sure it was.
The tour moves through room after room of pale blue and pink Christmas perfection. Fresh holly and winter greenery are draped everywhere, Victorian elegance meets holiday splendor, and the whole place looks like it could be featured inSouthern Livingmagazine’s Christmas issue.
“Georgie,” I whisper, “no handsome butler sightings yet?”
“Nada,” she grunts. “I have a feeling the closest thing to a man in this place is a gingerbread cookie shaped like Elvis.”
Christmas carols play overhead, offering a lively backbeat as we take the holiday tour. We’re about to step into the grand room when Mayor Mackenzie Woods makes hergrandentrance, arriving fashionably late in a power suit with a festive Christmas tree pin that glitters with almost as much audacity as she has.
“Ladies!” she announces like she’s addressing a campaign rally, “If you don’t mind, I’d love to share some fascinating history about Holly House!”
She gestures dramatically toward the grand room with its massive fireplace and period furnishings, and the entire crowd of women clusters around her like she’s about to reveal the juiciest bit of gossip you ever did hear—the Southern edition.
“This magnificent Victorian was built in 1887 by?—”
Baby Ella chooses that exact moment to start fussing, because apparently, my daughter has impeccable timing when it comes to interrupting historical lectures—and don’t think for a minute that Mackenzie isn’t glaring at me because of it.
But I recognize the hunger cries immediately. “I’ll just step out for a few minutes,” I whisper to Mom, who nods and waves me away while Georgie continues scanning the room for potential romantic prospects.
I’ll stay with the snacks,Sherlock is quick to announce.I mean, I’ll keep an eye on Georgie.
Oh please,Fish muses.We know you’ll be doing both and not well either.
I push the stroller toward the ornate hallway, looking for a quiet spot to nurse Ella, when I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks.
Jennilee Holly is standing by an open window, smoking a cigarette as if her life depends on it.
For a split second, we just stare at each other—her with the cigarette halfway to her lips, me with my mouth hanging open like I’ve just discovered Santa Claus robbing a bank.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Jennilee starts frantically trying to put out the cigarette, fanning the air dramatically while looking around like she’s searching for a place to hide the evidence. She finally stubs it out on a Christmas cookie, which would be hilarious if it weren’t so desperate.
“Well, butter my biscuits!” she gasps, her perfect Southern composure finally cracking. “You caught me red-handed!”
The accent gets thicker the more flustered she gets, and I can’t help but shed a little laugh.
“Please don’t worry,” I say. “I’m pretty sure smoking is still legal. Besides, it’s your home. You do as you wish. I was just looking for a place to feed the baby.”
Jennilee sheds an easy laugh herself, and just like that, it’s as if someone flipped a switch and she’s back to charming hostess mode. “Honey, I just needed a little privacy myself—all that entertain’ can be exhaustin’! Why don’t we get you somewhere more comfortable for feeding that precious little angel?”
She leads me to an intimate tea room adjoining the main hall, decorated with vintage Christmas tea sets and delicate ornaments. Comfortable chintz chairs are arranged perfectly for conversation, and the door provides privacy from the tour group’s enthusiasticoohingandahhing.
“There now,” Jennilee says, settling into the chair across fromme as I get Ella situated for nursing. “Much better than trying to manage in a crowd.”
For the first time since I’ve met her, Jennilee’s perfect hostess facade slips just slightly. The cigarette moment has created an unexpected intimacy between us, like we’re co-conspirators in some minor smoke-related crime instead of potential adversaries in a major one.
