Page 12 of We Wish You a Messy Christmas

“Oh, you’re in here,” Jane said. “Good morning.”

They greeted her and listened to her tell them what she planned to fix for breakfast, but when Olivia offered to help, Jane immediately and expectedly declined.

“Well, just holler if you change your mind,” Olivia called out as Jane firmly closed the door. “She still seems mad,” she whispered to her dad.

He just nodded.

“Back to your intervention idea,” she said quietly. “Are you serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

She grimaced. Hopefully it wouldn’t come down to that.

“So, if you and Malcolm are still together in a couple weeks, and your mom told me you promised to come home for a few days during the holidays, and I assume Malcolm will be at his folks’ place . . . do you think you two would like to be involved in this intervention?”

She tried to imagine what that would look like and realized she couldn’t even wrap her head around it. But the idea of confronting her mom with a group for an intervention made her feel slightly sick inside. Well, unless it worked.

“I guess so, Dad. But there are so many ways it could go wrong. It’d be disingenuous to act like I’m not worried.”

“You and me both. But sometimes drastic situations call for drastic measures.”

“I guess.” She sipped her now lukewarm but still very strong coffee laced with its pathetic excuse for creamer. “Do you think Grandma Lulu would even come?”

“I don’t know, but I’m willing to find out.”

She slowly shook her head as realization of the disaster ahead suddenly manifested in her imagination. “Wow, Dad, this could be a very messy Christmas.”

He held up his coffee mug in a toast. “Okay, partner, let’s drink to that. To a very messy Christmas.”

She stretched over to clink her mug against his. Hopefully they would all survive with health and sanity intact, but Olivia had some very serious doubts.

six

Feeling guilty for his plan to sneak out of the Bradshaw house without speaking to anyone, Malcolm made a quick note of apology to his hosts, leaving it on his neatly made bed. Okay, neatly was a stretch. He knew it wasn’t up to Mrs. Bradshaw’s high standards, but at least he’d tried. He hated to admit it, but being in that house felt downright creepy. And creepy wasn’t a word he’d used since grade school.

At first he’d thought it might be a nice departure to stay in such a picture-perfect home. Sort of like a high-end Airbnb. But it didn’t take long to feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t just the over-the-top neatness—the whole house felt stifling. And after rehanging the towel he’d used so it could dry, although he suspected it should go in a laundry hamper somewhere, he got the unexplainable urge to let out a loud howl. Sort of how one might feel amid a silent crowd at a funeral that runs too long.

By the time he was sneaking back to his parents’ house, he felt like a prisoner of war upon release, and when he walked through the front door, seeing siblings, nieces, and nephews in various stages of rumpled dress and scruffy hair, he knew he’d been delivered.

“Free at last, free at last,” he proclaimed, “thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.”

His dad laughed as he emerged from the dining room with an oversized mug of coffee. “That bad?”

Malcolm blew out a sigh. “It’s a different world over there.”

“Well, the gals have set out a scrumptious spread in here.” Erik led the way to the cluttered dining room, where the table was crowded with various dishes of breakfast foods.

Malcolm grinned and picked up a plate from the mismatched stack at one end. “Home sweet home,” he said quietly.

“So, how did it go over there?” Erik asked as he cut into some kind of baked egg concoction that looked yummy.

“Honestly?” Malcolm picked up a blueberry muffin and sniffed with appreciation.

“Yeah.”

Malcolm glanced around to see he and Dad were the only ones in earshot, then lowered his voice. “It was creepy.”

Erik’s brows arched. “Creepy?”