Chapter 16
Cordelia recovers from the Georgie experience with professional grace and ushers us into her foyer here on the final stop of the Deck the Halls Home Tour, which makes every other house we’ve visited today look like they were decorated by people shopping exclusively at discount stores—blindfolded.
At least these women seem harmless enough, Cordelia thinks as she leads us inside. Though that one with the notebook might be a liability around breakable objects.
“This is absolutely stunnin’,” Jennilee says with genuine Southern warmth, appearing beside us like a Christmas angel sent to restore social normalcy. “Cordelia, you’ve really outdone yourself this year. The color coordination alone must have taken months to plan.”
Cordelia always goes bonkers overboard with these displays, Jennilee thinks to herself. But I suppose it’s all for such a good cause, and she works so hard to make everythin’ perfect.
“Thank you, dear,” Cordelia replies, and I notice there’s real affection in her voice when she talks to Jennilee. “I do try to make each year more spectacular than the last. It’s all about supporting the foundation’s mission, of course.”
She gestures toward what appears to be a professionally designed display featuring awards, photos, and testimonials about her various charitable endeavors.
If only they knew how much of those donations actually make it to the programs, Cordelia thinks with a slight tightening around her eyes. But what they don’t know won’t hurt them, and the publicity photos will be worth their weight in gold.
My jaw goes slack. What did she just imply?
She quickly ushers us in.
“The foundation does such precious work,” Jennilee says, her smile as sweet as pecan pie. “Those Christmas programs for underprivileged children? Just bless-your-heart wonderful.”
Sweet Jennilee always believes the best in everyone, Cordelia thinks with what appears to be genuine affection. If only she knew what really goes on behind the scenes.
This time, my mouth falls wide open. I couldn’t have heard what I think I did.
The foyer alone is enough to make Matilda’s marble palace look modest. We’re talking about Christmas trees—plural—each one themed and positioned with the kind of precision that suggests someone mapped out the optimal viewing angles.
Gold and silver, red and green, winter white with crystal accents—it’s like walking into a Christmas catalog that’s been brought to life by someone with serious artistic vision and an unlimited budget.
These people look like they could afford to make some serious donations to the foundation, drifts from Cordelia’s direction as she surveys our group with what appears to be a mental calculator running behind her eyes.
“Oh my word,” Georgie breathes, immediately gravitating toward a display of ornaments that look as if they should be shielded from the public right along with the crown jewels. “Look at these gorgeous decorations! Are those real crystals?”
Why do I get the feeling the second verse is same as the first? Macy’s face shifts into damage-control mode as well, and I can tell she’s thinking the exact same thing.
“They’re Swarovski crystal,” Cordelia says with gleaming pride. “Hand-selected and custom-designed for this year’s display. Each ornament is a limited-edition piece.”
Georgie reaches out to touch one, and Macy practically lunges forward to intercept her hand.
“Did you learn nothing at the Westoff mansion? Maybe we should just admire them from a safe distance,” Macy suggests with the kind of forced cheer that suggests she’s already calculating replacement costs.
Apparently, Matilda sent Macy and Georgie a bill this morning.
Meanwhile, Hammie Mae has arrived with baby Matilda, who immediately demonstrates why she’s become the unofficial poster child for infant genius. The kid takes one look around the room and says, clear as day, “Pretty lights make everything sparkle!”
Emmie gasps and looks my way. Did that baby just form a complete sentence with descriptive language? Her eyes widen as she shoots the thought my way, along with what feels like a surge of parental panic.
“Isn’t she remarkable?” Hammie Mae says with the kind of pride that’s probably warranted when your six-month-old speaks like a tiny philosopher. “She’s been commenting on architecture all day.”
Commenting on architecture?
I look down at Ella, who’s currently fascinated by her own hand and making happy gurgling noises that sound suspiciously like she’s mocking the entire situation.
“Say something brilliant,” I whisper her way. “Anything. Even Mama would be good right now.”
Ella responds by blowing a spit bubble and giggling like she’s just pulled off the greatest practical joke in baby history, which is adorable but not exactly going to win any infant genius competitions nor will it get me invited to Mensa meetings.
Emmie is apparently having similar luck with Elliot, who’s chosen this moment to practice his new skill of grabbing anything within reach and trying to eat it, including Emmie’s sleeve, a stray piece of tinsel, and what appears to be his own foot.
“Maybe we could get some photos!” Cordelia announces suddenly, clapping her hands together like she’s just had the most brilliant idea since someone invented chocolate.
“I have a professional photographer here to document our charity foundation’s Christmas fundraising efforts.
It would be wonderful to include all these beautiful families! ”
Of course, she has a professional photographer. Because apparently, casual family photos are for people who don’t own their own charity foundations and small countries.
A man with an expensive-looking camera appears like he’s been waiting in the wings for this exact moment, probably hiding behind a Christmas tree with the patience of a wildlife photographer stalking rare birds, and suddenly we’re being herded toward what appears to be a professionally lit Christmas display that probably took a team of decorators three days to perfect.
“Now, let’s arrange everyone beautifully,” Cordelia says, positioning people with the efficiency of a socialite who knows how to identify everyone’s good side.
