Baby Ella sleeps peacefully in her stroller, completely oblivious to the fact that we’re approaching what can only be described as the Taj Mahal of Christmas excess. Meanwhile, I’m trying to process how someone can own this much marble without triggering an international shortage.
“Oh my word,” I mutter under my breath as we approach Matilda Westoff’s estate—sorry,Blueberry Heights Manor, according to the sign that might just be solid gold. “This place makes Buckingham Palace look like it needs a decorator.”
The circular driveway could accommodate a small aircraft, and the fountain in the center is shooting water high enough to require air traffic control approval. Christmas wreaths the size of small satellites hang from every possible surface, and I’m pretty sure those aren’t LED lights trimming the roofline—they look expensive enough to be actual diamonds.
This is where rich people come to feel poor,Fish mewls from her tote bag, her whiskers twitching with what I can only assume is feline judgment.
I count seventeen different types of marble just from here,Sherlock adds helpfully.And that’s before we get inside the mausoleum.
Fudge bounds up to greet us, his usually cheerful demeanor dampened with concern.Still no sign of Jellybean,he reports without his usual enthusiasm despite the circumstances.Matilda’s practically turned Cider Cove into a search zone. I’ve never seen her this frantic—and that includes the time the chocolate tempering machine exploded.
Maybe Jellybean’s hiding somewhere cozy, waiting for all this drama to blow over,Fish suggests with typical feline wisdom.Smart cats know when to make themselves scarce.
The scents hit me as we approach the front doors—and I use the termdoorsloosely, since these particular architectural features could double as airplane hangar entrances. Pine from wreaths that must have required deforesting half of Vermont, candles that probably cost more per ounce than premium chocolate, and underneath it all, that distinctive smell of expensive cleaning products that only comes from having staff whose job description includes making marble sparkle.
“Bizzy!” Mom calls out, waving from where she and Georgie are standing near what appears to be a small army of men in perfectly tailored tuxedos. “You’ve got to see this!”
I wonder if any of these handsome young men are single,Georgie thinks to herself as she tries to look dignified while obviouslychecking out the staff.
Honestly, Georgie looks as if she’s died and gone to butler heaven. “Sweet mother of all that is holy,” she announces to anyone within a three-block radius, “it’s like someone ordered an entire catalog of male gorgeousness and had it delivered in formal wear!”
“They’re caterers, Georgie,” Mom whispers, even though she’s eyeing the staff with the kind of appreciation usually reserved for fine art.
Have I mentioned she has a boyfriend? And that he happens to be Georgie’s younger brother?
“I don’t care if they’re alien invaders from the planet Hottie McHotface,” Georgie replies, smoothing her hair and adjusting her festive sweater. “Have you seen those cheekbones? I’m about to develop a sudden need for catering services. Maybe a seven-course meal. Daily.”
They’re acting strange again when it comes to men,Sherlock says to Fish with a solid woof to back his claim.Well, mostly Georgie. It’s like she can’t get enough of them. You’d think she’d be much more interested in dogs. She can take me home any day.
That’s because she keeps her pockets filled with bacon,Fish corrects.And you’re right, all hoomans are strange when it comes to the opposite gender. And they seem to be getting stranger by the second. I didn’t think that was possible. And that’s saying something, considering we live with Bizzy.
“Very funny,” I say as I give her a quick scratch behind the ears as she dangles from my tote bag.
At least they’re predictable in their weirdness,Fudge adds with a doggy grin.
The white furry little cutie was one of the first to greet us as we got out of my van. Georgie, Mom, and I have been coming to Westoffs’ farm for a good while now—where, coincidentally, Georgie and Mom are permanently banned—but I digress. We’ve just never ventured over to the actual estate portion of theproperty—where I’m praying they are still allowed. And what an estate it is.
“I couldn’t resist seeing this palace in person,” comes a familiar voice, and I turn to find Buffy sidling up beside me with the kind of amazed expression usually reserved for natural wonders.
“It’s like someone took a Christmas catalog and decided subtlety was for poor people,” I reply, genuinely impressed despite myself. “I’m pretty sure this driveway is longer than Santa’s naughty list.”
“Look at those chandeliers,” Buffy breathes, pointing to the crystal monstrosities hanging from the portico. “I’m pretty sure each one of those has more crystals than a Vegas showgirl.”
“And that’s just the outdoor lighting,” I add, watching as more tuxedoed staff members appear like well-dressed genies. “I’m half-expecting a red carpet to roll out and paparazzi to start shouting questions about my outfit choices.”
Macy materializes on my other side with a perfectly timed entrance that suggests she’s been lurking nearby, waiting for the optimal moment to insert herself into the conversation like a judgmental jack-in-the-box.
“What an ostentatious display,” she sniffs, though I notice she’s taking in every detail as if she’s conducting a property appraisal. “Some people clearly don’t understand that true elegance lies in restraint.”
I should have worn my better jewelry. This cheap necklace probably screams “budget shopper from the clearance rack” next to all this wealth,Macy muses to herself, and I catch the thought with perfect clarity.Why can’t I have a house like this?
“Oh, absolutely ostentatious,” I say with just enough sarcasm to frost a Christmas cookie and possibly cause frostbite as well. “Nothing says restraint like criticizing someone’s house while standing in their driveway and secretly planning to redecorate your own place to match. You know you love it, Macy.”
Buffy shoots me a quick grin that Macy thankfully misses.
Macy sniffs my way. “I’m simply pointing out that authentic style doesn’t require bankrupting a small country,” she continues, positioning herself slightly closer to me in what I can only assume is some sort of sister-territorial maneuver. “Or requiring a GPS system to navigate your front yard.”But Bizzy is right. I DO love it.
Before I can respond, Matilda herself appears at the front entrance, and I have to admit, the woman knows how to make an entrance. She’s wearing what appears to be a custom-designed burgundy velvet ensemble that was probably ripped right off a Milan runway, and her auburn hair is swept into the kind of elegant updo that requires either professional assistance or supernatural powers. Most likely both.
