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Chapter Text

The new house still smelled like fresh paint and cardboard the day the Christmas tree tried to kill Brenda Leigh Johnson.

Well…technically the tree wasn’t trying to kill her. But it was leaning aggressively, swaying like a drunk uncle at a wedding, and Brenda was holding onto it with both arms like she was trying to prevent a homicide. Hers.

“RUSTY!” Brenda hollered from somewhere inside the branches. “Baby, get over here and put your foot—no, your other foot!—on the stand before this thing crushes me!”

From the kitchen, Sharon Raydor—now legally Sharon O’Dwyer again, though everyone still called her Raydor out of habit—closed her eyes and counted silently to three before stepping into the living room. Rusty was dutifully trying to help, the twins were in the corner arguing over a plastic Big Bird ornament, and Brenda…well, Brenda had apparently lost a fight with ten feet of Douglas fir.

A real Douglas fir. Shipped from Oregon.

Special order.

All because Brenda had said, “Your mama and daddy know real Christmas trees, Sharon, and I want them to see we can do this right.”

“Alright,” Sharon said softly, hands on her hips, surveying the disaster. “What am I looking at?”

Brenda’s head popped out from behind the branches like a panicked woodland creature. “An emergency!”

“It’s not an emergency, it’s a tree,” Sharon said, but she was already staring at the thing with renewed intensity.

“No it is not just a tree,” Brenda insisted, wrestling the trunk back upright. “This is a full-bodied, Kennedy-approved, Massachusetts-authentic Douglas fir. Betsy O’Dwyer grew up with these! She’s gonna walk into our new house, Sharon, and I want her to say, ‘Oh, Brenda, what a lovely tree. How traditional.’ I want her to feel at home!”

Rusty looked up at Sharon with a miserable, sympathetic expression. “The tree’s from Oregon,” he muttered under his breath. “And I tried to tell her the eight-footer was big enough.”

“And I told you, Rusty,” Brenda growled, “that Aunt Kathy is comin’, and she is not the type of woman impressed by a skinny little tree that looks like it’s been on a hunger strike.”

Sharon sighed but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. Brenda was flushed, frazzled, and covered in pine needles. She looked radiant.

“Brenda, my sister does not care what this tree looks like. She’s too busy lecturing her staff about policy drafts to bother decorating. Last year she set up a tiny fake tree she bought at an overpriced Cambridge pop-up and announced it was ‘Scandinavian-inspired minimalism.’ It was basically a twig with lights.”

“Sharon, please understand,” Brenda begged. “I want to make a statement. I want this to be perfect.”

“Okay then,” Sharon said calmly. “Let’s stabilize the base.”

Penny, toddling across the rug with a candy cane in her fist, announced, “Mama! Tree go boom!”

Christian proudly echoed, “Boom!”

Honestly, they weren’t wrong.

Rusty repositioned his foot on the metal stand. “Brenda, let go on three. I’ll hold it while Sharon tightens the screws.”

Brenda sucked in a breath. “Okay. Count us off.”

Rusty nodded. “One, two—not yet,” he scolded as Brenda started to move, “THREE!”

They shifted. The stand scraped. The tree lurched left—then right—then tipped forward…

…straight toward Sharon.

“Oh, for—”

Sharon reached up, caught the entire top half of the tree in both hands, and leaned back to counterbalance the weight.

The twins applauded. Brenda shrieked. Rusty made a noise that sounded like a dying cat.

“Somebody,” Sharon grunted through clenched teeth, “tighten the stand.”

Brenda scrambled across the floor.

Rusty tightened the screws.

Sharon breathed.

The tree finally held still.

Brenda sat back on her heels and wiped her brow like she’d just negotiated a hostage situation. “There,” she said, breathless. “Perfect.”

Sharon tilted her head. “It’s listing to the right.”

Brenda screamed in frustration and flopped dramatically onto the rug.

Rusty gently stepped over her body. “I’ll get the leveler from the toolbox.”

As Rusty disappeared down the hall, he called back, “Hey, are we finally changing the names on the stockings this year, or am I still hanging up the ones that say Raydor and Johnson?”

Brenda groaned. Sharon pinched the bridge of her nose.

Penny crawled into Brenda’s lap. “Mama sad?”

Brenda sat up, hugging her. “Mama’s fine, baby. Mama’s just…” She glanced helplessly at Sharon. “…invested.”

Sharon knelt beside her and brushed a pine needle from Brenda’s hair. “Brenda Leigh…my family will love whatever you do. You don’t need to impress them.”

Brenda stared at her like she had just said the most naive thing on Earth. “Sharon, your mama was the head of nursing at Mass General Hospital for twenty-five years. She ran her house like a Level I trauma center. I need this tree to look…respectable.”

“It’s a tree,” Sharon repeated.

“It’s a symbol,” Brenda whispered urgently. “Of preparedness. Of taste. Of quality. Sharon, look at it—does it say quality to you?”

Before Sharon could answer, Christian toddled over and pressed a foam reindeer antler onto the lowest branch. It drooped immediately like a sad, melting question mark.

Sharon covered her mouth to hide a laugh. “It says something.”

Brenda groaned into her hands.

Rusty came back with the leveler, kneeling down to make an announcement. “Bad news…according to this thing, your tree is leaning like nine degrees to the south.”

Brenda wailed.

Sharon gently touched her arm. “Honey…why don’t we take a break? I’ll put the twins down for their nap, and you can—”

“No.” Brenda sat up suddenly, eyes blazing with determination. “We are not bein’ defeated by a tree. Not today. Not in my brand-new house. Not when Betsy O’Dwyer is gonna be walkin’ through that door tomorrow with her cardigan and her pearls and her Yankee judgment.

And my parents and Bobby and Joyce and Charlie are drivin’ all the way from Atlanta in Daddy’s RV,” Brenda added in rising panic. “That thing takes up half a neighborhood. We’re gonna look like we’re hostin’ a Georgia Tech tailgate party instead of Christmas!”

Rusty blinked. “Yankee judgment?”

“You’ll know it when you see it!” Brenda cried.

Sharon finally burst out laughing. “Alright. Alright.” She leaned forward, kissed Brenda’s cheek, and brushed another pine needle out of her hair. “We’ll fix the tree. Together.”

Brenda sighed, leaning into her. “Thank you.”

Christian plopped into Brenda’s lap. “Mama boom.”

Penny climbed into Sharon’s lap. “Tree ouch.”

Sharon stroked her daughter’s hair. “Yes. The tree almost went ouch.”

Rusty smirked. “So did Brenda.”

Brenda pointed at him. “Rusty Beck, if that tree had killed me, you’d be the one explainin’ it to your Atlanta grandparents.”

He turned pale.

Sharon laughed again.

The house was a mess of boxes, pine needles, extension cords, scattered ornaments, and one triumphant Douglas fir listing gently toward the kitchen…but it was theirs.

Their first Christmas in their new home.

Their first time hosting.

Their first holiday as a full, stitched-together Johnson-Raydor-Beck family…(even if, on paper, they all technically answered to O’Dwyer these days.)

Sharon looked around at the cozy chaos, the twins babbling, Rusty trying to straighten the tree, and Brenda brushing dirt off her jeans. Her heart felt full.

She leaned close to Brenda’s ear and whispered, “It’s going to be a wonderful Christmas.”

Brenda exhaled, relieved.

“Lord, I hope so, ’cause this tree’s already tryin’ to kill us.”

And with a soft laugh and two toddlers climbing all over them, they set back to work together.

Chapter Text

The first sign that the Johnson clan had reached Los Angeles wasn’t the usual rumble of Clay’s RV engine. It was the horn.

A long, blaring, celebratory honk that echoed through the neighborhood like someone had just won a tractor pull.

Brenda froze mid–tree adjustment.

Sharon froze mid–wiping pine needles off Penny’s sweater.

Rusty froze mid–untangling multiple extension cords.

The twins didn’t freeze at all and instead shrieked “HOOOONK!” and tried to imitate it.

“Oh Lord,” Brenda whispered. “They’re here.”

Sharon blinked rapidly. “Already? They weren’t supposed to arrive for another hour.”

“That’s Daddy,” Brenda said, hands fluttering. “He makes good time when he wants to.”

A second honk blasted through the street—longer, and somehow prouder.

Rusty peered out the window like a terrified meerkat. “Uh…the RV is…big. Very big. Monumentally big.”

Brenda marched toward the door, muttering, “It ain’t that bad.”

Rusty opened the curtain wider.

Brenda saw and gasped.

“Oh my dear God.”

Clay Johnson’s RV was enormous, gleaming, and covered—covered—in all kinds of festive magnetic decals. Reindeer. Snowmen. A cross. A Falcons sticker. A faded “Merry Christmas Y’all!” bumper magnet curled at the corner.

And tied to the roof in bungee cords were…

flamingos. Christmas flamingos wearing Santa hats.

Then the RV hissed and let out a mechanical whirrrr as Clay opened an exterior storage compartment.

Sharon leaned in closer, squinting. “What is he…”

Clay reached in and then something colossal rose out of the compartment like a monster emerging from the sea.

“Oh no,” Rusty whispered.

Brenda clutched the doorframe. “Daddy didn’t.”

Oh, but he did.

Clay Johnson triumphantly heaved out a seven-foot-tall animatronic Frosty the Snowman—the kind of garish, glowing lawn decoration that could guide low-flying aircraft. The kind that almost assuredly could be seen from space.

Frosty’s eyes lit up. Bright blue. A much too bright blue.

Then his whole body lit up in sections, like some kind of malfunctioning carnival ride.

“Darn battery’s goin’. Gonna need to plug him in right away.” Clay’s gruff grumbling could be heard from inside the house before Brenda could open the door.

“HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAAAY!” Frosty shouted into the previously quiet night.

Rusty recoiled. “WHY DID IT TALK LIKE THAT?”

Brenda’s entire face lit up with childhood joy. “Frosty!”

Then, instantly, terror washed over her.

“Oh no. Oh no. Sharon, your family cannot see Frosty!” She ran outside to greet her Daddy, followed by Sharon and the twins.  

