She takes off, as does the mayor, and Shep takes Pixie from me.
“So much for taking our picture with Santa.” He winks my way.
An older woman in a ruby velvet coat and enough baubles to qualify as a jewelry store all on her own enters our midst, feline in hand.
“Opal,” I say, giving the adorable cat she’s holding a pat to the nose. The cat in question is a tan striped and spotted Bengal cat named King. He’s quite literally the king of this kitty jungle, and even the humans around these parts give him the respect he deserves. “You look fabulous—as do you, King.” The cute little cat just so happens to have a bright red bow around his neck. I’ll have to get on the ball and pick one up for Pixie, too.
“Bowie, dear”—Opal leans my way and her left eye comes shy of winking at me—“how is the comfort selling? Should we take our roadshow to the street?”
“We are on the street,” I’m quick to inform her. “And we’re doing great, sister. In fact, our Christmas cookies are giving the comfort a run for its whiskey money.”
She purrs like the feisty feline she is. “You keep this up, Bowie Binx, and you might just find yourself with that pizza oven on your hands.”
“Really?” Now it’s me purring like a kitten. “In that case, I’ll triple production.” Just last October Opal gave me the thumbs-up to give the manor café a little facelift, and so far it looks pretty stellar, but we were shy a few thousand from purchasing the star attraction, a brick pizza oven.
Since I’ve been in town, Opal and I have cooked up one scheme after another to drum up a little extra cash. The lion’s share goes to Opal, but we’ve agreed on a fifteen percent finder’s fee for me for coming up with the schemes to begin with. I’d be thrilled if that fifteen magically morphed into fifty.
Stephanie pops up and I pull her in. “Guess what? Opal says that pizza oven is on its way. All we need to do is keep pumping out Nana Rose’s Christmas cookies and our top-of-the-line kitchen will be complete.”
Stephanie nods to Opal. “If you think my cookies are great, you should come to Christmas dinner. Bowie and I are rolling out the culinary red carpet—and the red vino, too.”
It’s true. Seeing that this will be the first Christmas we spend apart from our mother and brother, we’ve decided to host a culinary feast in their honor.
“You’re invited, too,” I say to Shep.
“I’m already excited.” He pats his belly as he holds Pixie close. “What’s on the menu?”
Opal lifts a finger. “You must have charcuterie. I’ve been having a hankering ever since you served it up before Thanksgiving dinner.”
Stephanie sheds a congratulatory smile. “You bet we will. Italians have been serving up charcuterie before it was cool—also known as antipasto.” She looks my way. “Remember Nana Rose’s feast of the seven fishes?” She nudges me and nods as if proposing it for the menu. “What do you think?”
“Eh, it was good,” I say. “But that was back when we were Catholics. We’re Protestants now, so we can have whatever we want for Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner.”
She tips her head as if considering this. “Like turkey and ham?”
“I was thinking more like steak and lobster.”
She gives a quick nod. “Protestants always think they know better.”
“That’s because sometimes they do.”
Shep nods. “I’m in for whatever. I’ll even offer my assistance in the kitchen for what it’s worth.”
Opal wags a bejeweled finger my way. “I’m pitching for the lobster. It is Christmas, after all.” Opal draws out every word in that special socialite-inspired accent that one can only achieve once you hit the highest tax bracket. “I’d better find me some comfort before they light up that spectacle.” She moans. “Lord knows there aren’t enough curtains in my bedroom to shield me from the nuclear wonder.”
Opal has already filled us in on the fact that every year she’s blinded by the light, quite literally. Her bedroom sits on the second story of the manor, and she’s got a bird’s eye view of all of Main Street—that includes that gloriously tall pine that seems as if it acts as a portal to Paul Bunyan himself.
She takes off and Stephanie leans in.
“Guess what?” My sister practically bites the air between us. “Those two hotties with the Santa hats? They came by the booth, and I invited them to Sunday dinner.”
“What Sunday dinner?” I get the feeling I’m not going to like the direction this is heading in.
She shrugs. “I thought we’d go back to our roots and start having people over for a big Sunday meal—starting with those naughty North Pole castoffs. And get this? They loved my cookies. It turns out, their ancestors hail straight from the old country.”
Shep nods. “And who exactly would these castoffs be? Starry Falls is a small town, I bet I know them.”
“Domenico Canelli and Enzo Lazzari.”
“What?” Shep bucks as if Stephanie just shot him. “Lola, you can’t have those men over. They both just so happen to come from well-connected mob families down in Leeds.”
My sister’s eyes light up like a slot machine spinning out to reveal twin angels—more like devils. Stephanie has always had a weakness for made men—same weakness I used to have before the feds scared it right out of me.
“No way,” I tell her. “Sunday dinner is canceled until further notice. And that notice expires once they stop sniffing around. In fact, just to be safe, we should probably take up fasting.”
Shep exhales hard as he looks to my sis. “I’m sorry, Lola. I have to agree with Bowie.”
“Fine, Buzzkill Bowie. Have it your way,” she snips in my face as she stalks off toward the cocoa stand once again.
“More like Bowie Jinx,” a female voice sounds off from behind, and I turn around to see Regina standing there
