Chapter 23
Christmas Day at the Country Cottage Inn feels like someone bottled holiday magic and uncorked it directly into our grand room.
Snow falls outside the bay windows, while the scents of pine garland, cinnamon candles, and the lingering aroma of Emmie’s spectacular Christmas dinner create an atmosphere so perfectly cozy it should be illegal.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticks steadily, marking time in a room filled with the satisfied murmur of well-fed family members and the soft rustle of wrapping paper being folded for next year’s use. As if that will ever happen.
I’m settled in my favorite armchair with Ella drowsing contentedly in my arms, her tiny fist wrapped around my finger like she’s afraid I might escape if she doesn’t maintain physical contact.
Across from me, Emmie cradles Elliot with the same expression of maternal bliss, both of us basking in that post-Christmas dinner glow that comes from surviving another family and friends gathering without anyone getting arrested or starting a food fight.
The last few days feel like a particularly vivid dream involving murder, exploding chocolate fountains, and Santa Claus making an arrest, but right now, surrounded by loved ones and the gentle crackle of logs in the fireplace, everything feels perfectly, blissfully normal.
The lingering aromas of our spectacular early Christmas dinner still perfume the air—honey-glazed spiral ham with bourbon reduction, garlic and herb prime rib with horseradish cream, truffle mac and cheese that redefined comfort food, roasted vegetables with balsamic glaze, and Emmie’s famous maple bourbon sweet potato casserole that had everyone asking for seconds.
“I have to say,” Emmie announces, surveying the aftermath of dessert plates scattered around like evidence of a sugar massacre orchestrated by a family with a serious commitment to gluttony, “I outdid myself with that peppermint bark cheesecake. It was basically edible perfection disguised as a holiday dessert.”
“You outdid yourself with everything,” Mom says from her spot next to Ben, who’s looking slightly shell-shocked by the sheer volume of Baker family Christmas traditions he’s been exposed to in the past twenty-four hours like a combat veteran processing psychological warfare.
“That chocolate yule log was pure edible art that belonged in a museum instead of our stomachs.”
I still don’t understand why hoomans insist on making food look like trees, Fish meows contentedly from her spot near the Christmas tree. But I have to admit, the food was delicious. And before you start, Bizzy, I avoided the chocolate.
I nod her way because we both know I like her alive. Chocolate isn’t exactly animal friendly.
The ham, the mac and cheese, the roast beast—everything was delicious, Sherlock adds with the satisfaction of a puppy who’s successfully charmed multiple family members into sharing their Christmas dinner. This was the best Christmas feast ever!
Now that I can agree with.
Huxley shifts baby Mack to his other arm and grins at his wife, who’s finally looking relaxed for the first time since the gala disaster.
“Mackenzie, you can stop planning damage control strategies. The town survived having a killer arrested at our premier Christmas event. If anything, it’s probably going to increase tourism. ”
“Murder tourism,” Mackenzie growls the words my way. “That’s what Cider Cove is becoming famous for. Murder tourism and holiday homicides. We should probably update our Chamber of Commerce brochures to include Come for the scenery, stay for the body count.”
“At least it’s seasonal,” Macy says, making what looks like an actual effort to include Buffy in her monologue about luxury holiday shopping like she’s hosting a segment on diva-approved gift-giving.
“You know, Buffy, you’re not completely hopeless at this whole family thing.
That sweater you picked for Huxley was shockingly on-trend.
I mean, it didn’t come from a boutique in Milan, but still—respectable. ”
“I aim for respectable with a side of cozy,” Buffy quips, popping a peppermint truffle into her mouth like she’s not at all fazed by Macy’s backhanded holiday cheer.
I shoot Macy a look that says, dial it back, Glamour Girl, before someone jams a candy cane in your designer clutch.
But hey, this counts as progress. Or at least a ceasefire with sequins.
“You know what?” Emmie says, gazing down at Elliot with the kind of peaceful expression that suggests she’s had some sort of maternal epiphany. “I’ve been thinking about all that baby genius anxiety we had going on, and I’ve come to a conclusion.”
“Which is?” I ask because Emmie’s conclusions usually involve either food that could end world hunger or wisdom that could solve international conflicts through proper seasoning. Her use of basil is never wrong.
