Chapter 4 #2
Fish swishes her tail in front of her face. It’s pretty clear murder makes people amorous around here. And apparently, it makes Sherlock’s bladder overreact.
“Good morning, Bizzy,” Grady says with a grin that suggests he’s completely unrepentant about his mistletoe strategy. “We were just, um, just making sure the mistletoe was hung at optimal smooching height. You know, quality control.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” I ask, parking Ella’s stroller beside the reception desk, and she coos up at me. “Because from where I was standing, it looked more like you were trying to set a new record for longest kiss under decorative foliage.”
Some things never change around here, Fish mewls with what sounds like amusement.
At least they’re consistent, Sherlock adds while licking a cookie that looks as if it was stepped on.
“In our defense,” Nessa says, smoothing down her sweater with the dignity of an employee who’s been caught in compromising positions before and has learned to own it, “mistletoe has a very limited seasonal window. We’re just being efficient with our holiday traditions.”
“Your efficiency is noted,” I say with a laugh.
“How about we channel some of that energy into actual work? You know, the kind that involves checking in guests and answering phones instead of checking out each other’s tonsils?
Because if you keep that up, you might just end up with one of these.
” I bend over and land a kiss on my sweet daughter’s face and she sheds one of her bubbling laughs.
Have I mentioned I’m addicted to her laughs?
I’m not above tickling her toes at two in the morning because of it, especially since I’m already up changing a diaper.
“By the way, she still hasn’t slept through the night once. ”
Nessa gasps my way. “Bizzy Baker Wilder, don’t you dare curse us with one of those cuties,” she’s quick to swat me with a loose towel on the counter.
Grady’s face turns interesting shades of red. “I’m not ready to be a dad. I like sleep.”
A laugh gets caught in my throat just as Jordy Crosby comes running through the lobby like his flannel shirt is on fire, his dark hair windblown, and his blue eyes wide with the kind of panic usually reserved for natural disasters and empty coffee pots.
“Bizzy,” he calls out, slightly out of breath. “I just got a message from Emmie. There’s some kind of a Macy emergency in the café.”
“What?” I squawk because a Macy emergency is the kind of phrase that strikes terror into the hearts of anyone who’s ever had to deal with my sister when she’s in full crisis mode.
“What kind of emergency? Did she set something on fire? Did she insult someone’s business model?
Did she accidentally show human emotion?
” My voice hikes with each passing question as I run to grab the stroller.
“I don’t know,” Jordy says, already heading toward the right side of the inn with the purposeful stride of a man who’s learned not to question family emergencies and just roll with them. “But Emmie sounded panicked, and you know how much it takes to panic Emmie.”
He’s right about that. Emmie has the kind of unflappable calm that comes from years of running a kitchen and dealing with the general chaos that surrounds this inn on a daily basis.
If she’s panicked, then whatever’s happening in the café is probably somewhere between natural disaster and apocalypse on the crisis scale.
And truthfully, I’m feeling ambivalent about dragging poor Ella into this by proxy.
We make our way toward the Country Cottage Cafe, which sits at the east end of the inn like a jewel overlooking the sandy cove.
The cafe is one of my favorite parts of the entire property—it practically sits on the beach itself, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer an unobstructed view of the Atlantic Ocean.
On a clear day, you can watch the waves roll in while enjoying Emmie’s latest culinary masterpieces.
Today, with the light snow falling and the gray sky creating a moody backdrop, it looks like something out of a Thomas Kinkaid painting.
We approach the café and I can hear voices—specifically, I can hear Macy’s voice, which is currently operating at a volume that could probably be heard in the next county.
And judging by the person she’s currently pointing at, the target of her vocal assault is my poor sister Buffy, which means this morning is about to go from mildly chaotic to full-scale family warfare in about thirty seconds.
The cafe’s black and white checkered floors gleam under the overhead lighting, and the wrought iron bistro tables are arranged with the kind of casual elegance that makes people want to linger over coffee and pastries while pretending they’re in a quaint European village instead of coastal Maine.
