Chapter 6
The snow is falling as if Mother Nature decided to dump a giant bag of powdered sugar all over Cider Cove, and here I am pushing baby Ella’s stroller down Main Street like some sort of deranged Christmas parade float that missed the memo about staying indoors during weather events.
“This is insane,” Jasper mutters for the third time in two blocks, his breath forming little puffs of disapproval in the frigid air that could probably be used as evidence in court. “Taking a three-month-old out in a snowstorm to go shopping.”
After driving all the way to the station in Seaview, Jasper had to come back to the inn this morning to inspect the scene of the crime, and afterward decided he had a little time to go on an outing with Ella and me—and my mother and Georgie.
I told him we were just about to do a little Christmas shopping—and may have left out the part about tracking down a suspect.
Jasper isn’t the biggest fan of me sticking my nose into his investigations. Although once I’ve solved them, he does offer up a decent massage—so there’s that.
“It’s not a snowstorm,” I counter, though I’m pretty sure my eyebrows are currently sporting tiny icicles that could qualify as Christmas decorations. “It’s a light dusting of festive precipitation. Very atmospheric. Very holiday-movie-esque.”
More like a festive blizzard, Fish grumbles from inside my coat where she’s taken up residence like a furry, judgmental scarf. I can’t feel my whiskers.
I have her strapped to the baby carrier sitting on my chest like a kitten-shaped bomb, and right about now, she feels like a fifty-pound lead weight.
Sherlock bounds ahead through the snow, his tail wagging and the freckles on his nose glowing red as if he’s auditioning for the role of Rudolph’s understudy, while Georgie trudges beside me in spiked heel boots that are absolutely not designed for anything more challenging than sitting at a sidewalk café.
“I can’t believe we’re walking in this weather,” Mom says, even though she’s smiling as she watches Ella’s eyes go wide at the sight of snowflakes landing on her stroller’s clear rain cover.
“The baby is going to catch pneumonia, we’re all going to slip and break our hips, and this is going to end up being one of those stories they tell at family gatherings for the next thirty years. ” If we live past New Year’s.
Oh, good grief.
“Don’t you dare put a pox on us, Red,” Georgie howls at her. “You take that spell back.” She leans my way. “Have I ever told you that your mother is a powerful witch?”
I’d roll my eyes if I weren’t in fear they would freeze that way—literally.
“The baby is toasty,” I say, nodding at the stroller where Ella is bundled up like a tiny Christmas burrito— with a fleece hat, fleece mittens, fleece everything, and seems absolutely delighted by the winter wonderland passing by.
She keeps reaching her mittened hands toward the snow, making little cooing sounds that suggest she’s plotting to eat it at the first opportunity.
“And we’re not going to break our hips because we’re young and spry. ” Most of us, anyway.
“Speak for yourself,” Georgie huffs, grabbing my arm for support as her designer boots encounter what might charitably be called a sidewalk but looks more like an ice-skating rink. “I’m one slip away from looking like a Christmas decoration myself—flat on my back with my legs in the air wide open.”
“That’s a lovely image, thanks for sharing,” I say, steering us around a particularly treacherous patch of ice while trying not to make Georgie’s words manifest themselves into a situation that requires stitches.
The Christmas lights strung between the lampposts cast a magical glow over the white-dusted street, and despite Jasper’s doom-and-gloom weather predictions and my mother’s injury forecasts, I have to admit, Cider Cove looks like it belongs on a postcard.
The kind where happy families frolic in the snow instead of discovering dead bodies at my inn or getting into candle-related business disputes.
“There it is,” Georgie announces, pointing toward the converted Victorian storefront that houses Two Old Broads.
The sign swings gently in the snowy breeze, and warm golden light spills from the windows onto the sidewalk.
“Home sweet home. And not a moment too soon. I think nine of my toes have already fallen off, but I still got the one.”
The door chimes jingle merrily as we pile inside, bringing half the snowstorm with us like we’re some sort of weather delivery service. The sudden warmth hits my face like a Christmas miracle wrapped in central heating, and I can finally feel my nose again.
“Oh sweet mother of Christmas,” I breathe, taking in the sight before me while trying to stomp the snow off my boots without looking like I’m performing some sort of interpretive dance.
Two Old Broads has been transformed into what can only be described as Christmas personified in the most wonderful way possible.
