“It’s never too late to renegotiate terms,” she says seriously. “Think of it as relationship maintenance, like getting your car serviced, but more expensive and with better jewelry.” She lifts her chin. “If he’s not appreciating what he has,” she continues, warming to her theme, “perhaps it’s time to remind him that quality wives have options. Never let a man think he’s irreplaceable—that’s how you end up doing all the emotional labor while he watches sports.”
Your husband watches detective shows, not sports,Sherlock points out as he scampers his way over.And he does most of the cooking. Plus, he’s pretty good-looking for a hooman.
I give a slight nod because that he is.
I don’t think those details matter to the relationship guru,Fish replies.
And sadly, I don’t think so either.
“And you, sweetheart,” Matilda turns to Buffy with the kind of sympathetic expression that precedes either genuine help or complete character assassination, “need to stop dating potential losers and start dating actual winners. A man’s dreams don’t pay for dinner, vacations, or that cute little sports car you deserve.”
Buffy nods politely, though I can see her trying to process this advice.
“If he talks more about his art than his 401k,run,” Matilda continues with increasing enthusiasm. “The phrasemoney isn’t everythingis usually said by people who don’t have any. Why settle for struggling romance when you could have comfortable love with a nice jewelry allowance?”
She’s basically telling your sister to become a gold digger,Fish meows with fascination.This is like watching a nature documentary about predatory dating in the wild—of Wall Street.
“Speaking of relationships,” I say, deciding it’s time to steer this conversation toward more productive territory, “I’m so sorry about the loss of your friend, Balthasar Thornfield.”
The transformation is immediate and somewhat spectacular. Matilda’s face goes from sympathetic relationship counselor to something that could probably scare gargoyles off cathedral walls.
“Friend?!” she practically shrieks, her voice climbing toward frequencies that could probably shatter her own crystal ornaments and summon dogs from three counties. “FRIEND?! That man was not my friend. He was a demon masquerading as Santa Claus with better marketing!”
Several guests near the refreshment table turn to stare, and I notice Mom giving me a look that clearly says,this is why we can’t have nice things.
Well, that escalated quickly,Fudge says with the understatement of the millennium.
“He was systematically destroying everything I’ve worked for!” Matilda continues, her polished facade cracking like ice in a heat wave. “Underhanded, sneaky, corporate espionage tactics that would make Wall Street blush!”
Her voice is gaining volume with each word, and I’m starting to wonder if we’re about to witness the first recorded case of someone exploding from pure rage.
“That man would have sold his own mother for chocolate market share!” she declares, gesturing wildly enough to endanger nearby ornaments and possibly small pets. I’m keeping an extra tight hold on Fish. “He called himself Santa while being the Grinch of the chocolate industry with worse fashion sense!”
She’s really worked up about this,Sherlockpoints out unnecessarily.
Either she’s a fantastic actress or she genuinely hated the guy. Knowing Matilda, it’s probably both.
“If you want to know about enemies,” Matilda says, suddenly switching from volcanic eruption to ice-cold calculation like she has an emotional thermostat, “look at Jennilee Holly. Sweet as pie on the surface, but I heard there was some sort of sharp disagreement between them—quite heated, from what I understand. That girl has more layers than a wedding cake.”
My detective instincts perk up like Sherlock’s ears when he hears the treat jar opening.
“Jennilee?” Buffy asks with surprise. “But she seems so sweet and bubbly. Like everyone’s best friend wrapped up in a bow.”
“Oh, she is sweet,” Matilda agrees with an ice-cold smile. “She’s sweet as sugar until you cross her business interests. Then that Southern charm can turn into Southern strategy real quick.”
“How do you know that?” Buffy asks, apparently developing her own investigative skills.
“My dear friend Cordelia Goldleaf told me all about it,” Matilda replies with satisfaction as if she’s just dropping a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “Cordelia sees everything that happens in this town, and apparently, Jennilee and Balthasar had quite the public spat at the chocolate festival planning meeting. Something about crossing boundaries and contract disputes or something of that nature. That sweet Southern belle act doesn’t fool everyone, you know.”
Mental note: talk to Cordelia Goldleaf next.She seems to be the town information broker with better intel than the CIA.
A series of melodic chimes rings through the house—probably custom-installed throughout the mansion because why settle for a simple ding-dong when you can have a full-blown musical number.
Matilda’s expression instantly transforms back to gracious hostess mode with the kind of speed that suggests she’s had years of practice switching between personalities.
“Time for the grand finale of our tour!” she announces brightly, as if she hasn’t just spent the last five minutes describing someone as the chocolate industry equivalent of a Bond villain. “Presents for one and all! Everyone, back to the ballroom for our White Elephant gift exchange!”
“Oh, I love gift exchanges!” Buffy exclaims with genuine excitement. “It’s like Christmas morning but with more strategy and fewer family feuds.”
