The collective gasp from the audience could probably be heard in the next county, and possibly the next state.
Two hundred and fifty grand for a cat?Fish practically squeaks.I’m in the wrong profession—and so are you, Bizzy. Get on it!
That’s more than most people make in five years,Sherlock adds, equally stunned.And by most people, I mean Jasper.
Either that cat knows where the bodies are buried or there’s something seriously weird going on,Fudge gives a soft woof.Or both. Knowing Jellybean, it’s probably both.
“I’m begging all of you—please, comb every square inch of Cider Cove,” Matilda continues, dabbing at her eyes with whatappears to be a monogrammed handkerchief, and I have to admit, if this is an act, it’s a darn good one. “Check your sheds, your basements, anywhere a frightened little cat might hide. Bring our sweet angel home.”
The horror in her voice, the sheer desperation—there’s no way this is an act.
“But,” she continues, brightening a notch as she shifts into what I can only assume is professional mode, like a switch being flipped from grief-stricken pet owner to business mogul, “while we’re all gathered here, I thought we might make the best of this difficult time by sharing something positive. Something hopeful.”
And there it is—the transition I’ve been waiting for.
“I’d like to offer you a free holiday romance & lifestyle Q&A—right here, right now. Ask me anything and I’ll be sure to feature insights from my upcoming book,Sleigh Bells & Wedding Bells: How to Land Your Perfect Christmas Catch,which is available for sale tomorrow!”
Oh, this is going to be good,Fish purrs with anticipation as if she were watching a bird feeder and getting ready to pounce.
Define good,Sherlock replies nervously.
The entertaining kind of disaster,Fudge clarifies helpfully.The kind where we get to watch from a safe distance and judge. Then have snacks.
SNACKS!Sherlock gives a sharp bark at the thought, and I shoot him a look.
I settle back in my chair, adjusting Ella’s stroller and preparing for what I suspect is about to be either the most entertaining or most horrifying relationship advice session in the history of Cider Cove.
Possibly both.
CHAPTER 11
Matilda steps up to what I can only assume is a custom-built podium—because apparently, even her lecterns need to match the marble theme—and surveys her audience with the kind of confident smile that suggests she’s about to either inspire us or completely destroy our faith in humanity—and possibly relationships.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins, her voice carrying the authority of a lifestyle guru who’s spent years telling people how to live their lives and getting paid handsomely for it, “welcome to my Ask Matilda: Holiday Romance & Lifestyle Mastery Q&A, featuring insights from my upcoming book.”
She holds up what appears to be an advance copy ofSleigh Bells & Wedding Bells: How to Land Your Perfect Christmas Catch,and I have to admit, the cover is as over-the-top as everything else in this house—complete with gold foil lettering and what looks like actual glitter embedded in the design.
This should be interesting,Fish mewls from her cozy spot inside my coat.I predict either enlightenment or total societal collapse.
My money is on collapse,Sherlock replies nervously.Hoomans giving relationship advice is like cats teaching swimming lessons.
Hey, I can swim,Fudge protests.The doggie paddle is named after us for a reason.
“Now,” Matilda continues, her smile becoming somehow both warmer and more predatory, “my philosophy is simple—life is too short for cheap champagne and cheaper men. So let’s get started, shall we? No question too personal, no advice too practical.”
A woman in the front row immediately raises her hand as if she’s been waiting her entire life for this moment.
“How do I know if my boyfriend is marriage material?” she asks, and I can practically hear the collective intake of breath from the audience as if they, too, had the same burning question.
Matilda doesn’t hesitate. “Darling, does he drive a BMW or a no-name sedan?”
The woman blinks. “A no-name sedan?”
“There’s your answer, sweet pea. It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one—but significantly easier to stay warm in a Mercedes during winter. A no-name equals a hobosexual. BMW equals husband material.”
The silence that follows could probably be heard in the next county. Then someone in the back starts giggling, and before you know it, half the room is either laughing or looking absolutely horrified. I’m in the latter category—Macy clearly isn’t. So sorry for Jordy.
Did she just reduce relationship compatibility to car models and invent the term hobosexual?Sherlock asks, sounding like his worldview just got run over by a luxury vehicle.
