“What? No. We’re not—Okay, Isupposewe can splurge a little and get them touched up,” Jasmine concedes.
She and Danielle exchange a smirk, and as Danielle gets her phone out, I squint at them.
“I’ll text Nick now,” Danielle says.
“Yes, baby. Pleasedotext him,” Jasmine says coyly, and there’s something about the way she looks at me after that makes me eye her suspiciously.
She’s up to something.
“Why are y’all acting weird?” I ask.
“I heard on the news last night that North might be paying us a visit for Christmas,” Marge says, joy in her tone and a blatant disregard for my question.
“Snow. Supposedly,” Danielle says.
I know the three of them are in on some plan, but I don’t push it.
Let them keep their secrets.
“I thought we were getting a heat wave next week,” I comment.
“That’s how you know the brothers are in town. Heat wave before a frost,” Marge says.
“Or it’s just the weather?” I suggest.
Jasmine blows an impressive raspberry, gives me a thumbs down, and says, “Booo.”
“It’s island magic. How do you not entertain it? It’s fun,” Danielle says.
“I never believed in Santa as a kid either. My parents gave up trying to convince me when I kept poking holes in the plot,” I argue.
“You must be a joy at holiday parties with the kids,” Danielle teases me.
“Mingling might give people the impression that she likes them,” Jasmine says.
“Can’t have that,” I agree.
Jasmine laughs. “Girl, you put yourself in more danger every year. One day, those brothers are going to find where you live.”
I move the ladder to the next spot.
“So I should be scared that a set of fictional supernatural winter twins is going to pop out of the bushes and kidnap me because I don’t believe in them?” I joke.
“I am lost as hell,” Chester chimes in. “What are we talking about?”
“TheLegendof the Rumpus Brothers,” I drawl, rolling my eyes.
“Oh, those guys. I thought that was just a fun story for kids. You know, ‘If you feel a cold wind, it’s just North telling you hello,’” Chester says.
“Well, it’s morphed into a fun children’s story. Nowadays, you can get cuddly plushies of them at Carol’s Christmas Shop.” Marge rubs the top of North’s sculpture and looks at it fondly. “When I was a kid, it was… less wholesome.”
“What was that, like, a hundred years ago?” Chester jokes.
I let the strand of lights hit him in the face, one almost tangling in his tight brown curls, and the others laugh.
“Ass,” I say to him.
Chester just grins.