“Hi Daddy! Maybe you should leave Frosty in the RV!” she called to Clay from the portico.

But Clay was already dragging the enormous glowing snowman across the lawn.

He waved at his daughter. “MERRY CHRISTMAS, BABY GIRL!”

Then he turned and grinned at Sharon, proud as can be.

“Like him?” He nodded his chin toward the snowman in his arms that was much bigger than himself.

Sharon stared into Frosty’s pulsing LED soul.

“…He’s…very bright.”

Frosty jerked his mechanical arm in a stiff, unsettling wave.

Penny squealed, “FOSTEEEEE!”

Christian waved back.

Rusty muttered, “I refuse to sleep in view of that thing.”

Behind them, Willie Rae hurried down the RV steps, waving a dish towel like she was greeting navy soldiers returning from war.

“Oh, Brenda Leigh! Look at the house! Look at these palm trees! Oh I love it!”

“Willie Rae!” Sharon said warmly—before being hugged so hard she almost levitated.

The rest of the Johnson parade spilled out.

Bobby, holding three duffel bags and an extension cord.

Joyce, balancing a huge tin of cookies and a blanket.

Charlie, stepping out last with the exhausted hostility of a girl forced to travel across the country with her family in an RV covered in tacky holiday décor.

Charlie looked at Frosty.

Frosty blinked at her aggressively.

Charlie muttered, “Absolutely not.”

Rusty whispered, “She just might be my soulmate.”

Bobby greeted Sharon then clapped Brenda on the shoulder as he passed. “Hey, sis! RV made it in one piece, if you can believe it.”

Joyce leaned in to kiss her sisters-in-law on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, ladies. I brought cookies. Three kinds.”

Brenda’s sugar-seeking antennas perked up and she blinked. “Three?”

“Well, I didn’t know what y’all were in the mood for,” Joyce said, already bustling past her into the house. “So I made all of ’em.”

Sharon bit back a smile. “Southern hospitality at its finest," she giggled.

Charlie paused long enough to give each of her aunts a quick, perfunctory hug—still refusing to make actual eye contact—then trudged past with her backpack, muttering about the heat, the flamingos, and whether any of this was even legal.

*

Inside the house, mayhem immediately bloomed.

Clay insisted on plugging in Frosty right away. When he did, the snowman lit up so brightly this time the entire yard glowed blue and white.

A neighbor across the street looked out the window in horror, shielded her eyes, and closed her blinds.

Brenda squeaked, “Daddy, maybe—maybe we don’t turn him on yet? Just until the O’Dwyers get here?”

Clay frowned. “Why? Frosty’s festive!”

“He’s…enthusiastic,” Sharon offered delicately.

Frosty’s arm began waving again, stuttering like an animatronic having an aneurysm.

Rusty flinched. “It’s moving in slow motion now. Why is it moving in slow motion?!”

Christian toddled over to Clay with his arms lifted high.

“Gampa up!”

Clay pulled him up into his arms with a proud grunt. “There’s my boy! You wanna help Gampa fix Frosty’s arm? He’s got a case o’ the wobbles.”

Christian nodded gravely, like this was a sacred responsibility.

Penny tugged on Willie Rae’s apron. “Gamma! Fostee sick!”

“Oh, honey, he ain’t sick,” Willie Rae soothed, bending to scoop Penny into her arms. “He’s just…overstimulated. Like your mama gets when she has too much sugar.”

Brenda groaned. “Mama does not get overstimul—”

Clay poked a button on Frosty’s control box and Frosty abruptly lurched sideways, his arm flapping like he was hailing a taxi during an earthquake.

Christian shrieked with delight. “FOSTY DANCIN’!”

Penny squealed, “DANCE! DANCE!”

Clay puffed up in pride as though he had just parted the red sea. “See that? Gampa knows his machines.”

Willie Rae rolled her eyes fondly. “Then why is it when I ask you to fix the dish washer the only thing you know how to fix is a ham sandwich?!”

Christian gasped at her. “No, Gamma! Gampa hero!”

Clay looked directly at Brenda with a triumphant smirk. “Hear that? Hero.”

Brenda shook her head. “Lord, give me strength.”

Sharon whispered, “They adore him.”

“They adore chaos,” Brenda sighed, straightening up—just in time for the next dose of it.

Before Brenda knew what was happening she watched as Joyce picked up a candle, sniffed it once, shook her head at the smell of eucalyptus, and swapped it for a Southern Spiced Bourbon one she’d brought from home.

Charlie wandered the living room with profound disappointment.

Bobby was searching for an outlet for—something. Something large and buzzing.

Clay stood proudly next to Frosty, hands on his hips like a man gazing at Mount Rushmore.

Brenda shook her head in disbelief. “You’d never know that man beat cancer only a year and a half ago,” she muttered to Sharon. “He’s as strong as an ox and twice as stubborn.”

“Yes, he looks…remarkably healthy for someone who should be taking it easy and absolutely isn’t,” said Sharon.

Brenda pressed her hands to her temples. “Sweet baby Jesus, please help me.”

Sharon touched her shoulder gently.

“They’re happy to be here,” she murmured.

Brenda sighed. “I know. And can you believe Jimmy and Frank passed all this up for borin’ old Puerto Rico?” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Brenda looked at the RV, the family, the blinding snowman, the twins dancing to Frosty’s glitchy singing.

“My crazy family,” she whispered. “They made it.”

Sharon smiled.

“Yes,” she said softly. “They did.”

A soft buzz came from Sharon’s pocket. She checked her phone.

A text from ‘Mom’:

We’ve landed. Dad insists on renting a sedan. Pray for me.

Sharon closed her eyes. Round Two was coming.

 And this was only the beginning…

Chapter Text

By the time the O’Dwyers were due to arrive, Frosty was unplugged.

This had been the subject of a small, whispered, marital negotiation on the front walk.

“Just until your parents get here,” Brenda begged, fingers twisting in the hem of her sweater. “Once they’re inside and we’ve all settled in, Daddy can light him up again. I just—I don’t want Betsy and Kathy steppin’ outta that sedan, seein’ Frosty glowin’ like a nuclear reactor.”

From the porch, Frosty leered silently at them in all his shiny plastic glory.

Sharon regarded the giant snowman with the thin patience of a woman who loved her wife very much.

“Brenda,” she murmured, “my family isn’t going to judge you for a lawn decoration.”

Brenda stared at her.

Sharon sighed. “Alright. Fine. We’ll…leave him off. For now.”

“Thank you,” Brenda exhaled, squeezing her hand. “You are my Christmas miracle. Honestly, Sharon O’Dwyer, my Duchess of Burbank, preserver of sanity…I don’t deserve you.”

Sharon just smiled, basking in the praise from the woman she loved.

Brenda brushed Sharon’s shoulder lightly, then leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You get Frosty turned off for me, and I promise you’ll be more than turned on once I get you alone tonight.”

Sharon’s ears went pink and she swatted her gently. “Stop it. I’m trying to be a respectable homeowner,” she said with all the dignity of a woman maintaining appearances—then flicked Brenda a tiny, conspiratorial wink.

Rusty stuck his head out the front door and looked in Sharon’s direction. “Your sister texted. They’re five minutes away…which, based on Kathleen math, means they’re already on the street.”

Inside, the Johnson clan was in various states of readiness. Willie Rae was in the kitchen “helping” Sharon by getting ready to offer unsolicited seasoning advice. Clay was at the window watching traffic like he owned the block. Bobby and Joyce were arguing about where the best outlet was for plugging in a second crockpot. Charlie sat at the edge of the sofa, scrolling on her phone with an expression that could’ve curdled milk.

The twins were doing laps around the coffee table with stuffed animals clutched in their hands.

“Okay,” Brenda muttered, smoothing her hair, then smoothing Sharon’s, then trying to smooth invisible wrinkles out of the couch. “Okay, y’all,” she announced. “The O’Dwyers are almost here, so remember—let’s all just be—”

“Normal?” Rusty offered.

“Presentable?” Sharon suggested.

“Southern,” Clay grunted.

Brenda pointed at him. “Daddy, do not start.”

He lifted his hands. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

A compact silver rental sedan glided up to the curb, the polar opposite of Clay’s lumbering RV. It parked neatly, precisely between the driveway and the neighbor’s Prius.

“There they are,” Sharon breathed.

Brenda reached blindly for her hand and squeezed.

The car doors opened with calm efficiency.

First out was Attorney Patrick O’Dwyer—tall, trim, still in his suit despite the flight, coat draped over his arm, looking impressively put-together for a man in his mid-seventies. He took a measured look at the house, at the palm trees, at the quiet street, and nodded as if accepting a motion in court.

Then Betsy O’Dwyer emerged on the passenger side, cardigan perfectly buttoned, gray bob immaculate, her expression that of a woman who had seen everything and approved of maybe half of it. She adjusted her scarf, looked up at the house, and smiled in a small, precise way.

“Well,” she said. “She’s very pretty.”

Brenda let out a sound that was one-third laugh, one-third gasp, one-third sob.

“Hello Brenda, Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Betsy! Uh…” she stuttered. “I mean my Betsy—no, I mean—Betsy. Just Betsy. Sorry. Nerves.” Brenda grimaced and turned seven shades of crimson. “Merry Christmas, Betsy.”

“If you think this is bad, you should have heard her the Christmas she introduced me to her parents.”

Betsy blinked once, the faintest flicker of amused confusion crossing her face.

“Please let it die,” Brenda begged.

“It will live in infamy,” assured Sharon.

Betsy stepped forward and kissed Sharon’s cheek.

“Hello, darling,” she said, squeezing her daughter’s shoulders. “You look tired. Are you sleeping?”

“Between FID, a double homicide Brenda’s squad just closed, and two toddlers?” Sharon replied dryly. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Brenda winced as she watched her wife’s expression fall.

 “And it’s nice to see you too, Mom,” Sharon added, but her eyes were still bright.

