Page 90 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
“Yes,” Izzy said. “It was a gamble.”
“You two never cease to amaze me.” I forked a bite and offered it to Jim. “You’re going to melt.”
We watched the man, who routinely inspired the Michelin-star standard of cooking in our house, savor his bite.
“I have to agree with your mother,” he said, pleased. “They’re light and practically melt in your mouth. Where’d you get the recipe?”
“TikTok,” Izzy said, like she’d just won the Great British Bake Off.
“Yeah,” Addy added. “Once my feed stopped being about Dad saving brown trees, all the Christmas baking showed up. A lady said it was her great-grandma’s recipe.”
“Even the maple-donut twist?” I asked.
“No, that was Dad,” Izzy said, handing him a plated waffle while Addy poured more batter.
“So perhaps we get me trending with this recipe,” Jim said, amused.
“Do you really want to trend again, Dad?” Addy rolled her eyes.
“Meh.” He shrugged. “Maybe we keep our Christmas-waffle recipe a family secret and only share it with friends who’ll truly appreciate it.”
By late afternoon,the house buzzed with holiday chaos. Curling irons hissed, glittery shoes flew through the air, and the faint scent of peppermint lotion and pine drifted through the halls.
Jim had been gone since morning for his meeting with Titus, and I hadn’t heard a word from him except a single text that said:Don’t be late, Mrs. Mitchell. Santa waits for no one.
That alone was suspicious enough.
“Mom, which earrings?” Addy called from the bathroom doorway, holding up a pair of silver hoops and another shaped like tiny snowflakes.
“Snowflakes,” I said. “They match your dress.”
Izzy appeared behind her, hair half-curled and dress shoes in hand. “Dad texted us, too. He said to be ready by four and pack something warm.”
“Warm?” I frowned. “We’re going to a Christmas party, not an arctic expedition.”
“Maybe he’s doing it outside?” Addy said.
I laughed under my breath. “Knowing your father, he’s probably building an ice rink on the driveway just to prove a point.”
“Or he’s moving the party again,” Izzy said.
“That would be the third time this week.” I zipped up my coat, still half convinced he was bluffing about the mountain venue. I didn’t trust the girls, either. They were in on his party anyway.
By four o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang.
The girls froze mid-run down the hall, squealing, “It’s starting!”
When I opened the door, Alastair stood on the porch like something straight out of a Christmas advertisement—black coat, red scarf, and a smile that said he knew far more than he was going to tell me.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Mitchell,” he greeted. “Mr. Mitchell asked me to escort you and the young ladies.”
“Escort?” I repeated. “As in…follow you?”
“Not exactly.” His expression didn’t move, but I swore I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “If you’ll gather your coats, I’ll explain on the way.”
“Explain what, exactly? Where’s Jim?”
“I’ve been instructed not to say a peep,” he said delicately.