“Mothers with babies in front, everyone else arranged by height, and let’s make sure we can see the Goldleaf Foundation banner in the background! ”
It’s almost as if she’s using us as props for her charity publicity. Buffy nods my way with the thought, even though she’s smiling for the camera like the rest of us.
The photographer starts clicking away, but almost immediately it becomes clear that professional photography and unpredictable babies are not a match made in heaven. Every time he gets everyone positioned and smiling, one of the babies decides to have an opinion about the whole situation.
First, Elliot starts crying because the camera flashes.
Then Ella decides this is the perfect moment to have a diaper situation that requires immediate attention.
Meanwhile, baby Matilda continues to demonstrate her far-too-evolved development by providing running commentary on the photography process.
“The lighting is too bright,” she says in her tiny but remarkably clear voice. “It creates bad shadows.”
Did a six-month-old just critique professional photography? Emmie thinks as she looks my way, and I can practically feel her maternal confidence crumbling.
“My, my…. She’s very observant,” Jennilee says sweetly, appearing beside us with her characteristic Southern charm. “Bless her heart, she’s just trying to be helpful!”
I have to admit, Jennilee’s been nothing but delightful all day. She’s been helping wrangle babies, offering to hold coats, and generally being the kind of person who makes social events run more smoothly just by being present.
The photographer tries again, but baby Matilda decides to climb out of Hammie Mae’s arms to investigate the camera equipment.
“Camera makes pretty pictures!” she announces, reaching toward the lens with scientific determination.
“She’s very curious,” Cordelia points out with one eyebrow hiked as if she’s contemplating this on many levels. Probably calculating the publicity value of having a genius baby in her charity photos.
Soon enough, the photographic torment is over, and that’s when Georgie makes her move toward what appears to be a particularly expensive ornament display.
“These are just stunning!” she announces, reaching out to examine a crystal snowflake that looks like it belongs in a jewelry store, not in a home. She has truly forgotten all about the crystal ornament fiasco at the Westoffs’. “The craftsmanship is incredible! Look at the way the light catches—”
“Georgie, no!” Macy hisses, but it’s too late.
The ornament slips from Georgie’s grasp, hits the marble floor, and shatters into approximately seventeen hundred pieces of very expensive crystal confetti.
I’m sensing a very expensive pattern here.
The silence that follows has the same energy as a fruitcake re-gifted five years in a row—heavy, awkward, and full of judgment.
“Oh my,” Cordelia says, her smile becoming strained in the way that suggests she’s trying to figure out whether her insurance covers acts of Georgie. “Well, these things do happen at social gatherings.”
That ornament probably costs more than Georgie Conner is worth in this life and the next, floats from somewhere in the crowd, along with what feels like collective financial anxiety.
“I am so sorry!” Georgie exclaims, dropping to her knees as if she’s about to pray for forgiveness and possibly a loan. “I’ll pay for it! How much could one little ornament cost? Fifty dollars? A hundred? Maybe we could put it on my Westoff tab?”
Only Georgie would have a running tab to cover the damage she’s caused to personal property over the holidays.
The look on Cordelia’s face suggests that Georgie really doesn’t want to know the answer to that question.
“Please don’t worry about it,” Cordelia says with the kind of gracious recovery that suggests she’s dealt with social disasters of this fiscal magnitude before. “It’s just a thing. Christmas is about people, not possessions.”
Easy to say when you can afford to replace it without checking your bank balance, Mom thinks to herself, even though she’s nodding sympathetically.
My mother is definitely someone who understands the pain of expensive accidents. And my siblings and I have made sure she’s had many of them.
The photographer, meanwhile, is still trying to get his perfect shot, but the combination of crying babies, broken ornaments, and general chaos has made his job roughly equivalent to herding cats while juggling flaming torches.
“Perhaps we could try one more time?” he suggests with far too much hope, clearly earning his fee today.
We regroup for another attempt, but this time, baby Matilda decides to give him directions on how to get the best shot.
“That girl is amazing for her age,” Cordelia points out, and I notice she’s making mental notes about something. Probably calculating the publicity value of having a genius baby in her charity photos.
“She certainly is,” I agree, glancing down at Ella, who’s chosen this moment to fall asleep in her carrier, completely oblivious to the competitive parenting anxiety happening around her.
At least one of us is handling this pressure well, I muse to myself, watching my daughter sleep peacefully while chaos erupts around her.
The photography session finally concludes after approximately seventeen attempts, forty-three near-misses with expensive decorations, and enough digital storage to document Georgie’s complete social destruction of a billionaire’s home.
As we finally conclude the photo session, Cordelia claps her hands together with renewed hostess energy.
“Now then, everyone, please do help yourselves to refreshments!” she announces, gesturing toward what appears to be a professionally catered spread that puts most restaurant buffets to shame.
“We have fresh coffee, traditional eggnog, and a dessert table laden with French pastries that were flown in specially for today’s tour. ”
Wonderful.
The French pastries will have to wait because this is a perfect opportunity to separate from the group and get some alone time with my suspect.
I watch as everyone begins to move toward the refreshment area with the enthusiasm of people who’ve survived a chaotic photo session and deserve sugar-based rewards.
As the crowd disperses toward the promise of imported pastries and caffeinated salvation, I catch Buffy’s eye and give her a subtle nod.
She understands immediately—it’s time to make our move.