Patrick shook Brenda’s hand, then pulled her into a quick hug. “Brenda. Good to see you. The neighborhood’s very…charming. No snow, but charming.” He grinned.

“Well, we can see Frosty from here when he’s on,” Clay called helpfully from the doorway.

Brenda made a strangled noise. “Daddy.”

Betsy stepped forward beside Patrick, squinting up at the house then smiling at the display in front of her.

“Oh, I do like the white lights along the exterior,” she said with a small, approving nod. “Very classic. Very clean.”

Then her gaze drifted downward…to the bushes.

…which were currently glowing in unapologetic cheerful rainbow bedlam—bright reds, greens, blues, yellows and pinks; and one rogue blinking strand Christian had helped Brenda plug in.

Betsy paused. She didn’t frown. She didn’t comment. She simply pressed her lips together in a way that communicated volumes.

“The white lights were my suggestion,” Sharon said lightly. “But Brenda loves the colorful ones, so we compromised.” She grinned at Brenda lovingly.

Betsy tilted her head. “Ah. Yes. I can see…everyone’s contributions.”

Brenda’s shoulders sank half an inch.

She forced a bright smile anyway. “It’s festive!”

“Yes,” Betsy said. “Festive.”

Suddenly, the back doors of the sedan opened, and Kathleen O’Dwyer unfolded herself from the driver’s side rear seat. Long brown hair neat, coat sharp, phone in her hand even as she glanced up. She inhaled California air, assessed the house in one sweeping glance, and nodded.

“Cute,” she said. In Kathleen-speak, that was almost a compliment.

Out from behind her climbed her son Sebastian—tall, lanky, dark curls a little too long, backpack slung over one shoulder. He squinted at the RV, then at Frosty’s dormant form, then at the flamingos, then at the palm trees.

“This is…different,” he murmured.

Rusty opened the front door wide and gave an awkward wave. “Hi. Uh—come in. Watch the flamingo.”

They filed inside, shedding coats and luggage with polite chaos. Betsy paused only long enough to straighten the doormat with the heel of her shoe. Patrick looked around the entryway like he was mapping exits. Kathleen immediately clocked the boxes still tucked against the hallway wall.

“You’re still unpacking?” she asked, not unkindly, just observant.

“We, um, moved in a couple months ago,” Brenda said quickly. “With the twins and work and everything, it’s been…an adventure.”

“They’re toddlers, and we both manage two very busy divisions of the LAPD,” Sharon added. “We’re lucky we’ve unpacked half of anything.”

As if on cue, Penny toddled into the hallway clutching a stuffed penguin, with Christian hot on her heels dragging some tinsel garland. They stopped dead at the sight of the new arrivals.

Penny blinked. Christian blinked.

Then both shrieked, “NANA!” at Betsy for no discernible reason except that she was female, gray haired, and over forty.

Betsy’s entire face softened. “Oh my little babies!” she said, then scooped Penny up. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Patrick scooped Christian into his arms, and Christian immediately patted his face as if checking for structural integrity.

Willie Rae swept in from the kitchen, apron already on. “Y’all made it! Oh, look at you, flyin’ all the way across the country,” she said, pulling Betsy into a hug that slightly lifted her off the ground.

“Mama!” Brenda protested. “You’re supposed to be takin’ it easy, remember?”

Betsy laughed. “You’re as strong as ever, Willie Rae.”

Willie Rae waved her off. “It was a mild heart attack, Brenda Leigh. My cardiologist said I’m fine.”

“Your cardiologist did not say ‘go around liftin’ other grandmothers,’” Brenda muttered.

“Still got a good grip,” Willie Rae said proudly. “Now, you let me feed you before you say somethin’ like that again.”

Kathleen set down her bag and took in the scene: her mother in a Southern kitchen hug, her father with a toddler on his hip, Sharon’s wife looking like she might faint from hosting anxiety, and an RV visible through the window like a parked cruise ship.

“This is…” Kathleen started.

“Loud?” Charlie supplied, suddenly appearing at the edge of the room like a sulky apparition.

Everyone turned at once. Charlie met Sebastian’s gaze for the first time.

He took in her eyeliner, her bored expression, her band t-shirt, her posture like she’d been forced into this house under protest.

“You must be Charlie,” he said with a slight hint of haughtiness.

“You must be Harvard,” she replied, crossing her arms.

“It’s MIT,” he said automatically, then grimaced at himself.

Rusty winced.

Betsy cleared her throat. “Well, if everyone’s done with the territorial display, perhaps we can sit.”

They drifted into the living room. The tree loomed—still a bit crooked, but valiantly decorated. The boxes had been pushed aside (mostly). The twins claimed their corner pile of toys, and Frosty waited outside like a sleeping demon.

They made polite small talk. Sharon explained about Ricky being stuck at work, Emily spending Christmas with Jack. Betsy nodded, neutral.

“‘Scuse me,” said Brenda as she passed in front of Betsy to join mother and daughter on the sofa. “Move over a little, Duchess,” she pleaded as she plopped herself down next to Sharon.

Betsy’s eyebrow arched. “Duchess?”

Sharon flushed pink. “Just a pet name Brenda likes to call me.”

Brenda took Sharon’s hand in hers and kissed it. “I call her the Duchess of Burbank ’cause she’s the most sophisticated thing in this whole zip code.”

Betsy nodded. “Well…she is very put together.”

Sharon covered her face with one hand. “Oh my God.”

Betsy turned back to her daughter.  “It’s good Emily’s trying with her father,” she said. “She’ll regret it if she doesn’t.”

Sharon looked down, relieved by the lack of sharpness in the comment. Brenda squeezed the hand she was holding.

Patrick turned over in their direction. “And how’s work, Brenda?”

She sighed. “Major Crimes is holdin’ it together without me for a few days. If anybody commits a murder before New Year’s, I’m gonna be real offended.”

“She made them swear they wouldn’t call unless a body literally fell through the ceiling,” Rusty said.

“That only happened once,” Brenda shot back.

Patrick chuckled. “Well let’s pray the city stays quiet.”

Sharon lifted an eyebrow at Brenda. “You hear that? The world has been instructed not to murder anyone until after the holidays.”

Brenda huffed. “It’d be real considerate.”

Everyone laughed, and the cluster of conversations began to scatter.

Soon Clay and Pat found themselves in a conversation about gas prices. Betsy wandered to the mantle and began unconsciously straightening the framed photos there. Willie Rae pretended not to notice, then followed behind her straightening Betsy’s adjustments.

Kathleen surveyed the room, then stepped toward the bookshelf, eyeing Sharon’s carefully arranged spines.

Just as Kathleen reached for the first bookend, Clay cleared his throat and spoke.

“…I’m just sayin’,” Clay grumbled, “folks in Washington don’t know the first thing about runnin’ a real business. Too many regulations stranglin’ the little guy.”

Patrick sipped his tea calmly. “Regulations keep the bridges from collapsing, Clay.”

Clay snorted. “My RV could drive over any bridge in this country and be just fine.”

Patrick gave him a polite, tolerant smile. “Yes. That’s what concerns me.”

Brenda made a small sound like a squeaking balloon. Sharon braced herself. Rusty mouthed, Oh no.

Clay leaned back. “Country’s changed too much. Too fast.”

Patrick nodded thoughtfully. “And not fast enough in the right places.”

Clay’s jaw clicked. Patrick remained serenely unbothered.

Betsy cleared her throat sharply from across the room. “I think that’s enough infrastructure talk for the moment, gentlemen.”

Both men instantly fell silent.

Willie Rae appeared with a plate of Joyce’s cookies. “Who wants somethin’ sweet?”

Patrick took one politely. Clay took three.

“Just half,” Betsy said, then ate the whole thing.

Sebastian tried to decline, but Penny pushed one into his hand and stared at him until he took a bite. 

Satisfied with her victory, Penny toddled off, crawled into Brenda’s lap, and started rubbing her cheek against her shoulder, purring like a cat.

Brenda laughed softly and smoothed her daughter’s hair. “She thinks she’s a cat…See? They love cats. I think they’d do great with a real kitty.

…Kitty. I miss her. And little Joel, poor thing off livin’ with Fritz’ loon of a sister. Someday soon we should—”

“Honey,” Sharon said gently. She brushed her knuckles along Brenda’s arm. “We talked about this. We’re barely keeping up with the humans we already have. Adding claws to this situation feels…medically unwise. Maybe when things calm down a tiny bit.”

Brenda sighed dramatically. “So…never.” She slumped down, defeated.

Sharon just smiled—a secret, tiny smile Brenda didn’t catch.

Across the room, Clay polished off the last of his cookies and brushed the crumbs off his shirt. Suddenly his face went soft with memory. He reached for a small, worn cardboard box on the coffee table that he’d brought out earlier—one he’d carried every Christmas since Brenda was little. “Got somethin’ for ya, Brenda Leigh.”

Brenda froze. Then Sharon froze. Then Rusty. Even Penny paused mid-bounce.

“Oh my gosh,” Brenda whispered. “Daddy, you didn’t bring—”

“I sure did.” Clay handed her the box with a proud little nod. “Wouldn’t be Christmas without him.”

Brenda took the box like it was humming with sacred energy. Her eyes went soft immediately.

Rusty leaned in. “What’s…in there?”

Brenda carefully lifted the lid.

An emotion-soaked “Keith!” sprung from her lips.

“Keith?” repeated Rusty.

From the box Brenda carefully extricated what looked to be a lopsided paper angel made from construction paper and a toilet-paper roll. It had a halo made from a pipe-cleaner, and two googly eyes—one slightly lower than the other. Glitter was glued in a blob on the chest. Yellowed tape stuck to its back. Its wings were crooked. It’s smile more than a little deranged.

Penny gasped. “KEEF!”

Christian clapped. “Keef up!”

Rusty squinted. “Wow. Keith’s really committed to being himself.”

Betsy peered over Sharon’s shoulder. “What on earth is that?”

Brenda swallowed. “He’s my tree topper. I made him in the fifth grade.”

“He looks like he saw some stuff in fifth grade and never recovered.” Rusty was laughing now.