Garland drapes from every available surface, twinkle lights create a canopy of sparkles across the tin ceiling, and wonky quilts hang like colorful banners throughout the space.
There’s a 12 Days of Christmas series displayed along the back wall where the partridges look like they’ve been hitting the eggnog, and the pear trees appear to be suffering from a severe case of scoliosis.
Holiday shoppers weave between the displays like caffeinated elves on a sugar rush, their arms full of delightfully imperfect Christmas quilts featuring crooked angels and lopsided reindeer that look like they’ve been through some sort of holiday trauma.
The air smells like pine needles, warm fabric, and Mom’s signature cinnamon candles with just a hint of that new quilt scent that somehow manages to be both comforting and slightly overwhelming—like being hugged by Christmas itself.
“So, what do you guys think of this place?” Mom asks Jasper, while unwrapping her scarf and looking around with more than a touch of pride at her home away from home.
“It’s like Santa’s workshop exploded in a good way,” Jasper says while taking the stroller from me.
“I think Ella and I will take a look around.” And maybe make some headway on our shopping before Christmas Eve for once.
He winces my way with the thought before mouthing the word sorry, and I bite down on a smile as he takes off.
“Get me something nice,” I tease as they drift away before turning back to my mother and Georgie.
“It’s more like Santa’s workshop had a collision with a fabric store,” I say, heading over to a table filled with Christmas-themed wonky quilts in crazy strips of fabric that go every which way without rhyme or reason.
The wonky quilts are a staple here at the shop, and those quilts have been turned into everything from traditional quilts to jackets to tote bags.
I hold up a quilt that features reindeer at a tea party.
“And I want every single wonky quilt in this shop. There’s just something charming about Christmas quilts that don’t take themselves too seriously. ”
“Sort of like me,” Georgie says while plopping a knit hat of a chicken on her head with mistletoe hooked around its beak.
“That says it all,” Mom mutters.
At the register, Juniper Moonbeam rings up customers with the serene efficiency of a shopkeeper who’s achieved inner peace through retail therapy.
Her flowing green dress makes her look like a Christmas tree spirit, and the tiny bells woven through her silver braids create a gentle musical tinkle to the cash register’s enthusiastic chiming.
She’s wearing a headband with miniature reindeer antlers that bob when she moves, which somehow works perfectly on her.
Juni happens to be Georgie’s fifty-something very hippy, very happy daughter and one of my father’s many ex-wives.
“Welcome to Christmas chaos central,” she calls out with a smile, her crystal necklaces catching the light as she bags a quilt featuring Santa’s workshop where all the elves appear to be different species entirely.
“Fair warning”—she calls out to the shop—”everything here is slightly crooked, completely handmade, and guaranteed to make your relatives question your decorating choices. ”
“Perfect,” Jasper shoots back from a few feet away. “That’s exactly what I’m going for.” He looks my way and winks.
Ella makes a happy gurgling sound and reaches toward a dangling corner of a nearby quilt that features what I can only assume is supposed to be a Christmas star, though it looks more like a cosmic accident waiting to happen.
“At least someone is enjoying this adventure,” Jasper says, as he watches our daughter try to reach a handful of twinkle lights.
I’m about to say something when a commotion near the back of the store garners our attention.
Matilda Westoff is conducting what appears to be a one-woman search and rescue mission, frantically moving quilts and peering behind displays like she’s hunting for buried treasure.
Her usually immaculate appearance has gone completely rogue—silver-streaked hair escaping its elegant bun, lipstick smudged, and her sophisticated outfit wrinkled like she’s been wrestling with Santa himself.
“Jellybean! Jellybean!” she calls out, her voice climbing toward hysteria with each repetition, creating an opera of desperation that’s making even the most dedicated shoppers pause their quilt examination.
Holiday shoppers are giving her a wide berth, the kind of cautious distance people maintain around someone who might either burst into tears or start throwing things at any moment—possibly Christmas-themed things, which would add insult to injury.
The woman has lost her marbles, Fish mewls, poking her head out of my coat.
But she’s calling for Jellybean, Sherlock gives a soft bark. That means she’s lost the little cat in the shop. I’ll go sniff her out. He takes off like a pooch on a mission, and soon Fish hops right out of my coat to do the same.