“Welcome, everyone, to our home!” she calls out, her voice carrying the kind of authority that makes small nations consider surrendering. “Please, take one of these as you enter.”
She’s handing out what appear to be professionally printed missing posters featuring Jellybean in full-color glory. The paper quality alone probably costs more than most people spend on actual family photos, and I’m pretty sure the cat’s headshot is better lit than my wedding pictures.
She’s really pulling out all the stops for Jellybean,Fish mewls with a level of concern for the poor cat herself before jumping to the ground.
Either she really loves Jellybean or there’s something about this situation that doesn’t add up,Sherlock barks with a soft woof.
She loves Jellybean almost as much as she loves me,Fudge chimes in.Matilda doesn’t do anything halfway—not even panic.
As we file through the front entrance—and I use the term entrance loosely, since this particular architectural feature could accommodate a parade—I’m hit with the full force of Matilda’s decorating philosophy, which appears to beif it’s not covered in gold or marble, it’s not worth having.
The foyer soars three stories high, featuring a chandelier that’s probably visible from heaven and a staircase that could host its own guided tour. The marble floors are so polished I’m genuinely concerned about ice-skating accidents, and every surface that isn’t marble appears to be either gold-plated or crystal-encrusted.
“Good grief,” I whisper as Ella stirs slightly in her stroller but remains blissfully asleep. “Our entire cottage could fit in this foyer, and we’d still have room for a small circus. With elephants. And probably a gift shop.”
It’s true. My cozy little cottage is currently overrun with enough baby gear to outfit a daycare center—bouncy seats, swings, toys that make inexplicable noises at three in the morning, and roughly fourteen different types of burp cloths. Meanwhile, this marble palace shows absolutely no evidence that baby Matilda lives here. Not a single highchair, toy, or even a stray pacifier mars the museum-like perfection. Either they have the world’s most efficient cleaning staff or baby Matilda is raising herself in a secret wing of the house.
“This way, everyone!” Matilda announces, leading our group through what appears to be a formal living room decorated with enough Christmas trees to reforest a small state. “We’ll be gathering in the ballroom for our little chat.”
Did she just say ballroom?Sherlock asks.Like, an actual ballroom?
Apparently, rich people need entire rooms just for dancing,Fish replies.Though I suspect this one’s about as warm and inviting as a meat locker.
It’s true, but at least the acoustics are good for howling,Fudge adds pragmatically.
We wind through room after room of Christmas excess—a dining room featuring a table that could seat a small army, a library with leather-bound books that look like they’ve neverbeen opened, and a conservatory filled with enough poinsettias to supply a small Christmas market.
Finally, we arrive at what can only be described as an actual, honest-to-goodness ballroom. White ladder-back chairs are arranged around small white marble tables (because apparently, even the temporary furniture needs to match the overall marble theme), all facing a small stage that’s been set up with what looks like professional lighting equipment.
Either someone is getting married or we just walked into a glitter bomb support group,Fish mewls as we take our seats.
If there’s no cake involved, I’m leaving,Sherlock sniffs.
Or at least stealing a cookie,Fudge adds reasonably.
Almost immediately, the army of tuxedoed waitstaff appears with silver trays bearing floral teacups of hot cocoa that smell like they were crafted by angels, and Christmas cookies that look like tiny works of art. Each cookie appears to have been individually decorated by someone with both artistic talent and way too much time on their hands.
“Hubba, hubba, and a side of washboard abs,” Georgie whispers, practically batting her eyelashes at a particularly handsome waiter. “Young man, could you tell me where you learned to carry a tray with such hunky precision? Are you single? Asking for a friend. And I’m the friend.”Maybe if I act interested in the service quality, he won’t realize I’m old enough to be his grandmother. Possibly his great-grandmother,she muses that last bit to herself.
Mom kicks her under the table. “Behave yourself. We’re guests here.”
“I am behaving,” Georgie protests. “I’m behaving in a very friendly, socially appropriate manner. It’s called networking.”
Macy leans toward Buffy and me. “Some people clearly don’t understand the concept of age-appropriate behavior,” she says in a voice loud enough to carry. “And I’m one of them.”
The three of us share a laugh. Did Macy just extend an olivebranch to Buffy by way of humor? Time and impending prison sentences will only tell.
At least I have some dignity left,comes from Macy’s direction, though I notice she’s eyeing the waitstaff with almost as much interest as Georgie.
Matilda takes the stage with the poise of a socialite about to light the town Christmas tree and declare the start of the season—festive, fearless, and fully aware she has everyone’s attention.
I hope she breaks into carols. I could use a little holiday magic right about now.
“My dear friends,” she begins, her voice carrying easily through the ballroom’s acoustics like she’s been training with opera coaches, “I want to thank you all for coming today, especially during this difficult time for our family. As many of you know, our beloved Jellybean has gone missing, and Hammie Mae, little Matilda, and I are absolutely heartbroken. She’s not just a pet—she’s family.”
She pauses with one hand pressed to her heart in a gesture that would make Shakespeare proud.
“We are heartbroken indeed. Which is why I’m announcing a reward of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for her safe return, no questions asked.”