Brenda bared her teeth at him then continued sweetly. “Daddy’s brought him along every Christmas they’ve been here.”

Clay sniffed. “Tradition.”

Bobby, leaning in the doorway, added, “Back home Brenda used to cry if we didn’t put him up every year.”

“BOBBY,” Brenda hissed, cheeks flushing.

Sharon stepped closer. “May I?” she asked softly.

Brenda nodded and handed Keith over.

Sharon held the angel like he was made of glass, taking in each crooked edge, each smudge of old glue. Her features softened into something so tender Brenda felt her insides melt like warm sugar.

“He’s perfect,” Sharon whispered.

She glanced up at the towering Douglas fir.

“Rusty? Can you get me the ladder?”

Rusty fetched the tall step ladder they’d dragged out for decorating earlier. He set it up beside the tree and held it steady as Sharon climbed.

Clay moved to the other side, hands ready. “Hold it tighter, son. Don’t let her fall.”

“I’m not gonna let her fall,” Rusty muttered.

Penny pointed upward. “Mama up!”

Christian bounced. “Up! Up! Up!”

The room quieted almost without anyone meaning it to. Even Charlie and Sebastian drifted closer, watching as Sharon reached the top step, one hand on the tree for balance, the other holding Keith like a crown.

“Okay…” she murmured, eyes on the highest branch. “Careful…steady…”

Brenda hovered below the ladder, arms half-raised like she might catch her wife and the angel both if gravity decided to betray them.

Finally, with a slow breath, Sharon placed Keith on the tippity top of their ten-foot Christmas tree.

He leaned dramatically. His googly eyes stared in two different directions. His halo sat askew like it had been through hard times.

But he stayed.

Clay cleared his throat, blinking fast. “Now it’s Christmas.”

The room stayed quiet for several moments.

Willie Rae dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her apron. Betsy’s expression mellowed into something warmer than her usual New England reserve. Patrick nodded once, like a judge approving a heartfelt closing argument. Even Kathleen’s lips curved into a faint smile.

“He has character,” Betsy said at last.

“I guess that’s one way to put it,” Sebastian muttered under his breath.

Charlie snorted. “I kinda love him.”

Rusty stepped back from the ladder, satisfaction on his face. Penny and Christian chanted “KEEF! KEEF!” like it was a spell.

Sharon climbed down and Brenda caught her in a quick, impulsive hug.

“Thank you,” Brenda whispered into her shoulder. “For makin’ him official.”

“He always was,” Sharon murmured back. “We just had to get him up there.”

For a moment, the house felt perfectly full.

Johnson and O’Dwyer.

South and North.

Old traditions and new ones, stitched together under a crooked angel.

They all stood there—the two women of the house holding their twins in their arms now—looking up at Keith—the ridiculous, precious fifth-grade tree topper presiding over the fanciest tree Brenda had ever owned.

Warmth spread through Brenda’s chest until she thought she might float.

This, she thought, was what she wanted. All of them here. All at once. Somehow, miraculously, in the same room.

She’d never felt this complete. Not with Fritz when things were good. Not ever.

Only Sharon, only this life shared with their beautiful children (toddlers and teenager) had ever made her feel like she’d finally landed where she belonged.

“Alright,” Willie Rae sniffed, clapping her hands once and knocking Brenda from her blissful daze. “Now that that’s settled, who wants somethin’ to eat?”

A chorus of yeses followed. People drifted toward the kitchen, into smaller conversations. The spell didn’t break exactly—it spread out, settled into the corners with the smell of pine and cookies and too many people sharing one space.

Sharon hung back for a second with Brenda, Rusty, and the twins, all still gazing at Keith.

“I told you Brenda Leigh, it’s going to be a wonderful Christmas,” Sharon said quietly.

Brenda nodded, eyes shining. “I think so too.”

Just then, from outside, a faint click sounded.

And then…

“HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAAAY!”

The front yard lit up blue and white through the window like an alien invasion. The snowman’s voice boomed against the glass, mechanical arm lurching to life.

Everyone in the living room jumped.

Kathleen blinked. “What was that?”

Clay’s voice floated proudly from the porch. “Timer on Frosty! Forgot he was set for six o’clock!”

Brenda covered her face with both hands.

Sharon choked on a laugh.

And the O’Dwyer-Johnson-etc. household plunged, once again, into noisy, ridiculous, perfect holiday chaos.

Chapter Text

Christmas Eve morning looked deceptively peaceful.

The dining room was full—every chair taken, every plate piled high with cinnamon rolls and waffles dusted with powdered sugar and berries. Sharon had done most of the cooking. Brenda had supervised with the enthusiasm of someone who believed she’d contributed equally by placing the whipped cream in the correct spot on the counter.

The long mahogany dining table stretched from wall to wall, packed with family. Brenda and Sharon sat side by side, with Betsy and Patrick just beside them. Across the table, Clay, Willie Rae, and Rusty formed the opposite row, while further down Kathleen and Sebastian tried to politely navigate the chaos. At the far end, Bobby, Joyce, and Charlie claimed their corner. And at the head of the table—situated proudly in their booster seats—sat two delighted little breakfast goblins, already sticky with syrup and berries, resembling their Mama B at the same age.

Everything was blissfully normal for approximately eight seconds.

Then Willie Rae, smiling brighter than the Christmas star, dabbed her mouth with a napkin and said something that would haunt Brenda for the rest of her life.

“Brenda Leigh, you look just wonderful this mornin’.”

“Why thank you, Mama.” Brenda flashed her mother a cheerful smile. In that moment she knew it was going to be a great day.

Willie Rae tipped her head, studying her a little closer. “Mhmm…a whole 180 degrees from last night. You had me worried.”

Brenda blinked. “Last night? What about last night? What are you talkin’ about?”

Willie Rae waved her fork. “Oh, honey, last night you sounded just awful. You woke your father and me up with all that moanin’…”

Sharon’s throat seized and she coughed, inhaling her orange juice.

Patrick paused mid-sip, eyes widening in horror. Betsy’s fork froze halfway to her mouth.

Brenda went white as the whipped cream.

Rusty looked like he’d just aged ten years.

“…I thought your stomach was givin’ you fits again. Not surprisin’ with the way you eat. I almost got out of bed to check on you, but by the time I got my robe on you’d settled right down. I figured your lovely Sharon was takin’ good care of you.”

Brenda wanted to crawl into the waffle iron and die.

Clay, grinning cheerfully, chimed in.

“Not gonna lie, it sounded rough, sugar—but your mother’s right.” Clay nodded toward Sharon with fatherly approval. “I’m sure Sharon had you sorted out in no time. You’re in good hands there.”

Charlie did her best to stifle a laugh, which finally broke through and manifested as a snort masked as a combination sneeze-cough.

Sebastian looked down at his plate and refused to make eye contact with anyone.

Patrick muttered something that sounded like a prayer for swift death.

Brenda tried to speak but only a hollow squeak pushed its way out.

Finally, Sharon stood abruptly—her chair scraping the floor, silverware clattering from the sudden movement.

“Brenda,” she said in a too-bright, too-calm voice, “could you help me in the kitchen?”

Brenda leapt up like she’d been sprung from hell itself. “Rusty, watch the twins for a minute, please. We’ll—we’ll be right back.”

The two women escaped into the kitchen like fugitives then crept into the pantry and closed the door behind them.

The moment the door swung shut, Brenda pressed both hands to her face. “Sharon. Oh my God. I am never going to be able to look your father in the eye again.”

Sharon sagged against the counter and shook her head. “You and me both.”

Suddenly, with renewed vigor Sharon stood straight up and glared daggers at her wife. Brenda could see the fire in her eyes and braced herself.

“Brenda Leigh Johnson O’Dwyer, you promised me last night you wouldn’t make noise!” Sharon hissed.

Brenda threw her hands up. “Well, it ain’t my fault you’re so good you have me forgettin’ every promise I ever made!”

“Oooh don’t you try to sweet talk your way out of this one… God, I knew something like this was going to happen! I knew it! I told you!”

“Well if you wanna play the blame game, Sharon…it was YOU who insisted everyone sleep under one roof! Mama and Daddy wanted to stay in the RV but you said, and I quote, ‘no, Brenda Leigh, we’re creating memories.’ Well congratulations! We made one!”

Sharon covered her face with her hand. “My mother will never look at me the same way again.”

“Sharon,” Brenda said, stepping closer, voice softening, “I love you. But all o' this is a risk you took the second you married me.”

Sharon cracked—just barely. A reluctant laugh escaped. “My God, I married you.”

“And you’re welcome,” Brenda said with a self-satisfied smirk.

Before Sharon could say anything else, Brenda leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to the corner of her mouth—just a soft brush of lips, a tiny apology and a victory lap all at once.

Sharon tried (and failed) to glare at her again. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here you are,” Brenda murmured, bumping her nose against Sharon’s in a fleeting little nuzzle.

“And there's nowhere else I'd ever want to be. You may be a disaster. But you’re my disaster.”

Brenda grinned, smug and tender all at once. “Well, Duchess, somebody has to keep your life excitin’.”

She pulled back just enough to breathe. “While we’re in here, let me ask—What do we need to do first so I can prove I’m capable of cookin’ one decent Christmas Eve dinner in front of your entire family?”

The air shifted just then.

Sharon’s eyes dropped briefly to Brenda’s mouth, her hand sliding to her hip, fingers curling with an intent that made her wife’s pulse skip. The brunette stepped in close, closer than before, her thigh brushing Brenda’s just enough to make her spine tingle.

Sharon’s eyes met hers now, still exasperated but warming.

“We start,” she said, “by not moaning loud enough to alarm your mother again.”

Brenda smirked as she slid her hands underneath Sharon’s shirt.

“No promises.”

*

That afternoon the kitchen had entered its danger zone phase—the point in every holiday where hope still technically exists, but the odds of survival are rapidly dropping.

Brenda was in the kitchen with Rusty, standing in front of an open fridge like it was a suspect she meant to break.

“Where is the butter?” she demanded, half inside the fridge like she might crawl through it to another dimension. “I bought three sticks yesterday. Three. They were right here.”

