It’s the final day of the Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour, and somehow, we’ve all managed to survive more than a few homes so far without anyone getting arrested, seriously injured, or permanently traumatized by luxury home envy—though the day is still young.
The only downfall of this day is that two of the homes on today’s tour let it be known that pets were not preferred. So, I left Fish and Sherlock in the foyer to continue their roles as the inn’s official holiday greeters, and I’ve left Grady and Nessa in charge of keeping an eye on my furry counterparts. But knowing Grady and Nessa’s propensity to seclude themselves in a dark corner, I probably should have reversed those orders.
The December air is crisp and sharp, with fresh snow dusting everything like nature’s own Christmas confetti, and I can hear distant Christmas carols floating from the town square wherethey’re probably setting up for tomorrow night’s relocated Christmas Eve Gala.
The scents of pine wreaths and wood smoke from nearby chimneys mix with the faint aroma of hot chocolate that someone’s brewing, creating the kind of perfect Christmas atmosphere that makes you forget you’re currently investigating a murder.
I’ve got Ella secured in her baby carrier against my chest, where she’s contentedly watching snowflakes drift past with the kind of fascination that suggests she’s either a budding meteorologist or just easily entertained by sparkly things. Mom, Georgie, Macy, Buffy, and Emmie are all bundled up beside me, with Emmie pushing Elliot in his stroller and looking like she’s mentally preparing for another round of competitive parenting anxiety.
Speaking of which, I spot Hammie Mae approaching with baby Matilda strapped to her chest in what appears to be a designer baby carrier so fancy it probably gets invited to galas. The little cutie is awake, alert, and already surveying Cordelia’s estate with the kind of analytical expression that suggests she’s either planning a hostile takeover or composing her first architectural critique.
Here we go again, I think, watching Emmie’s face shift into pre-emptive panic mode.
“So where are all the hot butlers and caterers?” Georgie announces before we even reach Cordelia’s front door. “I’ve been rating the staff quality at each house, and so far, Matilda’s tuxedoed army is winning by a landslide. Those boys could serve me tea and crumpets any day of the week—shirtless, of course.”
“You’ve been rating them?” Macy asks with the kind of horror usually reserved for discovering someone’s been rating your Christmas cookies.
“Of course! I’ve got a whole scoring system,” Georgie repliesproudly. “Looks, charm, availability, and most importantly—whether they’re young enough that I wouldn’t feel like a cradle robber.”
“Georgie!” Mom hisses. “You can’t rate service staff like they’re livestock at a county fair!”
“Why not? I rate everything else. Movies, restaurants, that new cashier at the grocery store who always gives me extra coupons.” She adjusts her festive scarf with confidence. “Speaking of which, I got three phone numbers yesterday. Not bad for a woman of my vintage.”
“Three phone numbers?” Macy repeats, clearly torn between admiration and dismay.
“Well, two were actually phone numbers. One was a recipe for banana bread, but the gentleman who gave it to me was very enthusiastic about my baking potential. And by baking potential, I mean the heat I can?—”
“WE GET IT,” Macy interrupts before Georgie can elaborate on exactly what kind of heat was involved in this baking effort.
“Please tell me you’re not planning to call any of them,” Mom says weakly.
“I’m planning to call all of them! It’s Christmas—the season of giving, and I have so much to give.”
I don’t want to know what she means by that,Macy thinks to herself with genuine concern for Georgie’s dating strategy.Although, let’s face it, I know exactly what she means because not too long ago, that was me.
“Could we please focus on the house tour instead of your romantic conquest spreadsheet?” Macy asks with the kind of strained politeness that suggests she’s reaching her limit for family embarrassment.
“Spreadsheet? Who said anything about a spreadsheet?” Georgie grins. “I’ve got a whole notebook. Color-coded and everything.”
“Ladies, let’s focus,” I say, nodding ahead at the architectural wonder before us.
The sprawling mansion makes every other house on today’s tour look like they were decorated by amateurs with gift cards to the dollar store, and I’m pretty sure the professional Christmas lighting display could guide lost reindeer through a blizzard.
Snow continues to fall as our little parade of holiday home tour survivors approaches what can only be described as the crown jewel of Cider Cove real estate.
Cordelia appears at the front entrance like she’s been waiting for her close-up, and I have to admit, the woman knows how to make an impression. She’s tall, imposing, and radiating the kind of platinum blonde elegance that suggests her hair stylist charges more per hour than most people can afford in a lifetime.
“Welcome to Goldleaf Manor!” she announces with a certain air as if she’s accustomed to being the most important person in any room, including rooms that contain actual royalty. “I do hope you’ll appreciate the work I’ve put into making this a truly magical Christmas experience.”
The work she’s put in?Emmie glances my way with the thought as she adjusts baby Elliot in his stroller.I bet she hired a team of professionals and then took all the credit while sipping champagne.
“Great news,” Georgie says, appearing out of nowhere, and honestly, I didn’t even know she was missing. “I managed to score six phone numbers from the hot waiters just waiting to serve up some beefcake.”
“Please tell me you’re not planning to call random waiters,” Mom says weakly.She’s absolutely going to call them,Mom thinks with resignation.And probably invite them all to Christmas dinner.
“They are not random,” Georgie insists. “I conducted thorough interviews. Well,conversations. Okay, fine—they were briefexchanges. One of them gave me a margarita recipe, which shows real boyfriend potential.”
A margarita recipe does not a romantic interest make,floats from Macy’s direction, along with what I can only describe as secondhand mortification.But it’s a good start.
