“Thank you,” Hammie Mae coos at the tiny cutie in her arms. “Isn’t she just adorable? With those red curls and freckles—she’s going to be a heartbreaker just like her grandmother.” Hammie Mae shoots her mother a look that says,knock-it-off or go home.
Okay, fine. I’m just hoping that was the message conveyed. For the record, I’m about to give Santa the boot, too.
Baby Matilda looks around at all of us and breaks out into a spontaneous applause. “Hi, everybody,” she shouts with glee. “Pretty lights! Pretty tree! I see Santa!” She over-enunciates each syllable, and I can’t help but gasp once again.
That wasdefinitelymore than baby babble.
Hammie Mae laughs at my expression. “Yes, she’s talking up a storm these days! Can you believe it? She’s been saying full sentences for weeks now. My pediatrician says I might have a prodigy on my hands.”
Understatement of the century.
Most babies are lucky to say mama or dada at around twelve months.
“She certainly is precious,” I say, meaning it. And also filingaway the fact that this baby appears to have advanced intellectual capabilities that border on supernatural.
Before we can break out the IQ tests, Balthasar steps forward with the confidence of a Santa who’s never been told no. “Hammie Mae, introduce me to your lovely friends. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Hammie Mae’s smile tightens like Spanx at a buffet. “Of course. Bizzy Baker Wilder, Buffy Butterwick, I’d like you to meet Balthasar Thornfield, owner of Thornfield’s Premium Christmas Confections. His chocolate factory is quite famous throughout New England.”Famous for being overpriced and pretentious,she thinks to herself but manages not to say. “Bizzy is the owner of the Country Cottage Inn, and Buffy manages the local bookstore.”
“Nice to meet you both,” he says, offering a handshake and a smile that make my skin crawl. “Lovely home you have here, Mrs. Wilder. I can’t wait to bring you and the rest of Cider Cove to my factory—it’s part of tomorrow’s decorated homes tour, of course.” He takes a moment to frown at the older Matilda among us. “The only reason Matilda is so irate with me,” he continues, like a man writing his own obituary, “is because she is my direct competitor. Not that there’s any real competition, of course. She can’t compete.”
Oh no. He did not just go there.
“You see,” he continues, practically dripping smugness, “Thornfield’s Premium Christmas Confections uses only the finest Belgian chocolate, imported vanilla from Madagascar, and our secret blend of spices that’s been in my family for generations. We supply luxury hotels and upscale department stores nationwide. Our artisanal approach and superior ingredients make us the obvious choice for discerning customers who appreciate quality over... local charm.”
Matilda’s face turns a dangerous shade of red, and I can practically see the lava building up behind her eyes.Of all thearrogant, self-important toads who’ve ever walked this earth,she thinks to herself.I’ll show him artisanal when I artisanally stuff his smug face with my grandmother’s secret recipe chocolate bars! And I’ll make sure he chokes on them.
Now this has some serious trainwreck potential,Fish purrs with what sounds suspiciously like anticipation.
Or really, really bad,Jellybean mutters, having positioned herself strategically near Matilda’s feet.Grandma is about to blow like a Christmas volcano.
Should we take cover?Fudge asks hopefully.Maybe behind that nice dessert table?
Before Matilda explodes, a petite woman in green velvet appears beside Balthasar, clutching her purse like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“Oh my garters and stars!” comes a voice with the sweetest accent this side of a magnolia plantation. “What a lovely gathering! Y’all have just outdone yourselves with these decorations! It’s like a Christmas dream!”
The newcomer is petite—maybe five-foot-three in heels—with a short, choppy bob that frames dark eyes that dart around nervously like a bird checking for predators. Her dress seems just a touch too big, as if she’s recently lost weight, and her thin frame and hunched shoulders give her an almost fragile appearance.
Her timing is impeccable, stepping in just as Matilda was about to unleash what I’m pretty sure would have been verbal warfare that could have made international headlines.
“Jennilee Holly,” she introduces herself with a smile that could charm ornaments off a Christmas tree. “I just had to come over and tell y’all how absolutely magical this place looks! Bizzy, honey, I just heard you were the owner, and you’ve created something truly special here. It feels like stepping into a Christmas fairy tale!”
“Why, thank you,” I manage, though I’m still processing thenear-miss of what could have been the Great Chocolate War of the year.
“Jennilee works at my chocolate shop,” Balthasar says with smug satisfaction. “She manages our boutique gift store with remarkable efficiency.”Another useful pawn in my empire,he muses to himself.Soon, I’ll own half this pathetic little town. Starting with that Victorian mansion.
“My Victorian mansion is on tomorrow’s tour,” she continues with excitement, her voice just a touch too bright, like someone trying really hard to sound cheerful. But well, ’tis the season. “I’m just beside myself with anticipation to host the entire town! My husband’s away on business in China right now, but he would just love this party!”
“Well, I for one can’t wait to see your home,” I tell her. And honestly? I could listen to her charming Southern accent all day long. In fact, it might just be the soothing backbeat I need to get me through Christmas.
“Well, sugar, if my foyer doesn’t screambless your heartin twenty-three shades of toile, I’ll eat my own centerpiece. And I hope y’all like glitter and Jesus, ’cause my mantel’s got both in aggressive quantities.”
I have a feeling her home is the kind of place where the tea is sweet, the gossip is sweeter, and the throw pillows judge you silently. But before I can mentally untangle all that, Georgie arrives like the holiday tornado she is, dragging Mom.
“Did I hear a deliciously yummy country-fried accent over here?” Georgie’s voice cuts through the ballroom like a candy cane machete as she barrels toward us. “Because, honey, I am like a moth to a flame when it comes to Southern charm. I can’t help myself—it’s like catnip for my soul!”
Mom trails behind, looking slightly windblown but amused. “Georgie heard the accent from three conversations away and practically trampled a group of carolers to get over here.”Okay,so she flattened the choir, but I don’t dare tell Bizzy. It looks as if she has enough drama to deal with for one night. Or a decade.