Rusty shifted a carton of eggs and a bag of shredded cheese in a hopeless attempt at detective work. “Maybe your mama used it?”

From the stove Willie Rae called, “I used one stick for the sweet potatoes. One, Brenda Leigh. Not three. I’m NOT lookin’ to give myself another heart attack—or anyone else for that matter—by cloggin’ everyone’s arteries!”

On the other side of the kitchen island, Betsy stood like a general at a field station, calmly chopping celery with small, authoritative clacks of the knife. “If you kept the butter on the same shelf every time, this wouldn’t happen,” she said mildly.

Brenda took a deep breath. “If I kept everythin’ on the same shelf every time, I’d be livin’ in a pantry dictatorship.” She stuck her head all the way into the fridge and muttered under her breath, “…but if I decide to do that, I know who to call to run it.”

Finding no evidence of the missing butter’s whereabouts—or its captors—Brenda shut the refrigerator door with the finality of a detective shelving a cold case.

Sharon slipped into the kitchen, tying back her hair with that quick, efficient motion that made Brenda’s stomach do backflips. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re down two sticks of butter and up three supervisors,” Brenda mumbled.

Sharon kissed her cheek. “You’re doing fine.”

Brenda wasn’t. And she knew it.

The blonde let out an exasperated sigh. Desperate to help, Sharon’s eyes peeked past her wife and over to the oven door.

Brenda followed her eyes then pointed her spoon at Sharon. “Don’t you dare try to take over. You promised to let me do Christmas dinner myself unless I begged for help.”

Sharon lifted her palms. “Unlike you, I’m honoring the terms of yesterday’s agreement.”

“Well I’m reconsiderin’ my life choices,” Brenda grumbled quietly, glaring at the oven like it had personally wronged her. It probably had. It almost certainly would.

Before Sharon could respond, Rusty yelped. “Uh—smoke?!”

They all turned. The oven door was fogged with a faint gray haze.

“I told you, you filled the casserole dish too high,” Willie Rae directed at Betsy.

“You told her it was too full,” Betsy said, pointing at Brenda. “You told me it was ‘fine, sugar.’”

The oven door gave a faint wheeze, then a sad hiss of smoke puffed out around the edges like it was trying to escape its own fate.

A familiar whine of hydraulics sounded from outside. Clay’s RV door slammed, followed by the heavy thump of boots on the walkway.

“Sharon,” Brenda groaned, “please go intercept Daddy before he plugs in Frosty again.”

Sharon opened her mouth to answer when her phone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting up.

Penny Warrington

Sharon’s entire face softened. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.

“Oh!” she breathed, reaching for it. “It’s Penny.”

“Tell her I said hi and that I’m trapped in a butterless hellscape,” Brenda said, already moving toward the oven.

Sharon grinned and swiped to answer. “Penny! Hi.”

“Sharon!” Penny’s voice came warm and bright through the speaker. “Please tell me I didn’t catch you knee-deep in toddlers and in-laws.”

Sharon looked around the kitchen: smoke seeping out of the oven, Betsy and Willie Rae in a standoff over salt, Rusty hovering with an oven mitt and no plan, Brenda trying to decide whether to open the oven or perform a culinary exorcism.

A tiny, helpless laugh slipped out of her. “You did, actually.”

In the background, Penny chuckled. “Well, then I called at exactly the right time. I just wanted to wish you and Brenda a Merry Christmas. I’ve been thinking about you and the kids. I miss my favorite chaotic family.”

Sharon leaned back against the counter, clutching the phone a little tighter. “We miss you too. The twins saw a pretty redhead in a commercial last week and your mini namesake yelled ‘Penny!’ at the television.”

Penny laughed. “Smart girl. Good taste.”

A loud clang erupted behind Sharon as Brenda dropped a baking sheet in the sink.

“Brenda Leigh, let me help!” begged Willie Rae.

“Mama, you’ve already done way too much. You just need to sit there and relax. I’ve got this under contro—

“RUSTY, DON’T OPEN THAT!”

A puff of smoke billowed out as Rusty cracked the oven door an inch too far.

He stumbled back, coughing. “I thought we were supposed to ventilate!”

“Not like that,” Betsy scolded. “Step aside.”

“Everything’s fine,” Sharon said into the phone, voice higher than normal. “Nothing is on fire.”

“Yet,” Penny said cheerfully. “How’s your blood pressure?”

“Fragile.”

Brenda shouted over her shoulder, “Tell her I said Merry Christmas and I’m makin’ her a pie next time she comes over, even if it kills me!”

“Kills you, Brenda Leigh? Let’s think of poor Penny!” Sharon teased while Brenda stuck her tongue out in mock-annoyance.

“Brenda sends her love and a death-defying pie.” Sharon relayed.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Penny replied. There was a smile in her voice. “Listen, when the madness dies down, we should do dinner. I’d love to see you all. Maybe after the new year?”

“I’d like that,” Sharon said softly. She meant it more than she could say. “I really would. We’ll call you when the dust settles.”

“Promise,” Penny said. “Merry Christmas, Sharon.”

“Merry Christmas, Penny.”

Behind her, Clay bellowed from the doorway, “WHO UNPLUGGED FROSTY?!”

Sharon winced. “I have to go,” she said quickly. “I’ll call you soon, I promise.”

“Go,” Penny laughed. “Save Christmas.”

Sharon hung up just as Brenda spun around, cheeks flushed, hair frizzing at the edges.

“Did she say she misses me?” Brenda demanded.

“Yes,” Sharon said. “And she wants to do dinner after the new year.”

Brenda beamed. “Good. At least someone believes I can feed people without poisonin’ ’em.”

From the stove, Willie Rae said, “Well, we’ll see about that once this gravy is done.”

Betsy sniffed. “Gravy isn’t supposed to have that much flour.”

“Gravy is supposed to have taste,” Willie Rae shot back.

Sharon pressed her lips together to hide a smile. Chaos. She was steeped in total familial, holiday chaos. Her heart felt full to bursting.

*

With the sweet potato spill smoking on the bottom rack and Rusty opening the oven every twelve seconds like a panicked prey animal, the internal temperature kept dropping. And every time Brenda checked the ham, it looked exactly the same as before—too pale, too soft, nowhere near dinner-ready. And with a majority of the family sitting around the living room talking about food, the clock was not her friend. The ham needed hours. Hours Brenda no longer had. She cranked the heat up to high and prayed to the gods she wasn’t about to give her entire family the gift of Trichinosis this Christmas.

The afternoon began to slide by in a blur of half-finished tasks and overlapping conversations.

Joyce had found just about every candle in the house now and swapped them out with ones she unpacked from her bag that smelled strongly of pine and spiced apple Brandy.

“Joyce,” Brenda said carefully, “Why does the whole house smell like a Christmas tree passed out in a saloon?”

Joyce waved a hand. “Trust me. It’s festive.”

Distantly, from the loveseat, Charlie muttered, “It’s a hate crime.”

Christian toddled past dragging a dish towel. Penny trailed behind him trying to wipe the floor with a paper plate. Both then took turns using their makeshift weapons to whack the Christmas tree. At one point, Sebastian rescued a rogue ornament from rolling under the couch with a quick reflex that made Rusty raise his eyebrows.

“Nice catch,” Rusty said.

Sebastian shrugged. “I’m used to things falling apart.”

Charlie rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in her skull. “What a line. Do you practice those in the mirror?”

Sebastian hesitated. “Sometimes.”

She stared at him, thrown for a second despite herself, then shook her head. “I can’t with you.”

Rusty watched the exchange with the wary fascination of someone viewing a small, localized storm evolve into a full-blown tornado. “This is gonna end in disaster,” he whispered to Brenda.

“Well, it beats someone gettin’ murdered before dessert,” she whispered back.

Clay was forced to take a break from his efforts to salvage a Frosty filled Christmas when he was dragged away by Patrick, who had decided that, of all the crises available to him this week, an electrical fire on Christmas Eve was beneath his dignity.

“I’m just sayin’,” Clay muttered as they stepped back inside, “man can’t even plug in his own snowman without someone shoutin’ about permits. Nobody can mind their own business in this darn city!”

Patrick patted his shoulder. “I have to tell you, Clay…In Boston, plastic snowmen aren’t typically encouraged to light up like small nuclear events either.”

“That sounds un-American,” Clay replied.

Rusty passed Sharon in the hall and whispered, “They’re getting along. Should we be worried?”

Sharon peeked into the living room later and saw them on the sofa together, glasses of iced tea in hand.

“…so when the doctor told me thyroid cancer, I figured that was it,” Clay was saying. “But Willie Rae kept after me with that low-sodium nonsense. Thought I was gonna die of boredom first.”

Patrick’s expression was earnestly kind. “From what I’ve seen, you’re stronger than ever. You look good.”

Clay shrugged but his chest puffed a little. “Well. Cancer didn’t get me. RV maintenance might,” he grumbled. “And the whole family keeps tellin’ me not to lift things.”

In the doorway, Brenda sighed under her breath and beamed as she watched her father. “Look at him, he’s got that ‘I’m the most interestin’ man here’ look on his face.”

Sharon laughed as she whispered back, “He might just be. Dad seems enchanted.”

Clay noticed them hovering and lifted his glass. “Hey! Deputy Chief. Captain. Y’all done arguin’ over butter?”

“Not even close,” Brenda said.

*

Brenda made her way back to the kitchen to check on the ham again when she noticed her phone buzzing on the counter. She ignored it.

It buzzed again.

She stared at it as if it was looking to harness what was left of her battered soul.

Sharon came up from behind and nudged her. “You should check. Just in case.”

Brenda answered with her best deputy chief voice. “This better be Santa confessin’ to breakin’ and enterin’.”

There was a moment of panicked silence.

Then Michael Tao’s voice burst through the speaker.