“Elliot is exactly who he’s supposed to be,” she says with conviction that could move mountains or at least convince people to stop obsessing over intelligence enrichment kits for infants.
“He doesn’t need flashcards designed by child psychologists, classical music composed specifically for developing brains, or advanced puzzles that would challenge NASA scientists.
He needs love and laughter and maybe the occasional peek at a cooking show so he can learn about the family business of making people stuffed and happy. ”
I look down at Ella, who’s making content baby noises that suggest she’s perfectly happy being a normal, non-genius infant who’s more interested in drooling on my shirt than discussing architectural theory or solving world peace through superior intellect.
“You’re absolutely right,” I agree with relief as if I’ve just been told I didn’t have to run a marathon tomorrow.
“Ella doesn’t need to be reading by six months or speaking in complete sentences like some kind of tiny scholar with a superiority complex.
She just needs to be Ella—and Ella is perfect exactly as she is, drool and all. ”
Finally, some sense from the two of you, Fish says with approval. Babies are supposed to be babies, not tiny scholars with developmental pressure that would crack most reasonable adults.
I’m about to say something else when movement behind the grandfather clock in the corner catches my eye.
It was just a quiver, but enough to grab my attention because in a house full of pets, unexpected shadows usually mean someone’s gotten into something they shouldn’t have, like Christmas ornaments or possibly evidence.
“Did you see that?” I ask, shifting Ella carefully as I get up to investigate what’s probably either very innocent or very expensive to replace.
“See what?” Jasper looks up from his conversation with Leo about the finer points of crime scene photography versus holiday photography, which is apparently a thing now that we’ve made it our family specialty.
I move toward the grandfather clock, which sits in a cozy corner near the bay windows, surrounded by presents that haven’t been opened yet and a small pile of Christmas-themed novels that someone optimistically thought we’d have time to read during the chaos of the holidays instead of solving murders and arresting people in chocolate factories.
That’s when I see her.
Jellybean is curled up in a nest of what appears to be stolen Christmas ribbons and a few missing dish towels, and she’s not alone.
Nestled against her are four of the most adorable kittens I’ve ever seen in my life, each one a perfect miniature copy of their mother with the same black and white tuxedo markings and tiny pink noses that could cure the holiday blues for anyone.
“Oh my goodness,” I breathe, and suddenly everyone in the room is alert and moving toward me like I’ve just announced the discovery of buried treasure. And in a way, I have.
“What is it?” Mom asks, rising from the sofa with the speed of a grandmother who’s learned that unexpected discoveries in this family can range from delightful to catastrophic with very little middle ground.
“I found her,” I announce, pulling out my phone to text Hammie Mae before I even finish processing what I’m seeing, because this news is too good to wait for proper mental processing.
“I found Jellybean. And she has babies. Four adorable, perfect babies that look like tiny Christmas miracles wrapped in fur.”
The room erupts in excited chatter as everyone crowds around to see the Christmas blessings nestled behind the grandfather clock. Jellybean looks up at us with the satisfied expression of a cat who’s successfully pulled off the surprise of the century and knows exactly how impressive she is.
Well, it’s about time someone found us, she says with typical feline composure. I was getting tired of listening to all that worry when I was perfectly fine and busy being a responsible mother with excellent hiding skills.
“Yes, you were,” I say with a laugh. “You are a wonderful mother.”
You had babies! Kittens! Four cute little kittens without their mittens! Sherlock barks with the kind of joy usually reserved for discovering unlimited treats. They’re so tiny and perfect and fuzzy!
I’ve been keeping them safe until they were ready to meet the world, Jellybean says with maternal pride. Christmas seemed like the perfect day for introductions and maximum dramatic impact because I have excellent timing.
My phone buzzes immediately with Hammie Mae’s response, and within what feels like seconds, we hear car doors slamming outside and the sound of rapid footsteps on the front porch.
Matilda bursts through the door as if she were hunting diamonds and furballs, with Hammie Mae close behind carrying baby Matilda, and Fudge bringing up the rear with his tail wagging so hard his entire body is wiggling like a furry little earthquake with attitude.