The warmth hits like a wall, a combination of Grandmother’s preference for tropical temperatures and too many bodies packed into every corner. I’m helping Emily out of her coat without disturbing Nuggy, when my mother calls out from the next room, “I heard that, Susanna. Leave him be. He’s been through enough with the tabloids this holiday.”
“Never,” Grandmother calls back, good-naturedly. “Oliver knew what he was getting into when he challenged me at snooker. Just like you and your club knew when you foolish creatures tried to beat me at trivia.” She waves me toward the drawing room. “Say hello to your mother, Oliver. And remind me to get a picture of her, as well.”
Dropping our coats onto the overflowing pile on the table beside the also overflowing wardrobe, Emily and I head for the drawing room.
Stepping through the doorway, we’re treated to a tableau of my mother’s book club gathered around the piano, attempting to maintain their dignity while green and purple alien antennae blink on and off above their perfectly set hair.
They’re launching into a slurred version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen when Mother spots me and separates from the group.
“Hello there, darlings,” she says, kissing both my cheeks before turning to greet Emily, her antennae bobbing. When she’s done, she squeezes both our arms as she begs, “Please, be careful tonight. No bets with Grandmother this year. I’d love some sane holiday photos of the family next Christmas.”
“I’ll do my best, Mother.” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “But you know how she is. She always makes a bet sound so sensible at the time.”
“And you all always lose!” Grandmother calls from the next room, proving her hearing is as keen as ever. “Show Emily the tree, Oliver. Let’s see if she’s as lucky as you are.”
“What?” Emily asks.
I start toward the sitting room. “You’ll see. Come on, then, and we’ll fetch a cup of punch while we’re at it.”
Emily grins, still cuddling Nuggy as we move into the sitting room. There, two Christmas trees sparkle on opposite ends of the makeshift dancefloor, where couples are swaying under a disco ball to the drunken carols drifting in from the next room.
“This is incredible,” she whispers, taking in the festive madness. “It’s like Downton Abbey had a baby with Studio 54.”
“That’s…disturbingly accurate.” I guide her to the far corner, where Grandmother’s primary tree stretches toward the ceiling. Every branch groans beneath the weight of decorations accumulated over multiple generations.
Nudging Sir Reginald away from the base, where he’s trying to eat the red tree skirt, I clear the way for Em to step closer.
“Wow, what a beauty.” Her jaw drops as she gazes up.
With a sleepy-looking puppy tucked against her chest and the fire casting her in a golden glow, she looks like she stepped out of a Victorian Christmas card. I want to tell her thatshe’sbeautiful, but there would be no excuse for that. There’s no one close enough to hear the “performance,” and I have yet to suck down a single cup of punch.
So, instead, I clear my throat and motion toward the branches. “All right, are you prepared to find a pickle?”
Her brows shoot up. “Excuse me?” Beneath her breath, she adds, “I’m not that kind of girl, Mr. Featherswallow.”
“That’s not what I heard, Ms. Darling,” I shoot back, because I can’t resist an excuse to flirt with her. “But I wasn’t talking aboutthatpickle. I was talking about the pickle ornaments on the tree. When you’re ready to start looking, I’ll time you. Ten seconds to find as many pickles as you can. Two or more, and you’ll have good luck secured for the new year.”
Proving she loves a challenge, her eyes light up. “All right. Give me a countdown.”
I lift my arm, arching a theatrical brow as I murmur, “In three, two, one, and go!”
Emily jerks her focus back to the tree, zeroing in on a tiny pickle with a glittering halo almost immediately. She follows her initial success by pointing out two relatively normal pickles, then a pickle in a diaper, and a pickle Santa with a giant sack of toys, proving she has excellent pickle-detecting radar.
“Time!” I shout, pretending to be scandalized as I announce, “You beat my record by two. What dark magic is this?”
She shrugs. “No magic. Just an excellent eye for detail, sir.”
“And excellent luck guaranteed for the year,” I agree, stepping over to the punch station to pour us each a glass. “Or so Featherswallow family lore would have you believe.”
“I like Featherswallow family lore, so far,” she says, shifting Nuggy to one arm as she accepts the drink. She glances around the room again with a stunned shake of her head. “I can’t believe places like this really exist. I mean, I know they do, I’ve toured lots of historic homes, but…” She sips her punch. “I don’t know,I guess I never imagined how modern life would play out for people who still live in places like this.”
“Would you like the tour?” I ask, nodding toward the far door. “Fair warning, it includes a lot of dead people in frames, an offensive number of knick-knacks, and at least one allegedly haunted chandelier. Grandmother’s had the electric people out to look at it five times, but they swear there’s nothing wrong, and it only misbehaves when Edward’s around. I think it’s because he looks like my great-great-grandfather, who was apparently a bit of an arse.”
“Knick-knacks and ghosts? Sounds like a good time to me.” She glances down at Nuggy, who’s fallen asleep against her chest. “Should I lay her down somewhere?”
“Not unless your arms are tired,” I say. “She seems quite happy.”
“They’re not. And I’m quite happy, too,” Emily says, holding my gaze for a beat. “Thank you so much for trusting me with your family.”
