“Have you seen the selection of available men tonight?”Bunny asks, joining our little circle with a predatory gleam. Her gold sequined dress sparkles brighter than the chandeliers, and she’s scanning the room with terrifying focus. “I count at least six potentials, though none of them compare to my Nicholas.”
“Is your Santa dropping by tonight?” Peggy asks with amusement.
“My St. Nick will be here any minute now,” Bunny says with a possessive satisfaction. “And before anyone gets any ideas, I’m not sharing. Christmas or no Christmas, a woman has to maintain some boundaries.”
“I wouldn’t dream of poaching your Santa,” I assure her.
“Good, because I’ve already warned him about husband-hunting widows and divorcées with questionable intentions.” She shoots the aforementioned guilty parties a dirty look.
Clarabelle appears beside us, holding a plate piled high with chocolate truffles that look dipped in gold—and knowing this club, they probably are. “Ladies, dinner was divine, but this dessert spread is something to write home about. Thank heavens Millie Ashford and North Pole Confectionery agreed to cater despite our recent little mishap.”
I follow her gaze toward the dessert table, which is calling entirely too much attention to itself, then let my eyes wander across the rest of the transformed space.
The ballroom has been decorated within an inch of its very expensive life. Crystal ornaments the size of small planets hang from the ceiling, catching the light from chandeliers that drip with enough crystals to make Tiffany’s jealous. Gold and silver garlands drape across every surface, while towering arrangements of white roses, pine branches, andwhat look like actual silver bells create centerpieces that might as well be comprised of hundred-dollar bills.
Ice sculptures of angels and Christmas trees glisten under the lights, slowly melting into artistic puddles that someone with a very expensive mop will eventually have to clean up. The champagne fountain bubbles merrily near the entrance, surrounded by enough candles to summon something evil, and with hundreds of delicate flutes stacked around it with impossible symmetry.
Peyton stands near the dessert table surveying the scene, clearly satisfied that every detail is perfect—even if she is currently breaking and entering. Okay, so that’s a stretch, but I wanted to say it at least once.
Her black evening gown is elegant and understated, letting her work speak for itself, though I notice the slight tension around her eyes that suggests the stress of organizing a gala while being a murder suspect hasn’t exactly been relaxing. Who are we kidding? I organized this entire thing from head to toe like I always do.
“It’s impressive,” she says as I make my way over, “though not that impressive considering I was on site every day making sure things went off without a hitch.”
“Even while not getting paid for it,” I point out.
“Especially while not getting paid for it.” She takes a moment to glare at me. “Nothing motivates perfectionism like spite—except maybe chocolate truffles. Speaking of which...” She takes off in the direction of a chocolate truffle paradise.
It’s true. The ballroom has been transformed into a winter wonderland that would make the North Pole jealous.
Along one wall, a gingerbread village sprawls acrossmultiple tables—Santa’s Workshop included, citizens included, glowing candy-cane streetlights very much included. A forest of themed Christmas trees skirts the room, each one fully committed to a very specific theme. The whole setup looks like a holiday movie with a six-figure budget.
“Hattie!” Mom’s voice carries across the ballroom with the warm,slightly too loudcheer of a woman two glasses into the champagne. She makes her way over in a deep blue dress that’s clearly her best piece, Winnie right behind her in a silver gown built to catch every chandelier in the room.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Mom says, pulling me into a champagne-scented hug. “Doesn’t everything look wonderful?”
“It’s magical,” Winnie agrees, scanning the room with the eye of someone who’s about to plan a wedding. “I can’t believe Valentine’s Day is only six weeks away. A double wedding. Honestly.”
“Six weeks to pull off the social event of the year,” I say. “Plus, the small matter of sharing it with Neelie. No pressure.”
“Please. I’ve had a binder for this since I was eight.” She shrugs. “Fitz is just lucky I let him into the planning at all. Neelie will happily ride on my coattails.”
I’m about to respond when I spot Neelie across the room, hanging onto Stanton’s arm like he’s a flotation device. He is, for the record, already eyeing the cocktail waitress.
I wince. “I still can’t believe Neelie’s marrying that cad.”
Mom follows my gaze, her face shifting through several stages of maternal alarm mixed with social horror.I’ve seen Stanton with other women around town. Poor Neelie has no idea what she’s getting herself into.
I saw that idiot just last week at the cottage grill with that blonde from the yacht club,Winnie growls with the thought.And he doesn’t even bother to hide it.
“We have to talk her out of this,” I say, watching as Stanton’s attention wanders to another passing cocktail waitress while Neelie chatters obliviously beside him.
“We’ll tackle this after the new year,” Mom says, using the same calm tone she’s used to defuse family drama since we were in diapers. “No point ruining Christmas with wedding interventions.”
“Agreed,” Winnie nods. “Family confrontations should never interfere with holiday champagne consumption.”
They head off toward the champagne fountain, leaving me to do the math on whether Neelie would listen to reason. The answer, based on twenty-six years of evidence, is no.
“Quite a party.”
