Chapter 2
The ballroom here at the Country Cottage Inn sparkles like something out of a Christmas fairy tale as twinkle lights dance across every surface, garland drapes the crystal chandeliers, and the refreshment table practically groans under the weight of holiday perfection—eggnog that smells like liquid Christmas morning, gingerbread cookies arranged like edible artwork, and the chocolate selection could single-handedly crash a keto support group.
The air is thick with the scents of pine, cinnamon, and fresh coffee, while Christmas carols provide the perfect soundtrack to our Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour Gala.
This is supposed to be the kickoff event for Cider Cove’s most elegant holiday tradition, where we showcase our town’s most beautifully decorated homes and raise money for the local food pantry.
Everything is running exactly as planned—which naturally means something is about to go spectacularly wrong. Case in point, Matilda Westoff who is about to go toe-to-toe with Santa himself.
Everyone in the room can feel the tension crackling between Matilda and Balthasar like a live wire about to snap. The conversation that started like a prison riot has taken a decidedly darker turn.
Santa tried to mitigate by reminding her it’s the season for forgiveness and goodwill toward men, and well, Matilda doesn’t seem all that convinced.
She slices a cold smile his way. “I don’t forgive men who systematically try to destroy honest family businesses with underhanded tactics,” Matilda snaps, her voice sharp enough to slice through the Christmas carols and probably a few innocent bystanders.
Santa’s smile turns even more predatory as he glances down at poor Jellybean, who’s now weaving between Matilda’s legs as if looking for a decent place to hide, and Matilda scoops her right up despite the fact she’s holding her granddaughter in her other arm.
Balthasar’s—our resident chocolate mogul masquerading as Santa Claus—shark-like smile widens.
“You do seem quite attached to that furball. It’d be a real shame if something.
..unfortunate happened to her. Lost pets are so common during chaotic events.
Sometimes, they even come back—for the right price. ”
The room doesn’t just fall silent. It plummets into a void.
“If you so much as breathe in Jellybean’s direction, I’ll—” Matilda’s face cycles through pale, flushed, and full-on homicidal red.
I gasp at the threat the man just lobbed. “The evening’s festivities are just getting started,” I sing loud enough to be heard three counties over. “There’s eggnog! Mistletoe!” Both of which have far less murder-y vibes.
Balthasar chuckles with an icy smugness. “Now, Matilda, surely you’re not still holding grudges over a little healthy competition? Business is business, after all.”
“Healthy competition?” Matilda’s voice rises like a rocket ship aimed at the moon.
“You call bribing food inspectors healthy? Stealing my corporate contracts through lies and sabotage? You’re such a pompous snake, you think you can destroy my family’s legacy and smile about it.
If I had a chocolate hatchet right now, I’d use it. ”
I gasp at the threat.
Lies and sabotage? This is getting good, Fish yowls from somewhere near the punch bowl.
Define good, Sherlock barks nervously from under the dessert table where he’s conducting a thorough crumb surveillance.
The kind where hoomans implode, Jellybean adds, from the safety of Matilda’s arms.
I vote we hide under the table with Sherlock, Fudge chimes in. There are more crumbs and fewer sociopaths.
Baby Matilda chooses this moment to wiggle and squirm. “Ga-ma make chocolate so good!” she all but shouts at the man, and half the room gasps and giggles.
“What?” I mutter to myself in shock. Did she just…
? Did that baby just speak? I blink hard, wondering if I just heard a six-month-old provide commentary on both family business and dessert quality.
That was definitely more advanced than typical baby babble—more like a tiny business consultant offering her professional opinion.
I guess the rumor mill is true. She really is a little genius.
But before I can process the baby genius moment, Balthasar waves a dismissive hand. “My dear Matilda, you’re being paranoid. Perhaps if Westoff Farms focused more on quality and less on conspiracy theories—”
“Quality?” Matilda’s face turns a shade of red that could qualify as a Christmas light. “I’ll show you quality, you arrogant—”
“Mother, there you are!”
Hammie Mae Westoff appears like a red-haired guardian angel, though given the family dynamics I’ve witnessed, angel might be stretching it.
She’s in her early thirties, with gorgeous red curls that catch the Christmas lights like fire, freckles dotting her nose like someone sprinkled cinnamon across porcelain, and she radiates the kind of confident business energy that suggests she could run a chocolate empire and still have time to Pinterest her daughter’s birthday party.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she says, scooping up baby Matilda with mom-level efficiency. “Hello, Bizzy! Buffy!” She beams at us with genuine warmth that’s a refreshing contrast to the arctic chill radiating from the Matilda-versus-Balthasar standoff.
“Hello.” I give a cheery wave, trying my hardest to break the frosty spell her mother just cast on the ballroom. “Oh, Hammie Mae, you’ve got yourself a little sweetheart on your hands,” I say, blowing baby Matilda a quick kiss.
“I agree,” Buffy is quick to say.
“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 was definitely more 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 filing away 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 the arrogant, 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.