I frown at her. I wouldsolove to read a mystery with a slice of cake on the cover—and then eat that slice of cake, too.
Hillary goes next, discussing matters of national security. “My rose is that I found the most exquisite holiday boots at Bergdorf’s—Italian leather, exactly my size, on sale for only thirty percent off. A Christmas miracle, really.”
“Thirty percent off is a miracle?” Peggy asks.
“At Bergdorf’s, yes. And my thorn,” Hillary’s voice drops a notch, “is that my aesthetician is booked solid through New Year’s. I might have to find a new one, and you have no idea how traumatic it is to break in a new skincare professional.”
First-world problems have reached new heights,Cricket says.Next, Hillary will complain about her champagne being the wrong temperature.
Kick shifts forward, clearly holding back a flood of domestic frustration. “My rose is that the kids’ Christmaspageant went well. No costume malfunctions, no forgotten lines, and Tommy didn’t try to eat the fake snow during the Nativity scene.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say, genuinely impressed.
“My thorn,” Kick’s voice rises several octaves, “is that Kirk made our six-year-old hand-write thank-you notes for gifts she hasn’t opened yet. He calls itgratitude pre-loading.”
How has Kirk not been murdered yet?Cricket mewls, and I shrug at her because I’m wondering the very same thing.
“Did you kill him?” Bunny asks with interest. I knew I liked her.
Kick nods. “I considered it. Briefly. But you ladies are far too good at what you do, and I don’t want to end up behind bars prematurely.”If only I could frame Peyton. But then, it seems Hattie beat me to it.
I take a moment to frown at her.
Tipper smooths her sweater dress and gives us her most gracious smile. “My rose is that Henry’s restaurant is booked solid through New Year’s Eve. We’re completely sold out, which is amazing for business.”
“That’s fantastic,” I say.
“My thorn is that Henry’s so busy with the restaurant being booked solid, he won’t have time to shop for a dazzling diamond for Christmas. I’ve been dropping hints the size of billboards, but the man is completely focused on menu planning and profit margins.”
“The perils of dating a successful restaurateur,” Bunny sighs sympathetically.As soon as he dumps Tipper, I’m hopping on the Holiday Express.
I clear my throat.
Henry gave up his legal career to follow his restaurantdreams. I’m glad he’s succeeding in them. Here’s hoping he doesn’t burn out on them or Tipper.
Bunny bounces in her seat with excitement as her turn arrives. “My rose is that Nicholas—my Santa impersonator—is even better at hisho-ho-hothan I expected. He’s got this deep, resonant laugh that just makes you believe in Christmas magic. Let’s just say, he’s very inspiring.”
“Inspiring,” Hillary repeats slowly.
“Oh yes. And my thorn is that I have too many holiday party invitations and I can’t decide which millionaires to disappoint. The Ashfords are having their annual champagne and caviar soirée, the Pembertons are doing their winter wonderland theme, and the Vanderbilts are flying everyone to their place in the Hamptons. It’s causing me genuine anxiety.”
“The horror,” Peyton mutters from her corner, speaking for the first time since arriving.How are these women still alive?she muses to herself as she chugs a mug of cocoa, which I actually think belonged to Clarabelle. And knowing Clarabelle, it’s spiked. On second thought, Peyton has earned that drink.
Peggy grins and gives a little jingle as she adjusts her position. “My rose is that my bedmate brings me coffee in bed every morning. Fresh ground, perfect temperature, served with a side of charm that would make a saint blush.”
“Bedmate?” Clarabelle asks.
“What can I say? Life’s too short for boring companionship.”
I like Peggy,Cricket decides.She has practical priorities.
“My thorn,” Peggy continues, “is that I can’t find decent sweet tea anywhere in this godforsaken state. Y’all Yankees don’t understand the sacred art of proper tea preparation.”
Clarabelle pats her friend’s arm sympathetically. “My rose is that I won the church Christmas cookie competition for the third year running. My snickerdoodles are officially legendary.”
“Congratulations,” I say.
“My thorn is that everyone keeps asking for my secret recipe, and I’m running out of polite ways to tell them that family secrets die with family. Some traditions are sacred.”