“Chief! Thank God. We just need to confirm whether the Hernandez file was archived under H or filed with the supplemental gang intel index because—”

“Lieutenant,” Brenda said, pressing a hand over her eyes, “I have not taken one—not one—proper day off since the twins were born, and somehow this—alphabetical mixup—is the emergency y’all save for me when I decide to take a few days off for Christmas?”

“It’s technically alphanumerical order,” he said earnestly. “There’s a date stamp involved—”

“Lieutenant Tao!”

Her voice went flat enough to iron clothes on. “Listen, I love you dearly. But unless someone is actively shootin’ at you right this second, hang up the phone, put the file down, and walk away.”

On the other end, Mike exhaled like a condemned man granted clemency.

“Yes ma’am. Right away, Chief. Merry Christmas.”

“Uh-huh.”

Click.

Sharon grinned at her across the room with unmistakable pride.

Brenda muttered, “I swear, the LAPD smells weakness.”

And weak was just how Brenda felt at that moment. Weak and helpless. She could feel herself beginning to sweat. Sharon could tell something was wrong.

“Honey, you look pale. You need to relax. Everything is going to be fi—”

“HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAAHHHH—” Frosty screeched, his voice lowering to a demonic octave as his power source failed mid-greeting.

Sharon pressed both palms to her eyes. “I swear to God that snowman is possessed.”

Brenda pointed at her. “YOU SEE IT TOO?!”

Willie Rae, still in the kitchen, sighed. “I’m goin’ to find your father and drag him in here myself before that snowman wakes the dead.” She marched out.

This left Betsy. Sharon. And Brenda.

Three women. And one increasingly deranged ham.

Brenda opened the oven again.

The ham looked…wet.

And angry.

“Oh no,” Brenda whispered. “Oh no. Why does it look like it’s breathin’? This is far more disturbin’ than anything I’ve ever seen on the job.” Her face contorted into a look of terror.

“It’s…steaming,” Sharon said, stepping back.

“It’s swelling,” Betsy corrected.

“It’s—”

BOOOOOM.

A concussive, meaty explosion rocked the oven door.

Brenda shrieked so loudly the neighbors probably called 911.

She flung herself backward—straight into the kitchen table, which sent Willie Rae’s entire bowl of collard greens crashing to the floor.

The twins, who had wandered in during the commotion, screamed with delight.

“HAM GO BOOM!” Christian shouted.

Little Penny clapped. “BOOM HAM!”

Sharon wiped brown sugar glaze shrapnel off her sleeve. “Brenda Leigh…did you…did you turn the oven to broil?!”

“I PANICKED!” Brenda wailed. “I THOUGHT MAYBE IT WOULD HURRY THINGS ALONG!”

Betsy stared at the oven like it had committed a crime. “That ham died violently.”

Brenda’s eye began to twitch and she spun toward the blender. “Okay—cranberry sauce! I can still salvage the cranberry sauce!”

She lifted the lid. Tasted it. “Not bad!” But it was still too thick. She put the spoon down.

…But forgot to put the lid back on.

She reached out and smashed the button down…

WHIRRRRRRRR—SPLOOORCH.

A geyser of cold cranberry sauce shot upward like Old Faithful, then whipped around ferociously, splattering everything within a ten-foot radius…including Patrick and Kathleen who had just come around the corner to refill their wine glasses. Patrick was hit square in the chest. Kathleen’s hair took a full hit like she had been baptized in an Ocean Spray bog.

Sharon, standing closest, took the brunt of the blast. Cranberry dripped down her glasses. Into her shirt. Across her cheek.

Penny screamed with laughter.

Christian rubbed cranberry onto Penny’s cheek.

Then into his mouth.

Then onto his sister’s forehead.

“It’s SNOW!” Penny shrieked as it fell from the ceiling, smearing more.

“It’s JUICE!” Christian insisted.

“It’s EVERYWHERE,” Sharon said flatly.

Brenda covered her mouth in horror. “I…I…Sharon, I’m so sorry—Oh my God, I’ve murdered your father!!!” Brenda exclaimed in a daze.

Patrick dabbed his face with a napkin, tasting what had managed to splash over his lips. “It’s…not half bad.”

And because the universe was not done…from outside the kitchen window came a familiar, dreadful cry.

“HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAAAAAY!”

Frosty lit up in violent blue strobe, illuminating the entire smoke-filled, sauce-splattered kitchen like a nightclub for people who hated joy.

Kathleen blinked slowly. “Is this…NORMAL?”

Betsy sighed. “It’s an improvement over the ham.”

*

Somehow, miraculously, after multiple showers and several wardrobe changes, they all made it to the table.

Almost all the side dishes had been destroyed along with the main course.
The mashed potatoes were pink.
The cornbread was mush.
The sweet potatoes were charcoal.

And Willie Rae’s collard greens, having met their tragic end on the linoleum, were now being gleefully worn by Penny and Christian who’d decided they made excellent sea-monster hair.

The only surviving item was a large pot of Boston baked beans Brenda had dumped from a can and warmed up in the microwave to serve as a symbol of cultural solidarity.

While each family member pitifully scooped up their portion of beans like sailors’ rations, one sad solitary tear slipped down Brenda’s cheek as she passed out instant ramen in Styrofoam cups.

Brenda stood at the table in defeat.
“I’m so sorry. I swear I tried—”

Sharon squeezed her hand. “Honey…it’s fine.”

Rusty sniffed the air. “It’s…mostly fine.”

Sharon cleared her throat. “I’m just going to say it. Since half of dinner is beans, we’re going to have to keep all the windows in this house open tonight. Otherwise Santa won’t make it out alive. He’ll never see another Christmas.”

Clay cackled. “NOW that’s the Christmas spirit!”

Everyone dug in—grateful, amused, cranberry-stained.

And Brenda, despite everything, felt her heart loosen.

They’d survived dinner. Somehow.

Chapter Text

By some miracle, the house had endured the Great Ham Explosion of 2014, the ensuing side-dish famine, and a cranberry sauce massacre that left half the dining room looking like a crime scene.

The bean-and-ramen feast had been cleared, the dishes were stacked in teetering piles, and the twins had new cranberry stains in places no rational person would have predicted. Frosty was mercifully dark. Keith still leaned crooked at the top of the tree, presiding over the wreckage like a demented little general.

Now it was later—getting into the thick of Christmas Eve.

Classic holiday tunes were crooning low in the background. Board games and half-finished puzzles littered the coffee table. The TV was on low with some crackling fireplace channel nobody was actually watching. The living room glowed in soft, twinkling lights.

And in the middle of it all, Charlie and Sebastian were waging war.

“I told you not to wait to start building on Boardwalk,” Sebastian said, voice clipped in that I’m clearly the only competent one here tone. “You don’t just squander prime property because you feel bad for someone and want to keep the game going. It ruins the whole strategy. The whole point of the game.”

Rusty got up and excused himself from the game, a wise effort to get out of the line of imminent fire.

Charlie, cross-legged on the floor, flicked a ‘Chance’ card at Sebastian like a weapon. “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Majesty of Capitalism, I thought we were all enjoying ourselves, not reenacting your future TED Talk.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” he snapped. He pointed sharply at Park Place. “And you cannot put four houses and a hotel on the same property. That isn’t how—”

“Well maybe if you stopped lecturing me for five seconds, you’d remember this is supposed to be fun,” Charlie snapped, sugary-sweet fake smile and all. “It’s my game. My rules. I can do what I want. You don’t like it, go reorganize a spreadsheet or whatever you MIT people do for fun.”

“I don’t reorganize spreadsheets,” Sebastian scoffed. “I optimize them.”

Charlie threw her head back with a groan. “Oh my God. You hear that, right? He’s doing the thing again.”

Everyone heard him. They didn’t have a choice.

Rusty glanced at Sharon. “Should we…intervene?”

Sharon sipped her tea. “If we do, they’ll turn on us. Let them exhaust themselves.”

“That’s your strategy?” Rusty murmured.

“I work Internal Affairs,” she murmured back. “Minimal involvement, maximum observation.”

Across the room, Betsy’s knitting needles clicked steadily, her eyes occasionally flicking toward the teens. Patrick was pretending to read but hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Clay grumbled something about “kids these days” and “arguin’ over fake money.” Willie Rae busied herself rearranging dessert plates that had already been arranged three times.

“…and by the way,” Charlie exploded, “nobody asked you to come down here and act like you’re better than everyone just because you live in Cambridge and know what a ‘portfolio’ is!”

Sebastian grimaced. “Nobody asked you to act like everything is stupid just because you’re scared to care about anything!”

The room went silent.

“Okaaay,” Rusty breathed. “We’ve reached the personal attack portion of the evening.”

Charlie blanched like she’d gone a step too far and then, because she was seventeen, doubled down anyway. “You’re insufferable!”

“You’re impossible!” he fired back.

“Kids,” Sharon said sharply, just enough captain in her voice to cut through the static. “Take a break. Now.”

Charlie shoved herself to her feet, cheeks flushed. “Fine. I’m done anyway.”

She stalked down the hall and disappeared into the guest room she’d claimed.

Sebastian stood more slowly, gathering the Monopoly money like he needed something to do with his hands. “Whatever,” he muttered, and headed for the opposite hall.

The adults collectively exhaled.

Clay cleared his throat. “They’re sweet on each other,” he announced.

Betsy sniffed. “Obviously.”

Brenda, sunk deep in the couch cushions, let her head fall back. “Lord, please give me the strength to deal with this. Ugh. I barely survived one catastrophic dinner. I do not have the energy to referee hormonal warfare.”

Sharon nudged her knee gently with hers. “You’re doing fine.”

Brenda snorted. “You keep sayin’ that. I’m gonna start believin’ you and then we’re both in trouble.”

*

An hour and a few rounds of charades later, the volume in the house finally dropped. The twins were in footie pajamas, sticky and half-dozing on their grandparents. Rusty had retreated to a corner with a book and a protective force field of sarcasm. Kathleen was answering “just one more email.” Joyce and Bobby were engaged in a low-key debate over whether the exploding ham had been a cosmic metaphor.

Brenda rubbed her temples. “I need a drink.”

