Bizzy!
I turn toward the familiar voice and spot two adorable furballs racing in my direction. Jellybean, Matilda Westoff’s black and white spotted cat, launches herself into my arms with her perpetually cheerful expression, while Fudge, a West Highland White Terrier, follows close behind with enough energy to power Santa’s sleigh.
“Well, hello there, beautiful,” I coo to Jellybean, giving her thekind of scratch behind the ears that makes her purr like a tiny motor. “And you, too, handsome,” I add, bending down to give Fudge his required pat before he starts plotting his furry little revenge.
“There you are, my darlings.” The voice behind me sounds like silk-wrapped steel with a sprinkle of frostbite.
I look up to see Matilda Westoff approaching with the kind of presence that makes rooms fall silent and lesser mortals check their posture. She’s tall, statuesque, and radiating the kind of executive-level poise that suggests she could run a Fortune 500 company before breakfast and still have energy left over to conquer a small country. Her auburn hair has a distinguished silver streak that she wears like a crown, and her burgundy velvet dress coordinates perfectly with pearl accessories that probably have their own insurance policy.” And she happens to be sporting a glare that could defrost a turkey.
Not only does she own and run a successful blueberry farm that happens to have a chocolate factory on the grounds, but the woman is a legend in the lifestyle world. She’s been on every major network dispensing wisdom about everything from holiday entertaining to home organization with the kind of authority that makes Martha Stewart look like an amateur who’s just figuring out how to boil water.
In her arms is her granddaughter, baby Matilda—Hammie Mae’s six-month-old daughter, who apparently inherited the family genius genes and is already making the rest of us look intellectually challenged.
Rumor has it, little Matilda hasn’t been leapfrogging over her growth milestones, she’s been pole-vaulting over them and into the next galaxy.
“They’re right here causing no trouble, as usual,” I tease the woman, gently setting Jellybean down while giving Fudge one last scratch.
But Matilda isn’t looking at me or her pets. Her attention isfocused on something—or someone—behind me, and her expression has shifted from politely social to the kind of dangerous that usually precedes either a boardroom takeover or a declaration of war. Possibly both.
“Balthasar Thornfield? What the hell are you doing here?” she snaps, and the venom in her voice could melt the snow outside.
I turn to see who’s captured her attention and spot a man dressed as Santa Claus—though this is no jolly old elf from the North Pole. He’s tall, distinguished, with silver hair and a beard that look natural rather than fake.
The red velvet Santa suit is clearly custom-tailored, and he’s carrying a large gift bag that looks stuffed with presents. But there’s something about his steel blue eyes that makes me pause. They look sharp enough to cut steel and filled with the kind of condescending arrogance that makes you want to check your wallet and your dignity. This guy looks like he was hired to scare elves straight.
Matilda growls out a laugh in the man’s direction. “Calling you Santa is like calling a shark a goldfish—technically accurate in the most ironic way possible.”
A round of gasps circles the vicinity as the crowd grows by the second.
“Matilda,” he says with the kind of oily charm that makes my skin crawl. “How delightful to see you at this... quaint little gathering.”
The temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees, and I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with the December weather outside.
This is about to get interesting,Fish mewls from her window perch.
Define interesting,Sherlock barks back nervously.
The kind of interesting where Bizzy finds another body,Fish says with what sounds suspiciously like anticipation.Here we go,she mewls.Holiday smackdown, the deluxe edition.
Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed—a showdown with Santa while I’m trying to host the social event of the season.
“Balthasar,” Matilda says, and she manages to make his name sound like a particularly unpleasant medical diagnosis that comes with a pamphlet and a really expensive treatment plan. “I thought I made myself clear about your presence at community events.”
“Now, now,” Santa says, still smiling that shark smile that makes me want to check for missing limbs. “Surely, we can be civilized during the holiday season? After all, ’tis the season for forgiveness and goodwill toward men.”
“Not toward men who?—”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” I call out with my fake cheer turned up to eleven. “The evening’s festivities are just getting started!”
But even as I’m speaking, I can feel the tension crackling between these two like electricity during a thunderstorm. Whatever history they have, it’s about as friendly as a cage match between hungry wolverines.
And something tells me this Christmas is about to get a lot more complicated than velvet bows, holiday desserts, and Georgie’s quest for seasonal romance.
Told you it was going to get interesting,Fish purrs smugly.
My cat is never wrong.
Merry Christmas to me.