The whole space has a cozy, homey appeal that usually makes everyone feel welcome and relaxed—that is, if Macy wasn’t here exercising her vocal range at rather aggressive, earsplitting octaves.
Today, however, the atmosphere is more battle zone than cozy breakfast spot.
Macy is standing near the windows that overlook the cove, gesticulating wildly at Buffy like she’s trying to fan away smoke from a kitchen fire she caused but refuses to admit to.
Her blonde hair is perfectly styled despite the early hour, and her outfit, a crisp white blouse and navy blazer, suggests she got up this morning specifically to deliver some kind of lecture—that and head to her shop here on Main Street.
And her shop is exactly where she should be.
The last-minute shoppers have been out in force this past week.
Buffy, for her part, is sitting at one of the bistro tables looking like she’d rather be anywhere else on the planet, possibly including the surface of Mars—maybe the surface of an active volcano.
She looks like my twin with her hair pulled back and that same look on her face that I tend to get when Macy is tap-dancing on my last nerve with one of her designer stilettos.
And she’s wearing a cozy Christmas sweater—the requisite ugly sweater that I all but live in this time of year—that makes her look approachable and friendly, which is probably part of what’s driving Macy to insanity.
Standing off to the side with the expression of a sibling who’s accidentally wandered into a war zone is my brother Huxley, holding his two-year-old son Mack with the protective stance of a parent who’s trying to shield his child from family drama.
Both Candy and Cane—Macy and Huxley’s respective Samoyeds—are sitting nearby looking what can only be described as thunderstruck by the volume and intensity of the argument currently taking place. And poor Skittles looks as if she doesn’t know if she wants to bite someone or run for cover.
What’s got the hoomans all riled up this time? Fish asks Candy as we enter the cafe.
Macy’s voice rises another few octaves as she shouts something indiscernible, and Ella coos out another laugh because of it.
I’m glad she finds Macy’s verbal assault humorous.
She’ll be privy to far too many of those for as long as Macy has breath in her lungs.
That’s sort of a given like a ball of tangled Christmas lights—inevitable and oddly festive.
I think Macy is convinced Buffy is trying to steal her position in the family hierarchy, Candy says with a rather bored bark because, let’s face it, she’s witnessed this particular drama before in all of its Macy-inspired iterations.
The little hooman is terrified, Cane adds sadly, referring to Mack. The loud voices hurt his ears. He’s not Aunt Macy’s biggest fan.
Ella claps and laughs, making her thoughts on Macy’s fandom clearly known. I’ll admit, this worries me a bit.
Should we bark to distract them? Sherlock offers before giving a few demonstrative barks that no one really seems to notice.
I shoot him a look that says, please don’t. We have enough chaos without adding a canine chorus to the mix.
“Macy?” I shout, trying to garner her attention, just as Mom runs in, moving with swift efficiency because clearly, she’s decided to take charge of the situation before it escalates into bloodshed. She takes Ella’s stroller from me without so much as a word.
“I’m taking Ella to see the ocean in the sunroom,” she announces with the authority of a Grammy who’s raised multiple children and knows how to evacuate innocent bystanders from family battlefields.
So much for taking charge of the situation.
“Tell me when the war is over; I’ll be in neutral territory admiring the view.
” And pretending I’ve never had any children, nor have I had to referee sisterly disputes.
I frown at the thought before turning back to my sister. Unlike my mother, I can’t cut and run. It’s my inn. Besides, Buffy might need backup.
Georgie sidles up next to me from seemingly out of nowhere. “It seems Macy has decided that one body at the inn wasn’t quite enough excitement for the holiday season. She’s determined to arrange for a second corpse—and surprise! She’s volunteered her own sister to play the part of the dead.”
I nod while looking at the melee playing out before me. “That would really put a damper on the breakfast service and probably violate several health department regulations.”
Something tells me this entire day is going to require more bleach and caution tape than pancakes and syrup.