Sharon, next to her on the couch, hummed in agreement. “And I need one that isn’t sweet tea or bean-flavored remorse.”

Brenda leaned close. “Pantry raid?” she whispered and Sharon giggled. “You get white, I get merlot.”

“And what else?” Sharon asked, reading the mischief in her eyes.

“…Ding Dongs,” Brenda admitted. “It’s been a stressful twenty-four hours, Duchess. I need somethin’ familiar and full of preservatives.”

Sharon huffed another small, fond laugh. “Alright. Let’s go corrupt your blood sugar further.”

They slipped away from the living room chaos and padded down the hall toward the kitchen. The overhead lights were low now—only the glow from the tree and the stove hood illuminated the route. The pantry door stood mostly closed, a faint line of light underneath—nobody had turned it off after the cranberry sauce massacre.

Brenda reached for the handle. “I swear, if someone ate my last pack—”

She pushed the door open, then shrieked as though she’d interrupted a vermin family reunion.

“OH SWEET BABY JESUS ON HIS BIRTHDAY!”

Sharon yelped, “CHARLIE! SEBASTIAN!” at the exact same time.

The teens sprang apart so violently Sebastian slammed his elbow into a shelf and sent a box of pasta raining down.

Charlie and Sebastian had been kissing. And not just kissing. They had untangled themselves almost instantly, but not fast enough to hide what had very clearly been happening.

Sebastian’s belt was unbuckled, hanging uselessly from one loop. His polo shirt and hoodie were crumpled up and cast off like rags on the floor.

Charlie’s sweater was inside-out and on the ground next to his. She stood there covering herself in only her pink and yellow polka dotted bra.

Next to the sweater and hoodie were two discarded socks neither of them seemed to be wearing, and one article of clothing Brenda did not want to look closer at to identify.

Charlie’s hair was an absolute disaster.

Sebastian’s was worse.

For a moment, no one breathed.

Then Charlie squeaked, “This isn’t—we weren’t—”

“—doing anything?” Sharon finished, voice sharp enough to slice open a can.

Sebastian made a helpless noise. “We were just—uh—resolving our differences?”

Brenda blinked slowly. “Well sugar, unless resolvin’ your differences involves takin’ off everything but your good intentions, I don’t think that’s what was happenin’.”

Brenda groaned and her brain blue-screened as she further surveyed the scene in front of her.

“Seriously Auntie,” Sebastian looked at Sharon. “We were just—” he choked before he could get out the rest of the words. He scrambled to get his shirt and hoodie back on.

“Talking,” Charlie said firmly as she pulled her sweater over her head.

“In each other’s mouths?!” Brenda squeaked.

Sharon, cheeks scarlet, flapped a hand between them. “Out. Both of you. Out of the pantry. Now.”

Charlie and Sebastian stumbled past them and into the kitchen, avoiding all eye contact. Brenda and Sharon stepped aside, letting them flee like startled deer.

As soon as the teens disappeared down the hall, Brenda grabbed the pantry door and shut it. Hard.

Silence.

Then Brenda put her hand on her chest. “Is this pantry the new hotspot? Do we need to start checkin’ IDs at the door?”

Sharon clapped a hand over her own mouth, torn between horror and laughter. “I…cannot…believe that just happened.”

“Oh, believe it,” Brenda groaned. “My niece and your nephew just christened the canned goods.”

Sharon exhaled sharply. “Okay. We need a plan.”

“Yeah, we do,” Brenda agreed. “Step one, I’m never eatin’ Ding Dongs outta this pantry again.”

Brenda threw her hands up as they backtracked down the hall. “Of course it’s our two. A Johnson and an O’Dwyer? That’s combustible material.”

Sharon muttered, “Yes. Apparently, that inescapable magnetic force is hereditary.”

They lingered in the hall for a few minutes instead of joining the masses in the living room. “Okay. Okay. We saw the same thing, right? That wasn’t just a stress-induced hallucination?”

“No. That was definitely real. That was…oh God.” Sharon’s shock was regrouping.

They stared at each other.

“You talk to them,” Brenda blurted.

Sharon’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the responsible one!” Brenda said, gesturing helplessly. “You give speeches. You do calm. You have that quiet terrifying voice. I just interrogate murderers, Sharon, that is not the same skill set!”

“Are you kidding? You’re the one who can turn a grown man into a puddle with one raised eyebrow. When you go in for the kill, you have a psychopathic voice and a warm biscuit smile. Use your powers!”

“This is not a homicide,” Brenda said. “Yet.”

They both winced.

Sharon scrubbed a hand over her face. “Okay. Okay. We’re not going to panic. We’re going to be adults about this.”

“We are adults,” Brenda muttered. “Technically.”

Sharon let out a long breath. “We’ll talk to them. Together. But later, when we’ve both had time to…emotionally defibrillate.”

“I’m not talkin’ to anybody without wine,” Brenda said firmly.

“And Ding Dongs,” Sharon added.

Brenda softened. “You really do know me, baby.”

Sharon sighed, a reluctant little smile tugging at her lips. “Unfortunately.”

*

They did not get their wine right away.

Because ten minutes later, as Brenda was rummaging half-heartedly through a cabinet and Sharon was checking on the twins, Charlie appeared in the kitchen doorway.

She hovered there, arms folded, and eyeliner slightly smeared. She cleared her throat. “Aunt Brenda?”

Brenda nearly dropped a mug. “Oh! Uh. Hey, darlin’.” She tried not to picture the pantry. “You, um…need something?”

Charlie hesitated, biting her lip for a few moments before speaking. “Can I…talk to you for a second? Just you?”

Brenda blinked. “Sure.” She glanced toward the hall as if hoping Sharon might swoop in anyway. No such luck. “Let’s, uh, sit.”

They took spots at the kitchen table, the same one that had recently hosted cranberry carnage. Charlie picked at a dried speck of sauce with her fingernail, clearly searching for words.

“So,” she said finally. “Just so we’re clear. You saw nothing.”

Brenda arched a brow.

Charlie groaned and covered her face with both hands. “Ugh. This is so embarrassing.”

“Charlie honey, I’ve been embarrassed more in the last twenty-four hours than most people are in a lifetime,” Brenda said. “You’re safe.”

Charlie peeked through her fingers. “Okay… so…I can’t stand that nephew of Aunt Sharon’s. He is so annoying. And smug. And pretentious. But also—”

She made a little strangled noise in her throat.

Brenda bit back a smile. “But also…?”

Charlie muttered, “His accent is kinda cute. And his stupid curls aren’t the worst. And sometimes he looks at me like I’m not invisible and I hate that I don’t hate it.”

“Oh, honey. Believe me… I know exactly what you’re goin’ through.” Brenda thought of her own wife just then, and the smile she’d been trying to contain finally spread, slow and warm.

Charlie snorted. “Not possible. You and Aunt Sharon are disgustingly perfect. It makes people nauseous. In a good way.”

“You know we used to fight all the time, right?” Brenda said. “At first we couldn’t stand each other. And that’s puttin’ it mildly. We drove each other downright crazy.”

Charlie blinked. “No way.”

“Oh yes way. If I could’ve arrested her for bein’ bossy and judgy and a total pain in my backside, I would have done it ten times over. And if Sharon could’ve written me up for bein’ irritatin’, she would’ve used every form in the building.”

Charlie laughed despite herself.

“Sometimes the person who gets under your skin does it because they’re gettin’ under your heart too,” Brenda added gently.

Charlie chewed on the words of wisdom for a minute, then blurted, “My mom’s kinda jealous of you two.”

Brenda’s eyebrows shot up. “Your mom? Jealous of me? Those are some words I never thought I’d hear.”

“Well, yeah.” Charlie shrugged. “She and Dad…it’s just not like that anymore. So when she sees you and Aunt Sharon—being all strong and…team-y…it makes her wish she had that. Or that she used to appreciate it more.”

Brenda stared, caught between flattered and uncomfortable. “Well…that’s…somethin’ to think on,” she said softly.

Charlie slumped forward, chin on her arms. “You and Aunt Sharon are so…in love. And gross. And sweet. And real. And I don’t know, I guess…it makes you kind of the standard now. For everybody.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Brenda said weakly.

“Maybe,” Charlie said. “But it’s true.”

Charlie’s mouth curved despite herself. “God Aunt Brenda, you don’t even realize how sappy you are now.”

“Motherhood ruined me,” Brenda said. “Anyway. Maybe you and Sebastian ain’t meant to be anything serious. Maybe you’re just supposed to annoy each other and kiss or whatever in pantries for a bit and then move on. Or maybe you’re supposed to annoy each other forever.” She shrugged. “Point is, you don’t have to know tonight. You just have to be honest. With him. And with yourself.”

Charlie went quiet, ruminating on her aunt’s advice.

“So what do I do?” she said at last. “Like…right now?”

“Right now?” Brenda said. “You go brush your teeth, fix your eyeliner, and talk to him like a human being instead of some telemarketer who’s callin’ during dinner. And you remember, you’re allowed to like someone and still set boundaries.”

“Boundaries like ‘no more pantry’?” Charlie muttered.

“Oh, that one’s non-negotiable,” Brenda said. “Pantry privileges are officially revoked.”

Charlie snorted. “Okay. Deal.”

She stood, then hesitated, looking unexpectedly young for a second. “Thanks,” she muttered. “You know. For not freaking out.”

Brenda softened. “You’re welcome, sugar.”

Charlie took a step, then turned back. “Look, I only met Aunt Sharon because she fell into our family through you. But she’s… good with you. Like she’s actually comfortable being her whole self. That says a lot about you, Aunt Brenda.” She jerked a thumb toward the dining room. “And people need to chill about the whole ham-splosion situation.”

Brenda’s eyes narrowed and her face fell momentarily.

“So don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re the weird one in this family. Because, spoiler alert, you’re all weird.”

Brenda felt her throat constrict. “I’ll…keep that in mind.”

Charlie nodded, shoved her hands in her pockets, and slunk out of the kitchen.

Brenda sat there for a second, absolutely still.

Then she whispered, “What in the world is happenin’ to my life?”

*

The bedtime routine started as a negotiation and quickly devolved into a wrestling match.

“Penelope, honey, pajamas go on your body, not on your stuffed dinosaur,” Brenda said, gently peeling the tiny fleece pants off the toy.

Penny shrieked, giggled, and did a somersault onto the bed.

Christian, meanwhile, marched proudly around the room holding one sock like it was a victory flag.

Sharon swooped in like the calm, organized half of the parenting unit. “Okay, troops. Who wants to hear a Christmas secret?”

Two toddler heads whipped toward her.

Brenda raised her brows. Impressive.

Sharon leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you hear that? Listen.”

She tilted her head dramatically. Brenda played along instantly.

“I hear…something,” Brenda whispered. “Like someone laughin’…ho, ho, ho…”

The twins gasped, eyes turning into saucers of pure magic.

Penny grabbed Christian’s hand.

“Santa!” she squealed.

And before Brenda or Sharon could stop them, the twins bolted out of the room on chubby, sock-skidding feet.

“Wait—!” Brenda tried.

Too late.

They peered over the upstairs bannister—

Down below, the front door opened.

And there stood Clay, in a full Santa suit, belly pillow stuffed so big he waddled, fake beard slightly crooked, and a giant black sack of toys slung over one shoulder.

“HO HO HO!” he boomed, waving up at them.

The twins lost their minds in the best way.

“Santaaaa!”

“Santa! Hi Santa!!”

Clay winked broadly. “Merry Christmas, little ones!” he bellowed up at them.

Brenda grabbed the railing, laughing despite herself. “Oh my God, he’s committed,” she whispered to her wife.

Sharon looped an arm around her waist, voice warm. “Look at their faces.”

Penny hopped in place like she might explode from excitement.

Christian clapped so hard he nearly toppled backward.

Sharon raised her voice gently. “Okay my loves—if you want Santa to bring the toys, you have to go back to bed. Those are the rules.”

Penny froze mid-bounce.

“Rules?” she echoed, scandalized.

Brenda rolled her eyes playfully. “Yes, Penny, honey. You’ll come to find Mama loves rules.”

Sharon elbowed her lightly.

Reluctantly, the twins shuffled back to their room, still breathless with excitement.

Brenda and Sharon tucked them in—soft blankets, stuffed animals, all the goodnight kisses.

“Love you, Penny pie,” Brenda whispered.

“Muh you too, Mama,” Penny mumbled, burying her face into her elephant plush.

Sharon smoothed Christian’s hair. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart. We’ll see you in the morning.”

Christian stared up at them solemnly…then whispered, concentrating hard…

“Can’t…see Santa.

‘Cause…it’s…

‘gainst the rules.”

He got the whole sentence out.

Brenda slapped a hand over her heart. “Did you hear that? Full sentence! Look at you, baby! He’s his mother’s son,” she teased.

Sharon beamed, proud enough to burst.

The twins grinned sleepily, their eyelids drooping, their world safe and whimsical.

Brenda’s face softened, melted, gentled into something that made Sharon’s heart thump.

“They’re perfect,” Brenda whispered.

Sharon leaned her head against Brenda’s shoulder. “They’re ours.”

“We…we made a real family, didn’t we?”

Sharon squeezed her hand. “We did, honey.”

Brenda and Sharon slipped out, pulling the door shut softly behind them—hearts overflowing with love and Christmas magic.

*

Later, once the twins were fast asleep—sugar crashed and dreaming of candy canes—and Clay had retired his Santa getup for the night, Brenda caught sight of her father outside.

He had turned the volatile snowman back on, but for once, the frozen fiend seemed to be behaving. This time her father wasn’t wrestling with Frosty’s wiring or dragging extension cords across the lawn. He was just standing on the front walk with his hands in his pockets, staring out at the quiet street. The lights from Frosty’s bulk and their lopsided tree glowed softly behind him.

Brenda slipped on her sweater and stepped out, letting the front door click shut behind her. The night was cool for Los Angeles, the sky pale and hazy with city light.

“Hey, Daddy,” she said gently.

Clay glanced over, his face creasing into a smile. “Hey there, baby girl.”

She fell into step beside him. They stood shoulder to shoulder in comfortable silence for a long moment.

“Nice night,” Clay said eventually. “Don’t feel like Christmas without the cold, but…it ain’t bad.”

Brenda elbowed him. “Hey, look on the bright side. It ain’t the Christmas of ’89. No busted heater. No squirrel in the cabinets. You’re movin’ up.”

Clay barked a laugh. “That damn squirrel was a terrorist.”

They watched a car roll lazily past at the end of the block, festive music faintly audible through the windows.

“I’m real glad we’re here,” Clay said, surprising her. His voice had gone softer, almost shy. “Me and your Mama. I know it ain’t easy havin’ us underfoot. We can be a bit much.”

“A bit,” Brenda echoed, but there was no bite in it.

Clay glanced sideways at her. “But you still asked us to come. And you let us park that big ol’ beast on your street. And you let your Mama rearrange your kitchen. And you let me terrorize your neighbors with Frosty.”

Brenda rolled her eyes. “I did not let you terrorize anybody. That was a hostile takeover.”

Clay chuckled. Then he sobered. “I mean it. Thank you. For wantin’ us here. For lettin’ us see your life. This house. Your…family.” He cleared his throat. “I never thought I’d get to see you settled like this.”

Brenda stared at him. “Like what?”

Clay shrugged, eyes on the dark yard. “Like…a wife, a happy one. And a mama. Thought maybe you’d marry your work and call it done. And then when all that happened with Fritz and you got hurt and we almost lost you…” His voice caught, but he swallowed it down. “Me and your mama figured, well. Maybe that was it. Maybe we’d just have the boys’ families and let that be enough.”

He sniffed, reached out, and tugged her to his side. “And then one day, from the child we thought would never have ‘em, we got three grandchildren. Just like that. Poof.” He snapped his fingers. “Like some kinda miracle.”

Brenda’s eyes burned.

“Daddy…”

He hugged her then, big and rough and too tight, her ribs protesting. “Thank you,” he muttered into her hair. “For givin’ me two babies to spoil and one cranky teenager to lecture about drivin’. I never thought I’d get to be this kind of granddaddy.”

She swallowed hard. “Anytime.”

The hug lasted just long enough to hurt in a good way. When he finally released her, Clay cleared his throat, embarrassed by his own emotion.

“Alright,” he muttered gruffly. “Enough o’ that. I gotta go fix Rudolph’s nose. Darn thing keeps poppin’ off.”

Brenda blinked. “RUDOLPH?! You brought a Rudolph too?! And what about his nose?”

Clay jerked his head toward the RV, where a plastic reindeer lay on its side, nose detached. “Picked him up at a rest stop. Nose fell off in Tucson. I’m gonna super glue it. That reindeer is gonna pull his weight if it kills him.”

He trudged off toward the driveway.

Brenda watched him go, heart feeling strangely light and heavy at the same time.

“Crazy man,” she murmured fondly. “My crazy Daddy.”

“Hey.”

She turned. Bobby stood in the doorway, two beers in hand.

“Can I join the outdoor feelings club?” he asked.

She sniffed and wiped at her eyes quickly. “You saw that, huh?”

“Hard to miss.” He stepped out and handed her a bottle. “Here. Don’t say I never bring you anything.”

She twisted the cap off. “I’d rather have my wine.”

“Yeah, well, this is a brother-sister talk. Beer’s required.”

They clinked bottles and took long pulls.

For a while they just stood there, watching Clay try to tape Rudolph’s nose back on while arguing under his breath with an imaginary foreman.

Finally Bobby said, “You know…I’m real happy for you.”

Brenda snorted. “Wow. Don’t strain yourself.”

He gave her a look. “I mean it. I didn’t think I’d ever see you like this.”

“Like what?” she asked, a touch defensive. “Happy?”

“Domestic,” he said.

She made a face. “Rude.”

“I’m serious.” He gestured vaguely at the house. “You got a whole thing in there. Wife. Kids. Chaos. Collard greens on the floor. Ramen dinners. You’re…settled. And surprisingly, you don’t look like you wanna run for your life.”

Brenda stared at the beer in her hand. “I’m not good at it,” she said quietly. “This whole…wife and mama thing. I’m a better cop. I know how to do that. I know how to read people and solve crimes and catch killers and…” She gestured helplessly. “I still don’t know how to make a ham without explodin’ it or keep two toddlers from wearin’ collards on their heads.”

Bobby huffed a laugh. “Brenda. You need to give yourself more credit.”

“For burnin’ dinner?” she asked.

“For showin’ up,” he said simply. “For tryin’. For stickin’ it out when it gets loud and messy and nobody’s listenin’ to you. I watched you and Sharon today. The way you talk to each other. The way you kinda…tag out when the other one’s about to lose it. The way those kids look at you like you’re their entire universe.”

He took another swig. “You’re already a better parent than I’ve ever been. I ain’t always been present with Charlie. Ain’t always been kind to Joyce. Hell, half the time when there’s a problem I either blow up or try to fix it with duct tape and a joke. I’m…workin’ on that. But you?” He shook his head. “You’re doin’ the work. Even when you don’t know what you’re doin’.”

Brenda’s eyes stung again. “Bobby…”

He smirked. “I think I’m lookin’ up to you now, baby sis. How’s that for somethin’ weird?”

She let out a wet laugh. “Next thing you know, Junior’s gonna start writin’ poetry and we’ll all just ascend to heaven.”

He laughed. “Don’t push your luck.”

From the driveway, Brenda watched as Clay cursed at Rudolph. He gave the glowing nose a firm tap to brighten it up, prompting it to fall off in his hand. Each time he attempted to reattach it, the nose fell off (and the curses came out) quicker than the last. First Frosty, now Rudolph—at this point, the entire North Pole should have a restraining order against him, Brenda thought.

Bobby lifted his beer. “To stubborn old men, explodin’ hams, and little sisters who somehow figured it all out.”

Brenda clinked his bottle with hers. “…and to big brothers who got real good hearts under all that noise.”